Though the world outside my window might not look the part, as I write this, my thoughts are on spring. Spring in the high country. Melting snow, brown waters, exposed hillsides, and mud.
Every day for a week now, it has snowed. Just when we were ready for spring. Just when we were ready to work the horses, fix fences, turn the garden soil, and put up new roofing on our little cabin.
If this had been winter, we’d have called it “awesome.” My son’s school work would be left and he’d be out in it. Maybe the mild winter was a good thing.
But now it is spring, and we’ve got things to do. This was not in our plans. Yet, as you know, here one cannot complain about the moisture. Just when we were beginning to worry about another drought year.
And then, before you know it, it will be summer. Days will be warm. The down jacket left on the hook and the heavy mud boots pushed under the stool in the entrance. The ground will be dry. Leaves will be coming on the trees and the grass will start to green. Me, I’ll be in the garden, out riding the trails, visiting with guests, enjoying a leisurely lunch on the deck. The river will be calm and clear, fish jumping at the latest hatch. Someone, somewhere along this beautiful stretch of the Rio Grande, will be tossing lines and trying to emulate a part of that hatch.
Everything changes in spring. Snow recedes. Roads open. And with the open road, the tourists slowly trickle by, seemingly shocked that spring has not yet made it up this high. An odd curiosity to arrive and not see what you remember. Unfulfilled memories of long, leisurely lingering days for those who come to get away. They turn their backs to the blowing snow and turn their vehicles back downhill.
There is much more to this mountain than summer.