Fall is Falling

A week or so ago I noticed a tinge of color at the top of the mountain east of my office, but I refused to publicly acknowledge its existence. But now it's undeniable... and moving down the slope (see evidence at right). Even halfway down the mountain there is some good red. Crazy.

Fall always seems to come too early. I usually notice it the last week of August. I remember first being stunned by the early fall emergence when I was in marching band. Band camp was the last week of August, and we would spend almost all day every day marching around on the hot blacktop (we practiced in a big parking lot on campus), sweating profusely. Hats and sunscreen were a must, and water breaks (and fights) were frequent. We called it "Sweat Week." (They're out there today, by the way; I heard them rehearsing this morning.)

One sweaty afternoon, I think it was during a long, wearisome rehearsal, standing at attention with my shiny brass horn held vertical in front of my chest, I let my gaze wander past the drum major and director and on up the mountain. There at the top, a spot of cheery red looked back down at me, as if observing my suffering and enjoying all the more the cool temperatures at high elevation.

It seemed so incongruent to me. I was dying in the full force of summer heat, and trees way up there were telling me it was fall.

Since then I have enjoyed spotting the first rusty color at the top and then watching the color gradually descend the mountain until at last the valley itself bursts forth in yellows and oranges and reds. Then the next spring, I like to watch the reverse, as green returns to the valley and then climbs the mountain to the top, replacing the sad browns with the vibrance of life.