Color me Awed

Officially summer has three weeks to go, the autumnal equinox falling on September 22. But unofficially Labor Day marks summer’s end. In most districts, school begins the day or two after Labor Day. In Wallowa County school began last week.

Here at our old (next year 100) cabin in the Wallowa Mountains of northeastern Oregon, autumn is in the air. It’s not so much a matter of falling temperatures, at least not yet, as the changes in the angle of the light, a quickening wind, and days growing shorter.

And, of course, the colors change. Since most of the trees here are firs, spruces and pines, you don’t see the color in the trees so much as the undergrowth. The one exception to that is the Tamarack (Larch) trees, which though coniferous and needled, turn gold in October. But for the most part the fall color is along the forest floor, as in this photo where the Rocky Mountain maple and the salmonberry bushes have gone red and orange, while the Ocean Spray is a mauve.

Some of the brightest color isn’t in the trees or the shrubs, or on the land at all. It is in the water. The Kokanee, a land-locked salmon, spawn from Wallowa Lake up Wallowa River. As they do they turn the brightest red-orange, their color flashing against the blue-green waters (photo below).

They build their “Redd,” the gravel nest a female salmon creates for her eggs. They do most of the work with their tail, pushing the smaller rock around. As the female works, male Kokanee hover, often several of them, vying for the honor of fertilizing the eggs. It’s not entirely unlike the elk now gathering and trumpeting in the mountains. Bull elk will be locking horns to determine which one will prevail and breed the herd of cow elk.

There’s no doubt some chemical explanation why autumn gives us these bright colors. But I like to think it’s some version of Dylan Thomas’, “Do not go gentle into that good night.” Let’s go out with colors flying.

Still, some colors were absent this summer. The bird population, so far as I could tell, was down. We often have a dozen orange and black Western Grosbeak at our feeders. This year, one pair. No Western Tanagers at all. A nuthatch only once. Even the robins, usually plentiful, are fewer. No Red-Shafted Flicker nested in the tall stump.

I’ve made some half-hearted attempts to find out if my observations are more widely accurate, and if so what the cause might be. Bird flu? There are, it is true, documented declines in bird populations across the world attributed to habitat loss and climate change. But this year is unique in my recent experience. We’ll see what next year brings.

What kind of summer has it been? I might say, “busy,” but that’s such a lame term, even if true. We half expected the oldest grandchildren, now young teenagers, might lose interest in “the cabin,” but so far that isn’t remotely true. The older ones have even established a precedent they are passing on to the younger ones. Everyone wants their own, sibling-free week (or more) at the cabin with just us, Gram and Gramps.

As we say to each other (eye roll), “We are the lucky ones.” But we are. And also, at least, sometimes, “We are tired ones.” Well, one thing I know for sure: nothing lasts very long. A change will come.

Which is at odds with the cabin’s gestalt and with the whole aura of a place like this. The appeal is, in no small part, the idea that stuff doesn’t change. The lake, the mountains, the cabin, the rodeo, the soft ice-cream, the cave-like bunk room beloved by the grands, the heavy old quilts to nestle under and the bright Fiesta ware. But at my age you know that’s an illusion, even if a pleasant one.

You’re getting older and so are they. Phases of life end. People are gone. You will be too, one day.

Yes, autumn is “in the air.” Its beauty, its colors, the feel of it — a kind of exhilarating tonic — quickening your pulse, the daylight shorter but somehow brighter. But autumn in the air means something else. At the very least, change; but candidly more: death.

What’s to be done? Well, know that this won’t last. Savor it. Change will come. Some of it planned for, some hazily foreseen, some not remotely conjured. So, fly your own bright colors and say, “thank you” for what happened this summer that will never happen again.