For a number of years, we’ve talked about going to the mountains in the fall. Our past trips to Colorado and New Mexico have always fallen during the summer as a retreat from the heat of the plains, or in our youth, a ski trip in the winter. The idea of experiencing the changing colors of autumn and a peaceful unhurried season has always been a goal.
Two weeks ago, we were making a trip to Woodward. I often vary the drive by taking different directions each way. Taking 183 from Buffalo to Fort Supply, I was reminded that the mountains aren’t the only place to experience the colors of fall.
Passing through the rolling hills and curves my eyes surveyed the countryside which was decorated with as many fall colors as can be found in any mountain scene. What caught my eye first was the scarlet leaves of sumac which seemed to be splashed in corners and crevasses with the flick of a Master Painter’s brush. The bright red leaves stood out against the weathering countryside of gold, browns, and greys, or tucked in among the dark green of the cedars. A week later on the next trip, all that would remain of the sumac’s color was the maroon-brown dried berry pods, the scarlet leaves having let loose their hold.
A carpet of yellow-green mustard cast itself over both the flats and the mounds of that ever-changing terrain. In other places, the mixed-grass prairie struggled to hang on to green like a man clinging to life. Its color fading, tinges of brown and tan showing as highlights, giving way to the coming death of winter; yet little fingers of green still stretched out over the red earth digging in until the last minute.
The barbed wire fences and gray hedge posts appeared as music staffs stretching out and following the changing surface of the earth. Along the fence rows, the brown skeletons of sunflowers stood against the sky, gently bobbing their dry, brittle heads in the breeze, mourning the loss of their yellow petals and green leaves. Their stems stretched out like arms, bending around and blending colors with the rusted fence wire.
Thick blades of switchgrass and Johnson transitioned from green to tan and red respectively. Tufts of prairie dropseed shared their blended colors of red, yellow, and green, spreading out like a burst of fireworks, the delicate looking seed tassels offering the crescendo as they captured the sunlight. Along the edge of the road, the white, fluffy heads of foxtail barley grass floated like a cloud of fog in the ditches.
The trees shared a mix of green, brown and gold leaves, no doubt as shocked by the early change in weather as the humans who observed them. Dark, almost burgundy, clumps popped up where the naked structure of the sand plums hunkered in their groups. All around the prairie was ripe with the colors of fall. No massive displays of golden aspen. No groves of red maple. No forest of browning oak. Still the splash of gold, red, yellow, and brown were splattered over the countryside. Green was the highlight, not the object of focus.
All too soon those colors will give way to the gray of winter. Indications are it may be sooner than normal, but for at least a few more crisp fall days, the land of the Great Plains will share the same autumn paint as that of its mountainous relatives to the east and west. Relish the days of warmth, the nights of chill, the cups of cider and cinnamon, the crunch of dried leaves, the return of plaid and knitted gloves, the reflection of golden grass under a sunset, and the first smells of pinion burning in the air. Roll in your leaves of fall, prepared to endure your winter; await the return of your spring.
