Nature Blog - Place Entry #8

Thursday April 15, 2010 6:30 pm

The hints that have been appearing for weeks--melted snow, new growth red branches, green blades of grass peeking upward--are finally starting to strengthen and grow, combining to create the next phase of Spring. I hadn't noticed the pale green haze that seemed to settle on the lower foothills of the mountains until I was driving north beside Mount Cascade, headed to the mouth of the Provo Canyon. As I drove nearer, it was as if I was zooming in on a pixilated scene, the individual points of color separating out, the defined by the brown spaces between them. Most of the mountains were still hazy with purple-brown-gray branches and bushes, but it was as if, overnight, a subtle layer of growth had seeped into the cracks and crevices.

Last week was another day-to-day battle between winter and spring, and when I had hazarded the drive to my "place," it was through a flurry of light snowflakes. Even as the chill wind hurried me away from the outdoors, I noticed the pinpricks of green raising their heads through the wet snow. The ice was melting steadily from the rock cliffs, but the trail to the waterfall still felt empty and forlorn.

Today, however, the sky was blue, the wind warm, the sun still shining, and spring was in full force. Not much of the dry colors had changed, but the altered surroundings made all the difference. My stroll down the trail to Bridal Veil Falls was almost jaunty and bouncing. I had worn a jacket, but I didn't need it. Provo River's sibilant washing rush overtook most other sounds, and I paused to watch clouds of midges hover over the water's swirling surface. The faint red haze I had detected weeks ago was expanding along the river banks, the bushes putting forth their live branches and buds.

I looked for signs of renewed animal life, but I soon realized that their traces were easier to hide now that the snow was gone. Though the snow had forced most animals into hibernation and hiding, the occasional deer tracks in the snow had been comforting reminders that life still existed during the frozen winter months. I was almost lonely without them. Up ahead of me on the right side of the trail, I noticed a tall pine tree whose branches seemed more agitated than the slight breeze necessitated. The trills and flutes of a single bird reached my ears above the noise of the river, and I felt reassured.

For the first time all semester, there were other people at the falls with me. A large family group arrived at the base of the waterfall just ahead of me, their younger boys running to see how high they could climb of the mountain's sides. A group of teenagers on skateboards passed by, a pair of joggers swung past, and the trail was full of bikers. The parking lot was still closed for the winter, but there were about two dozen cars crowded around the entrance to Bridal Veil Park. I was thrilled to be able to fully enjoy the walk and the weather, but I missed the solitude I had found while I battled the cold.

I stood looking up at Bridal Veil Falls, admiring how it finally resembled the full bridal veil that I was familiar with, the mass of icicles only a dark stain on the rocks. There was still a large mass of packed snow at the bottom of the second cataract, but from this distance it looked dirty and worn, ready to admit defeat and slink quietly away. The wind came off the falls strongly and a gentle sheet of mist-laden air caressed my face. I closed my eyes, ignoring the laughing, chatting groups of people around me, and concentrated on my senses. The sun warmed my skin, seeped into my hair. The smell of cool water made me imagine a dark cave somewhere in the mountains where the water came from. I could hear the tumble and fall of the waterfall, soft compared to the chattering of the Provo River behind me. When I opened my eyes, I saw the dark rocks, the tan and brown branches, the green grass, the blue sky, the glinting falling water, and bright patterns of light on the shallow pond at the bottom of the falls. Spring was all around me; I couldn't practically taste it.