The clouds floated in the valley like remnants of someone's dream. They didn't look real, but something made up, wisps of thoughts or wishes. Above them, a light skiff of snow on the highest peaks.
First snow. Bittersweet. The lakes will freeze, the passes drift over, no more sitting on sun-drenched rocks, no more swimming. The trails will be closed to us for many, many months unless we attempt them on skis. Sweet, though, because of the gliding over snow, the only sound that of our skis, a blue tinge to the air and the trees shrouded in white.
It's hard to give up summer because we fought so hard for it, a rainy and cold spring stretching into June. But I made the most of it, fifteen backpack trips, many, many miles, new and old country in a delicious mix. Not nearly enough but it will have to be, the gear put away until another season.
This is my husband's magic time approaching, just like summer is mine. We are seasonal opposites but I love that. He teaches me to appreciate winter and I love to watch him ski, effortless turns down an untracked mountain. He points at slopes too steep for me, ever, and talks about how he has skinned up them and skied down, no big deal. I like his enthusiasm for winter.
Winter/Summer. The time of change is here, with not much inbetween, not here in this corner of Oregon where it is one or the other. I look at my growing stack of firewood. I hunt down mittens, Kahtoolas, running tights, hats. As much as I want summer to hang around for another month or two, I know it's over. I get ready.