Every fall, I fall in love all over again – with fall, that is.
I’m stunned when the changing aspens dazzle the mountainsides with a new look, swapping out their summer sundress for an evening gown with sequins.
A routine jog down the bike path or an arduous hike up a local peak transforms into a whole new experience, like putting in an old CD you haven’t listened to for ages and loving it all over again. I get these urges to do things like clean the bathroom, which, considering I live with two boys (one male and one canine), is quite a tall order. Instead of going shopping and trying on clothes I can’t afford, I’ll go to the Farmer’s Market and buy fresh basil for pesto and ripe peaches, tomatoes and jalapeños for salsa and sunflowers so big that my arm gets sore just carrying them home. I decide I want to start making my own jams and look up recipes for a twist on apple and peach pies.
Suddenly I think the Girl Scouts’ dog wash is cute, and am choked up by the sense of community a fundraiser brings, even though I always thought the Girl Scouts were too square (my very own mother dissuaded me from joining as a child for that very reason). I’m not even embarrassed when my 90-pound dog poops on someone’s front lawn and I have to pick it up with not one but two baggies, though I do stop to ponder if maybe I am feeding him a little bit too much.
When I walk down the bike path and pass a guy old enough to be my father, rollerblading in circles with enormous headphones singing Barbra Streisand songs at the top of his lungs, I actually believe he’s happy instead of crazy. I say hello to everyone who walks past and don’t get annoyed when they all say, “Now there’s a big dog,” (as if I’ve never noticed), or the old “Who’s walking who there?” (If only I had a dollar for every time I heard that one.)
My daily run has turned from a chore into a pleasure I would liken to watching fireworks or live theatre, that here-and- now moment that is so precious you can feel it in your bones. Even driving “the gauntlet,” that 3-mile stretch into Aspen where the speed limit never tops out over 25 mph, is enjoyable. The colors change the scenery I’ve grown so accustomed to seeing day after day, like when someone close to you gets an awesome new haircut.
I’m inspired, setting all kinds of goals. I want to run a marathon this year. I’m going to hike Highlands Bowl at least five days a week this winter. I’m going to get that cross country skiing setup I’ve been talking about getting, including a harness for my dog to pull me uphill. I’m going to start mountain biking more, maybe plan a trip to Fruita or Moab in the next couple of weeks. I want to go on a long road bike tour you always hear about people doing but never imagined doing yourself, like down the California coast or maybe even up to Alaska.
I can feel the seasons changing as if it’s happening in my own body. I can smell winter and know in my heart it’s going to be an epic snow year. I dream about snowboarding and sticking all my landings. Then I dream that the ATM machine breaks and gives me tons of money.
It’s easy to think big when you’re drunk on fall colors and winter teases its arrival with crisp autumn air. What ultimately makes it so special is knowing it won’t last for long, so you have to get out there and enjoy every minute of it while you can, like spending time with someone who is about to go away and trying to cherish every moment you have together.
I thought maybe I was losing my mind, and then I received an e-mail from my friend Gino, a 10th Mountain Division veteran and artist who lives in Aspen. He still snowmobiles deep into the backcountry every winter, even at 80. He has lived in the Aspen area with his wife, Barbara, for more than 20 years. The subject of his e-mail was “Today,” and instead of his usual philosophical commentary about this or that, he attached three photographs from a hike he had taken toward Pearl Pass, of Aspen groves dressed in bright yellow leaves, dark green peaks jutting up in the background.
Those photos said it all, since words can’t describe what it means to be in love.
Freelance columnist Alison Berkley can be reached at alison@berkleymedia.com.
