The aroma of autumn, the colors, light and long shadows, often cause me to reminisce of autumns past. Each passing season I grow older, and as that particular year fades, slowly dying into the cold of winter, thoughts and memories flood my mind. It’s a primal season, autumn. Humans gather wood and crops just as squirrels gather the acorn and nut. Geese trumpet above, the badgers burrow below, bears make their dens - I love this time of year.
The high country is aflame now. Larch have begun to adorn themselves in pure gold. The forest floor is awash in every hue of orange and red. The Rocky Mountain Maples, set deep in the darkest of woods, appear as if they emit light of their own, shimmering from each leaf, a golden coin, suspended in the moist, fragrant air. Swirls of fog danced among the tallest trees today, as drops collected on long ponderosa needles, and rained down. Autumn is so magical in Montana, one must experience it a multitude of times before they will be able to grasp a mere fraction of its majesty.
