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Show V. PAGE 34 THE ZEPHYROCTOBER 1994 I Down to Earth 'I t It is the autumn of 1979. The display of colors in the Hellroaring Creek drainage - By Joel Tuhy . winter storms that are not too far off. On the day that we cross southward over Jackass Pass, we see ahead of us that the upper half of Temple Peak's north face is lost in the clouds. Two days later the gray ceiling is high enough for us to enjoy the view from the top of this peak. It is the only thing we enjoy in our cheerless stay up there, as we each cling to the boulders and huddle to make ourselves as small as possible in the face of the relentless wind. I do not realize it at the time, but this is my last visit to that part of the range for at least twenty years, perhaps forever. The place is enormously popular now, and if I ever do return I know it will not be the same as when I left it. I remember 1975 and the feel of autumn in the southern Wind River Range. of the Sawtooth Mountains is glorious. Not the trees the lodgepole pines are the same steady green as every other season of the year. Instead, it is the low bushes and grasses of the forest floor that are radiant with color. These plants have been my vegetation of companions for the previous two summers as I studied valley-bottothe area. During those summers their leaves have all been various shades of green. They are green because they are loaded with a green substance called chlorophyll, which is instrumental in the process that plants use to turn sunlight into their own food. But now during autumn the shrubs and grasses don't need to make more food, because they are soon going to go dormant for the long frigid winter. So for a few weeks in autumn the green chlorophyll fades away from the leaves, unmasking the other vivid colors that have been there all along: The deep maroon of the bog blueberry, the bright red of the dwarf huckleberry, the lustrous yellow of the bluefly color, every single blade lined with tiny honeysuckle. The grasses turn a - ice crystals that sparkle like diamonds in the frosty autumn morning sunlight d The forest floor is just part of the picture. The green pines sweep up to the craggy gray peaks that are dusted white from early snowfalls, all beneath the cloudless brilliant blue sly. Somehow even the lower angle of the sunlight seems to enhance the intensity of. the scene. I remember 1979 and the sights of autumn in the mountains of central Idaho. i m I think that autumn is my favorite season of the year, especially here in the hot country. Autumn in Moab is when the afternoon high temperatures struggle to reach a nippy 95 or so and you feel like you need a sweater. All over town you can almost hear swamp coolers breathing sighs of relief as their grueling summer work regimen eases off, and they eagerly look ahead to their coming hibernation. Autumn brings a refreshing change from the wilting heat of summer for all of us. But autumn has much more to offer than pleasant temperatures. For those who are able to enjoy being outdoors, autumn provides a feast for all of our human senses, more so than any other season. At least, those have been my experiences through the years... . t It is the autumn of 1963. President Kennedy leads an energetic nation. Mrs. Buckland's third grade class at the Nassau Street Elementary School in Princeton, New Jersey is on a field trip. My classmates and I go on a nature walk through an undeveloped, wooded area not far from town. We are led by Mrs. Buckland's husband, named Mr. Buckland, who knows quite a bit about the outdoors. Almost all of the trip's details have long since disappeared into the portion of my mind from which memories are not retrievable. However, two images do remain: I unknowingly stand on a mole's tunnel and Mr. Buckland has me move off before I completely wreck it; and all around us are rich, damp, earthy smells coming from the trees and the forest floor. I have heard that memories associated with aromas are among the and powerful. I remember 1963 and the smells of autumn in the most long-lastiwoods of central New Jersey. I ng t , . It is the autumn of 1975. Actually it is the third week of August, but it is effectively autumn in the southern Wind River Range where my brother and I have been camped for five days. During this time we have had one constant companion: the WIND. This wind is not the transient gusting of a summer thunderstorm, whose fury builds quickly and then abates just as fast. No, this wind is a round-the-cloblast that swirls into every nook and cranny and renders escape impossible. It roars in our ears, knocks us off balance, robs us of sleep, and frays our nerves. The wind brings with it a chill that is not of the summer. Our bodies that have grown accustomed to heat are suddenly faced with fending off the penetrating coldness. We are wrapped in all the clothing layers we brought, and fortunately this staves off the shivering so that we can continue our exploring. Riding on the wind are leaden gray stratus clouds that hover over, and sometime scrape, the tops of the mountain peaks. The clouds and wind offer a hint of furious straw-yello- w multi-colore- It is the late autumn of 1 980, the third week of November if I remember correctly. My friend Paul and I sit in his car after dark in the deserted parking lot at the Arches National Park visitor center. The light of the nearly-fu- ll moon supplements the glow from the lot's electric lights. We have driven down from Logan, Utah, and it is my very first time in the southeastern part of the state. We are waiting at this prearranged spot for the real reason I have come: my friend Cathy who is driving up from New Mexico to meet us. She soon arrives, and we go on into the Park toward the campground where we three have decided to stay. On the spur of the moment we detour off the main road and hike out to Delicate Arch, our way lit by the moon. No one else is there on this cold night; my first hike in the canyon country is a memorable one. Our hike in the Needles area two days later is equally breathtaking. Cathy and I grow closer in our few days together. We both wonder about future possibilities as we drive out along the Needles road toward the junction of the main highway, by Church Rock, where we are to go our separate ways. She turns right, snowstorms on the Paul and I turn left, and both vehicles safely negotiate way to their respective homes. I remember 1980, and autumn feelings of the heart in ' the heart of the Colorado Plateau. late-autu- mn ck I I 1 It is the autumn of 1983. Most of the leaves are gone from the aspen trees on the hills surrounding upper Currant Creek, toward the western end of the Uinta Basin. I have spent the past four months inspecting National Forest areas that remain mostly undisturbed by human land uses, and this is my final field trip of the year. Though the plants are mostly ready for winter, I only need to be able to identify the common, abundant species which I can still do. I walk among the aspen trees, hearing the crunching and rustling of the fallen leaves as I shuffle through them. The damp, earthy smells to which I was introduced twenty years earlier are all around. Suddenly - ! TECHNICA PA CIFICA t THE INFORMATION EXPERTS 59 EAST CENTER STREET, MOAB, UTAH 84532 1 0 FAX (801) PHONE (801) 259-410- . i ' i . . i: 259-410- We're supposed to be doing the Technica-Pacifi- ca ad...Yhy are i on crying? it's Tuhy's story on Fall. He's turned me to mush. r U V v j t f t i .4 4 |