It is raining. I know in my heart of hearts that it is snowing at 10,000 feet and 11,000 feet and 12,000 feet and likely any feet higher than that. And it is snowing hard. I know this in the depths of my hiker bones and I am so very sad about it. I know we need the snow and the snowpack has to start sometime and the sooner the better, but I was still hoping to get up high and feel the above-timberline rush from the high Colorado mountains this year. My brother-in-law and four friends headed up high today for a climb of Kit Carson peak--one of the gnarly 14ers I won't attempt because I'm either chicken or smart enough to know that I am a klutz and when the guidebook says that the hike requires hand-over-hand scrambling up scree and significant exposure (a climbing term meaning you'd better not be afraid of heights), I had better not attempt it. He sent a photo a few hours ago of snow on the rocks. They're camping at 12,000 feet tonight and I can't wait to see the photo of the tent buried in snow.

I keep looking out at the rain and the dye shed in the backyard remembering the yarn prepped for dyeing this afternoon. Starting the dye pots at 5pm in the rain just seems foolish, so I'm going to make muffins and skein some yarn and when I get good and ready I'm going to work on that little tapestry. She is going to be ever so sweet and hopefully lead to a new experiment in weaving for me.

So the answer is that fall doesn't really exist in the high arid regions of southern Colorado. We have lovely summer, then it gets a little cooler for about two seconds, and then it snows. Today we hit the snow, though I will try hard to pretend for a little while longer that the -20 degree (F) temperatures are not going to happen. But the propane guy was just here to fill our tank and since we left the plastic on the windows from last winter, I guess we're ready.