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!

There are all sorts of epiphanies: large and small, horrifying and gratifying, personal and impersonal. By their nature, each epiphany is a surprise. An unexpected moment of clarity or understanding.

I had an epiphany yesterday—a personal, joyful, gratifying revelation. It was so dear that I’d call it serendipitous. A serendipitous epiphany is the very best kind.

I was a strange little girl, quiet and good. My late mother insisted that I was always sweet. (That admission makes me cringe.) But I was a loner and a “watcher,” more comfortable on the sidelines until absolutely necessary and after I had figured everything out.

I read constantly. I’d check out the maximum number of library books (seven) every week. On vacation, my footwell of the station wagon was so full of books (I used Mom’s allotment too) that I had nowhere to put my feet. My dad complained that I never saw anything because my nose was stuck in a book.

I lost myself in books that alluded to a larger world than my house and church and school. I was convinced that my life was a springboard for greater things and adventures into the unknown. I sat under an elm every summer, reading and drawing and living in imaginary worlds, waiting to fly.

For years, I’ve searched for one particular book that I enjoyed as a child. I couldn’t remember why it made such an impression, but I needed to find it. I only knew a couple of words from the title. I searched and searched, then gave up for years. Then I’d search again.

A few weeks ago, I found it.

It arrived yesterday, and I sat down to read. The small chapter book is appropriate for a girl of five or six. I expected it to be charming and to put it on my bookshelf with Before the Muses (Akkadian Literature) and The Ancient Near East, Volume 1.

But I discovered that the thin volume without question set my course. In it, a little girl travels beyond everything she knows, encountering a camel (my favorite animal) and the Middle East (setting of so many of my manuscripts and focus of my graduate degree). She is adventurous and brave, questioning and honest, unflinching but slightly cautious. She is on a mysterious journey—her own international suspense like the books that I write.

I had forgotten everything about this book except three words of the title. But as I read, I recognized my adult version of the protagonist. I laughed out loud, marveling at seeds that blossomed—half a century later—into what I have become.

Before you ask, I’m not sharing the title. I’m considering this adventure—because that’s what this is, and we should ponder epiphanies—and wondering what exactly I’m supposed to do with this revelation of myself.

But this book won’t slip onto my laden bookshelves and be forgotten. For as long as I write, it’s going to have pride of place on my desk. Who knows? It may even work itself into the next manuscript.

I think I owe it that much.

After thirty years, my husband and I represent the attraction of opposites. I’m a city girl—grew up playing Beethoven and tennis. He’s a ranch boy—grew up barrel racing a horse called Lollipop and . . . well, let’s just leave it at that.

But one of our big annual events is the county fair and rodeo. The grandstands are packed. Americana abounds. Summer is ending. (It ends early in this mountain valley so please weep for me.) I’ve never seen so much fringe and sequins in one place in my life. Except for maybe Studio 54 in NYC, but that was the 70s after all.

Although I’m not a fan of calf-roping (being drawn-and-quartered is cruel IMHO), I marvel at the athleticism of the cowboys (hubba hubba) as they ride bucking bulls and stallions, and wrestle calves to the ground after leaping from a horse.

The horses are incredible. The cowgirls who barrel race are faster than a speeding bullet—while TURNING three times! And the bulls, which my husband says are part Brahman so born with a bad attitude, are big enough to scare the wazoo out of anybody: twelve-hundred pounds of slobbering nastiness!

The rodeo is a patriotic event. Organizers recognize local servicemen and women on championship night. Funnel cakes and corny dogs and a few things I don’t even recognize —swirly potatoes fried on a stick?—pass back and forth in front of the grandstand. And the beer vendor promenades, shouting like an imam calling the faithful to prayer.

But the point is, this diverse crowd pulls together to support a tradition as old as the sixteenth century, when the Spanish conquistadors and Mexicans began to manage cattle and horses. It’s part of my husband’s heritage, something we shared with our two children. It’s a celebration of doing something—being a cowboy or cowgirl—well.

And did I mention the mutton-busting, the sport loved by every visitor? Ranching traditions start young. And every cowgirl should own a pair of pink sparkly boots. This year’s winner rode a ewe for a good twenty yards before falling onto the dirt of the arena. His trophy, capped with a statue of a sheep, was a foot taller than he was, and his mother will be dusting it for years.

Enjoy your summer—county fair and rodeo or not—and we’ll catch up in August. Yee-haw, ya’ll!