Doling out the Summer, But No Rafting

 For all the shortness of distance the little ramble across San Antonio Heights, along the front range, packs in a lot of varied scenery. From views across the valley on one side, to up canyons on the other; trails snake through draws, bound over rocks and sink into sandy crossings. The fragrance of sage is heavy and pungent, and I make a point of brushing against it to saturate the air in my wake. Reaching Cucamonga Canyon I turn the wheels north, over the steel bridge, and up. The last time I was here I chose to continue up, switchbacking along the bluffs, but this time the choice led down, down into the wash. I could see the sign down there, a lone sentinel barring the way, guarding an invisible border with the closed lands, the forbidden canyon. I had to go to the very point of infraction though, before turning about and eyeing my way down the wash along that sweetly sinuous trail. The calendar might call for the official start of winter tomorrow, but down in the wash, the sycamores are holding summer in their leaves, doling it out in the breath of the breeze, rustling and drying as it blows through. Further along, and back toward home the sycamore's also shine yellow, though the trees of fig corner are mostly bare now, grey branches scratch and poke at the sky, but fail to leave a mark, let alone draw a trace of blood. Buried in the leaf litter, a season's crop of figs sweeten the air, much as the sage cleansed it further back. We are quite fortunate to live where all these year-round options for riding, for getting out in the world, present themselves at every turn; I know it is called preaching to the choir, but get out and take advantage of it, don't let it go to waste.

canyon of the Cucamonga

border of the closed lands

Autumn trail - the winter solstice is tomorrow, but you wouldn't know it here

Oookaaaay!? Somehow i don't see this a being much of a problem here