Winding Down

Ever since I worked in Glacier National Park, I see the coming of fall and winter as a form of closure. I'm pretty sure it was a late September evening in 2003 when I traveled up to Logan Pass with a few friends. Glacier had just received it's first snowfall of the season. It comes early up there. It didn't snow a lot, but the newly charred forest was noticeably dusted.

The most vivid thing I remember about that night is how quiet it was. Going-to-the-Road is a hotbed of activity in the park. There's always an endless stream of cars coming up and down the road. But on that night we seemed liked the only ones around. We sat on the edge of a rock wall and looked out over the valley. I turned to Hardy and said, "I think the mountains are letting out a huge sigh of relief." While summer belongs to the tourists, winter belongs to the park. The hotels are closed. The roads aren't plowed. The people stay away. If the mountains were people I imagined them saying to themselves, "Finally. It's over. Now it's time to rest." A time of closure, albeit temporary, for the park itself. A time to recuperate, reflect, and recharge.

I've been thinking about this as summer comes to an end. Although life doesn't stop in the next few months, I still see fall and winter as the time to wind down, settle in, and rest up. On some levels it is sad. No matter how much I might crave the snow I never like to see warm weather disappear. While the colorful leaves are nice to look at, I hate to see the tree branches turn stark and bare. A winter sunrise may seem icy, refreshing, and exhilarating but it's no fun when the sun sets in the late afternoon hours.

Good and bad. Either way, I'm ready. I distinctly remember last summer lackadaisically meandering by. I wanted it that way. I knew it was my last summer in Montana and I savored every minute of it. This summer simply flew by. I don't think there was any other way for it to go. It was a time of adjustment, growth, bewilderment, and simple observance. I had to get used to things. Each new day was a baptism by fire of sorts. Such an indoctrination is bound to happen at breakneck speed.

Now I'm settling in. I'm reflecting on what I've learned so far to make the next summertime go-around more memorable and productive. Instead of the mountains breathing a sigh of relief, it's me. The whirlwind is over. Now it's time to breathe.