but we're still camping in the alpine.
It's cold but we hardly give a shiver...
That's about all I can remember of a little ditty composed while hiking in the Valhallas one September many years ago. At that time of year it is technically still summer (though school children will argue the fact) and up here in the Pacific North West (AKA: the Canadian South West) we may have a day warm enough for swimming but the green leaves are tinged with gold; you can smell Autumn in the pine needles and leaves that have already fallen and there is a hint of winter in the slight change of temperature.
I've spent two partial years in different tropical climates and on both occasions, despite great fun and adventure, the endless summer did in fact lose it's shine and I found myself craving the change in season, the warmth of Thanksgiving, nighttime neighbourhood Halloween revelry, the darker days of Daylight Savings, raking leaves, and the excitement of the first snow.
I grew up in a mountain town with a thriving snow sport culture where the first snow was always met with hoots and hollers, a tangible electric excitement at the thought of the piles of snow to come, and people taking to the steep streets on their rock skis. Now, living on the coast, where we don't see nearly enough snow (in my unpopular opinion), I've come to terms with a brief winter; it's not long after New Year's Eve that the snowdrops and crocuses pop up in the sunny spots. But I still look forward to those few days when everything will be white and I'll see kids trying to slide down hilly alleyways on dustpans and garbage can lids.