Jennie@ifish
08-03-2002, 07:55 AM
August 3rd
I wake up to two or three Goldfinch at my feeders still, but otherwise, the morning is calm and lifeless. Even the Goldfinch seem less enthusiastic. It's late summer. No wind, no flurries of busy birds. The hummingbirds are fewer. They too, seem to be in less of a hurry. Is it possible that the beat of their wings has also slowed?
As the sun creeps over the canyon walls, it lights selective treetops with golden hues; a hint of Fall.
The thousands of colors of green that my eyes have become accustomed to are giving way to the shortage of water in the soil.
I drove over to the lower Trask river area yesterday. The vast open fields in the plains were windswept, dead and dry. It looked like a different land, far from the lush forest that I wake to every morning, yet only 5 miles away.
Fall is coming.
Though the season reflects a touch of sadness; of death, my heart quickens with the thought of the mighty Pacific Salmon. They are called home when the colors of the forest begin to fade.
From the deep blue green of the sea, to the mix of fresh and salt in the bay, and on to the pure fresh waters of the upper rivers.
I catch my first glimpse, as I sit on the ocean jetty, perched on the rocks, waiting. I look down and see whole schools of them, just below the surface.
They are headed home!
Years ago, I caught two off the jetty, and tossed them down to my kids, who were playing in the sand. I then bundled up some line I found in the rocks and added a couple fresh crab to our feast. Those were the days...
The entire hillside is now lit with sunlight. The trees that line the field are still a deceiving deep spring green. Fed by the Kilchis river, they will be the last to lose their color. As my eyes travel upward, there is no mistake. Dark greens and golds intermingle.
I'm filled with wonder.
How do the salmon know that it is time?
Do they smell it in the air, as we do, on an early brisk morning? Does the sea offer the same changes? Some sort of different morning temperature? Do the creatures that live in the sea slow down their feeding as my birds are? What changes take place, deep in the sea that signals their upriver travel?
Add it to the book of wonder, I decide, and plan my near future.
Long Indian summer days, bouncing in the wind chop on the Columbia. Hair blowing in the wind, yelling greetings to people I haven't seen since last season.
A harvest moon will rise, as salmon filets smoke on the barbecue, laughter fills the air. Good food, good friends, and good harvest.
Good fortune: The salmon are home.
I wake up to two or three Goldfinch at my feeders still, but otherwise, the morning is calm and lifeless. Even the Goldfinch seem less enthusiastic. It's late summer. No wind, no flurries of busy birds. The hummingbirds are fewer. They too, seem to be in less of a hurry. Is it possible that the beat of their wings has also slowed?
As the sun creeps over the canyon walls, it lights selective treetops with golden hues; a hint of Fall.
The thousands of colors of green that my eyes have become accustomed to are giving way to the shortage of water in the soil.
I drove over to the lower Trask river area yesterday. The vast open fields in the plains were windswept, dead and dry. It looked like a different land, far from the lush forest that I wake to every morning, yet only 5 miles away.
Fall is coming.
Though the season reflects a touch of sadness; of death, my heart quickens with the thought of the mighty Pacific Salmon. They are called home when the colors of the forest begin to fade.
From the deep blue green of the sea, to the mix of fresh and salt in the bay, and on to the pure fresh waters of the upper rivers.
I catch my first glimpse, as I sit on the ocean jetty, perched on the rocks, waiting. I look down and see whole schools of them, just below the surface.
They are headed home!
Years ago, I caught two off the jetty, and tossed them down to my kids, who were playing in the sand. I then bundled up some line I found in the rocks and added a couple fresh crab to our feast. Those were the days...
The entire hillside is now lit with sunlight. The trees that line the field are still a deceiving deep spring green. Fed by the Kilchis river, they will be the last to lose their color. As my eyes travel upward, there is no mistake. Dark greens and golds intermingle.
I'm filled with wonder.
How do the salmon know that it is time?
Do they smell it in the air, as we do, on an early brisk morning? Does the sea offer the same changes? Some sort of different morning temperature? Do the creatures that live in the sea slow down their feeding as my birds are? What changes take place, deep in the sea that signals their upriver travel?
Add it to the book of wonder, I decide, and plan my near future.
Long Indian summer days, bouncing in the wind chop on the Columbia. Hair blowing in the wind, yelling greetings to people I haven't seen since last season.
A harvest moon will rise, as salmon filets smoke on the barbecue, laughter fills the air. Good food, good friends, and good harvest.
Good fortune: The salmon are home.