Last week I shared the Alpha Turkey, my traditional Thanksgiving blog post about the habits of the turkey posse that rides through these parts every year or two.

This week I snapped the fine dude at the top of the page. He’s easily the biggest buck I’ve seen in six-and-a-half years. He’s also very spooky, which explains how he grew to such a majestic size. I worked hard to get the photo before he literally headed for the hills. He’s been outmaneuvering me for ten days.

Two weeks ago I saw the bobcat. He’s a lot faster than I am, and I almost turned myself inside out trying to get a photo. Then the feline chilled on my neighbor’s driveway, taunting me. Bobcats are pretty rare here, so seeing one is quite the coup among strange people (like me) to whom such things are important. I suspect that he knew he was a star.

It’s that time of year. Busy with everything. Writing, cooking, decorating, wrapping, mailing, shipping. It’s easy to become overwhelmed and totally miss the point of the holidays—thankfulness and holiness. Joy. Peace. Grace.

Don’t even get me started on going to the mall.

Keeping myself focused this year is critical. Mother was (actively) dying this time last year, with less than a month to live. I was the Little Dutch Boy putting his fingers in the dyke, trying to stop the carnage. Then Dad died four months later, and I can’t even remember the holidays. There are seasons like last year, in which we do what we must to be fully human, to live in the image of God, the Imago Dei.

As I take the time to see and stalk and photograph these critters who share my world, I want to encourage you to act like that bobcat and chill a little. Reconnect with your natural world and withdraw a little from your daily one. Take time for yourself. Take a walk. Meditate. Read scripture. Let the rest of the world wait a few minutes.

Thankfulness and holiness. Joy, peace and grace to you. May you live in the Imago Dei.

Life is hard to keep up with right now.

The settling of my parents’ estates is coming to an end (thank God), and I’m spending more time in my valley. Thanksgiving is five weeks away, and Christmas will be here before I know it.

We’ve already had our first snowfall—and our second. I returned from the nearest city, where my daughter is studying law, to see even fewer colorful leaves on the trees, and more piled on the ground. Four young bucks were bedded down in the front; one little buck and four doe were in the back, in snow from last night’s weather.

About an hour ago, I noticed commotion outside the dining room windows. When I investigated, I discovered that the first tussles of the rut were starting. The four young ones were paired off, locking antlers and twisting their heads, taunting each other in a slow, graceful tango about ten feet from the large, glass panes. After a few promenades, they’d literally change partners. I don’t know if they were practicing for the real thing or just seeing who was the toughest, getting a bead on the competition.

I know that this isn’t the serious rut; I saw that last year. Two much larger animals spent twenty minutes rocking up on their hind legs before crashing into each other outside my office. I slipped onto the deck to listen to the clacking antlers and thudding hooves and bodies. I was privileged to witness such an iconic ritual of fall in the High Country.

This seasonal continuity is calming to me. It reminds me that life goes on, that God is in control. I haven’t noticed blaze orange on the mountain about two miles to my north yet, but I know it’s only a matter of time until the hunters appear. Trucks were parked along the interstate yesterday, awaiting men and women returning with meat for winter meals.

And I’m planning our Thanksgiving menu tonight, an activity that always brings me joy. For the feast, I’ll use Mother’s more-than-century-old Johnson Brothers china (given to her by my dad), my grandmother’s sterling, and my crystal. My daughter and I will compose a centerpiece of purchased and foraged plants. Family and friends will share our traditions, unaware of the people whose taste and generosity grace the place settings.

In an ever-changing world, these rituals bring me peace. And enable me to honor my father and mother by remembering them with such love.

Autumn in the High Country is beyond belief. I marvel at the colors that flamboyantly embellish every natural surface of the mountains and valley floor, and pity those folks who do not get to enjoy this season to its vibrant fullest. Living here in late September and October, surrounded by persimmon-colored serviceberry bushes and yellow and flame-tipped aspens, is a feast for the eyes.
And the soul. How can a heart not soar when looking at such beauty?
The critters are busy preparing for the cold to come. Yesterday (stop reading if you’re squeamish) we heard a mountain lion kill an elk in the creek bed at the base of our property. I hope that the whistles and squeals and grunts and growls are the last five-minute dirge I ever hear. A roughly four-hundred-pound black bear roams these parts every dusk and the chickadees (that I thought lived only in Norman Rockwell’s imagination since they didn’t exist where I grew up) gorge on every berry they find. Even the pair of fox has stepped up its pace, sweeping through quickly as they search for rodents and rabbits.

Although I’ve seen no blaze orange on the mountainside a couple of miles north of my office, the rut starts soon. This young fellow didn’t get the message that he was supposed to appear manly to seduce a sweetheart. If you look closely, you can see the velvet trailing from the antler on the right, and a daisy tangled in the top tip of the antler on the left. He’s going to make quite an impression with his boutonniere. What a dandy!

Pumpkins fill crates in front of the grocery stores, Halloween candy lines the aisles. Companies are blowing out irrigation systems and cutting lawns for the last time, removing debris so that the snow doesn’t create a moldy mess in the spring. Revving chain saws fill the air as residents stock wood piles for the winter. The valley-wide ski swap—an annual event that erases social and economic barriers—just ended with winter gear finding happy new homes.

With the changing seasons, I’m making changes too. I’m drafting a new manuscript with new characters. It’s suspense, but crafted a little closer to home. The protagonist rivals Grace Madison, whom I’m not abandoning. Her adventures are far from over.

But with the changes in my life, most particularly the loss of Mom and Dad so recently, I’m pushing against boundaries a wee bit. Preparing for the directions I want to go with the wonderful decades I have left. Invigorated by the seasons to come.

I hope you’re (wisely) obliterating boundaries too. We’re not meant to be caged, you know. Spread your wings! Fly!

This has to be one of the most rapid descents into fall in the history of the known universe. I’m not too sure how I feel about that accomplishment.
Every morning, I get up and look out the bedroom windows at larger swaths of yellow and persimmon. Long-time residents say that a wet August diminishes the vibrancy of changing leaves. But either these people drank too much Kool-Aid in the 70s or the bushes and trees didn’t get the memo.

Yesterday I caught the first whiff of woodsmoke. Earlier in the week, fisted whirlwinds of leaves and petals arced across the stones of the front terrace. The meadow is full of late-summer wildflower bouquets. (Or at least that’s my self-absorbed interpretation of the clumps.)

I’m not sure who to blame, but my currants have disappeared and the rose hips are rapidly becoming an endangered species. The fruit is missing from the bottom two feet of each plant, so I’m suspecting one of the rabbits I thought was now extinct thanks to a hungry pair of fox sweeping through most evenings.

When we built several years ago, we installed a xeriscape landscape. Water is precious in the High Country, and we believe that we are called to stewardship of this earth as Christians. (The daisies and wild grasses are waist-high in the back, so I guess our stewardship is working. The sprinkler system has been off since early July.) I think we’re going to have to call in professional help to cut everything down before winter. Bailing wire, anyone?

Our nighttime temperatures have dipped into the thirties a few times, although our afternoons creep into the seventies. The red-tail hawks are riding wind currents that have shifted up the creek at the base of our property. I watch them pirouette most afternoons, and their grace and freedom inspire me to soar!

Despite seventy-five degrees, vigorous daisies in the berm, and a purple haze of asters blanketing the meadow, fall has slipped over the mountaintops and nestled in our valley.

Cottonwood trees by the river are graced with gold, while grasses on the upper slopes are straw-yellow. One species of wild shrub is vibrantly persimmon already. In a couple of weeks aspens will erupt in fiery red and crayon yellow slashes—starting in high groves before gradually leeching color down the hillsides like melting candle wax. And the rose hips are little vitamin-C bombs, beckoning the bear family that lives nearby.

The first hunters were preparing for deer and elk season by sighting in rifles in the creek-bed beneath our property last weekend. Pickup trucks and four wheelers have been parked along the interstate too, waiting for hunters who are scouting territory, preparing to stock freezers in the coming weeks. We’re in bow (archery) season now, then muzzleloader season begins, and lastly, riflemen (and women) will comb forest and slopes as they track prints and scat, and replicate the female-elk whistle to attract a bull. Blaze orange polka dots will creep across the mountain face two miles north of my office windows.

Living here is a colorful adventure. One still very connected to changing seasons and an earlier, simpler way of life. I remember living in a big city, buffered from all but my most immediate environment by buildings that blocked my view and sprawled forever.

But here, I’m constantly reminded of God’s general revelation of Himself through nature, which keeps my life in perspective and triggers thankful joy.

Happy fall to you!