We never climbed the mountains after mid-September.
August was pushing the length of time we could avoid the snowfall and the uncertain weather of the alpine.
September carried a guaranteed edge of danger.
To make those late hikes carried an element of risk-
And an explosion of colour.
The time to grow and live in the upper meadows is short and unpredictable.
Everything grasps at the sun as it appears, desperately reaching for light to blossom and seed.
The weeks before snowfall are a dizzying carnival of colour.
I didn’t pick them, but I’d often sit down there, amongst the lupin and the heather, near the alpine fireweed buzzing with the insects feeding before their approaching ends.
It was easy enough to imagine that I was in another world entirely.
There was a heavy, alien intensity that became muted the further I traveled down the slope.
There is something magical about short, powerful lives.
About the weight of dreams, quickly and intensely fulfilled.
This week of the Darling Buds brought to you by nostalgia, Victorian flower meanings, and the letter “Y.” As in, “No, there’s no real reason ‘Y’.”
If you would like to see more imagination-inspiring colour, I have also written a fantasy novel, The Guests of Honor. It is available here.