Every year for three colorful weeks we are treated to the color changing show of the aspens. Each year I mark it on my calendar. You can only predict when they will be in their full glory so I try to be mindful of the weather and check local sites updating their "color watch."
When the timing seems right we wind up and over the Sonora Pass and point and yelp at every golden patch.
As the leaves make their final show there is a crispy rustling sound. Is this why they're called quaking? When in a grove there is a fresh scent, it's hard to find the right words. Imagine the perfect scent for laundry detergent. Did you know every tree in a grove is connected?
We pick up a color map at the town frosty. It boasts it's color second to only the East Coast. The location I set my sights on is the page from a calendar in a coffee shop. I navigate by forest service road to the far off golden glow.
Wandering through a groove is to be watched by many black eyes. Next time look closely, the white bark tells stories: the arbolglyph doodles of bored sheepherders past.