This morning, snow only lies where it’s shaded–along the back fence and on the north side of the yard.  Still no green, but a matted brown mess of a lawn.  A thatching job waiting for a day when the snow leaves completely.
Tomorrow. Hot Dog Day.
A celebration of the 80’s when Hot Dogs, Wayne Wong and Susie Chapstick skied as King and Queen of the Hill.  When Ralph Jackson still strung together Royal Christie after Royal Christie. Avelmont was understood and practiced. Look Ma dropped to Mid-Vail, a snow covered seeming vertical parking lot full of VW Bugs.  Miss one turn and miss the rest.
Tomorrow we drop the admonition, “Friends don’t let friends wear day-glo” and glo like mad.
Not much else to say.
Hot doggin’ snow-melting kind of week.
And the skiing? Out of this world.  In another freeze thaw couple days, the mountain will be corned up and we’ll be skiing butter cream for the rest of the year.
Yahooo.

Last week, a friend and I hiked a few hours up a close by valley.  Stopping where the valley split, with mountains rising on three sides, the other dropping back steeply to the Elk, we sat on a rustic bench for a mountain picnic of whole wheat hard rolls, smoked cheese and a couple of oranges.  Before we even finished slicing the cheese, we took a break and pulled everything we carried out of the pack and put it on. It was cold.  Not just chilly, but a bone biting cold.

As we finished, the sun dropped behind the ridge and the first of a deeper evening chill layered on top of the late afternoon cold.

Hiking out, we didn’t bother taking off the layers added at the upper reaches of the hike.  We needed them to brace against the growing cold and darkness.  When we reached the car our hands were stiff and our cheeks flushed.

These late days of fall change rapidly, hour to hour.  From sun in the morning to rain showers, to snow showers to gropple bouncing off the windowsills accompanied by thunder.  The snow level creeps down Fernie Mountain and back up again to be hidden by low hanging clouds.  The sun sets into broken clouds and the moon rises into a clear bitter cloudless cold night.  In the morning the roofs lie glazed with frost.

And the snows of winter.  Tantalizing.  Tempting.  So close.

Is it deep enough up high to hike?  No?

Wait a couple weeks.  Patience.

In the last month, we’ve moved ever closer toward winter.  First losing shorts, moving to long pants.  The stashed shorts followed soon by the sandals and a morning of digging through drawers looking for socks, preferably pairs of socks.

Now on the cusp of the season, we will soon be wearing boots. And waiting those last few days before FAR opens.  The last vestige of fall will drop with the swinging of the chairs on the mountain.

A new season will begin.

In preparation for the winter, I hike.  Taking trails up valleys, I push my heart rate and build my cardio.  I try to go three times a week.  I’d go everyday if I could, but three days seems to be the limit.  Pulling my pack out of the car I hesitate, feeling the chill air dropping out of the valley.  Should I put on more than t-shirt?  I decide to leave the extra layer off and shouldering the pack head up the trail.

Glancing up the valley from the road, where I’ve parked, the trees and pucker brush in the avalanche chutes still hold the summer varieties greens.  But moving up, first I notice the cottonwoods are turning at the extremities.  The leaves on the very tips of the branches turned a yellowish green.  As if not quite committed.  Wondering.

In the last week the valleys changed.

In the under story a five–leafed ground cover tuned brilliant orange since I last moved up here.  Like a bad shag rug from the 70’s it spreads burnt orange across between the bases of the trees, the first sure sign of a fall.

As I hike up the, I notice more and more of the trees hint at yellow or orange.  Individual aspens sometimes have a single branch starting to turn.  In the avi chutes, high, close to tree line, single bushes stand a brilliant yellow against the rest still green.

At the top of this canyon, where the canyon splits and the trail branches following each, a log bench sits. I drop my pack, immediately feeling chilled as the cool air hits the wet shirt on my back.  Pulling my fuzzy from under the pack straps, I slip it over my head and sit with the pack between my legs to pull out my late lunch.  First an orange, then a roll and some cheese and finishing with a couple of handfuls of granola. I gaze out at the mountains around me.

Only a thousand feet below tree line, the view up the canyons is of avi pucker brush and struggling clumps of alpine fir twisted, contorted and formed by the driving snow and winds of winter.  Looking down, the valley fills with timber broken only by the stripes of the scoured avalanche runs.  High, close to me, the stands mix of cedars, firs and aspens.  The aspens this high hold a hint of yellow shot through their heads.  The colors mute lower in the valley as more furs fill in and the aspens give way to cottonwoods and alders.

As I finish, the sun drops behind the ridge.  Standing, I wonder if I should leave the fuzzy on or discard the layer?  I leave it on and head back down.

A change lies ahead.

Early in my days in the mountains, my benchmark for summer’s arrival became the appearance of Indian Paintbrush.� Not the full blown–the kid dipped the brush to the handle into the can–paintbrush.� Simply a few sprigs a foot high with a blush of color, I feel summer’s arrived and the believe.

In the last week, the high valley meadows show a hint of red in the tops of the stalks.� Only a hint and only the red.� There are mountain bluebells.� The salmon berries (or are they thimble berries?) are in full bloom.� In the hollows, where seeps keep the ground moist all summer, wild roses bloom.

Summer is here.

A dusting on the ridges.� A chill in town.� A day of rain.

Nothing

Summer still reigns.

Seeking a Freshies sort of place for breakfast, I walked in the health food store and asked the woman working behind the counter where I could find a good cup of coffee and muffin.

She mentioned the new chef at the Leonard Hotel, a hotel restaurant more in keeping with my grandparents tastes and the Kuskanax Motel, a Best Western stucco sort of looks-like-all-the-rest across the street.� Neither held any appeal. Far from home, I wanted a Freshies sort of place.� A little hippie burg like Nacusp ought to have a local organic coffee and muffin joint.

So I wandered down the street wondering what to do?

A couple blocks down, a woman walks out of corner shop carrying a cup of coffee.� Seeing that, I promptly said to myself, “That’s what I do.�?

It was a coffee shop, bakery and U-Brew.� Great coffee.� Great muffins.� And it was early, so I didn’t try the other brews.� � A handful of tables, a couple of comfortable overstuffed chairs, a great couch, and internet access.� A steady stream of folks coming in, joking, chatting, then leaving with coffee and sometimes a muffin or sweet.

As I answered emails and wrote, I thought of the woman who gave me two choices and totally missed this little place.� A place of the sort I described and she was not even aware sat a couple blocks down.

And I thought back to the May long weekend.� Freshies closed for their staff gathering.� The Tea House folks ran off to the island.� And Mug Shots closed Sunday and Monday. The Fernie Shirt Company became only place for a morning coffee out.� (I walk to the downtown, so I don’t know about Jamoca’s habit that weekend)� If everyone else hadn’t closed, a bunch of folks (myself included) never would have wandered into the Shirt Company wondering if they were still pumping coffee on the corner and, half awake, happy they continued with good old Kicking Horse coffee to boot.

Today, take the time to look.� To see.� What’s new.� Even better yet, take a chance.� Drop your regular spot for the day and try another.� Risk it.� Like, what is the risk? Discovering something new?� Some risk that.

Step it out.� Move on.