I was raised in the desert Southwest, a place characterized by plants adapted to hot, dry conditions. This manifests itself with shrubs, trees, and cacti that show very little change with the seasons, except for a brief "green-up" after a wet winter. Once summer settles in the landscape reverts to the dominant color palette, that of various drab shades of brown and beige dotted with clumps of pale green.
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Palo Verde tree
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Desert plants evolved to retain moisture, finding novel ways to avoid losing precious water from evaporation. One of the more common strategies involves having very small leaves, or in some cases no leaves at all.
Cactus are one example, having all the necessary photo-synthesizing chemicals within the waxy flesh of the plant. Native trees follow suit; the Palo Verde (spanish for "green stick") has no leaves, with the bark and stems incorporating chlorophyll to absorb the sun's energy.
Thus the arrival of "fall" to the desert meant little to me as a kid, as the only apparent change was the remission of scorching heat, shorter days, and a lower sun in the sky. I saw pictures of what autumn looks like in other parts of the world, and I could only imagine standing in a sun dappled grove of hardwood trees with blazing red, orange and yellow leaves falling gently around me.
When I got older and relocated away from the desert I finally got my wish (sort of). I've never lived in the northeast or mid-Atlantic region, nor have I had the privilege of visiting these areas during the fall, so my childhood dream remains unfulfilled, but the experience of watching leaves change in the intermountain West has been everything I could have hoped for.
I won't attempt to convince anyone that fall in these parts rivals the abundant color found in the Eastern US, but I will extol the virtues of our unique experience. What the west lacks in variety, we make up for in other ways.
For instance, a blazing yellow stand of Aspens set amongst dark green conifers has a very pleasing aesthetic.
And if you know where to look, you can find pockets of color that resemble (to a degree) landscapes of the East, with Gamble Oak and Sugar Maple displaying hues of red and orange.
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A stand of Sugar Maple
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One intangible I feel keenly is the sensation of fall - the natural ebb and flow of one season into another. When late September arrives, the sun's long slow decline to the south is already well underway, with each day growing shorter by several minutes.
Flowers and grasses have gone to seed, and begin to fade from vibrant green to pale yellow and brown. The sky turns a deep cerulean blue, providing the perfect backdrop for nearly incandescent yellow leaves.
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Green turns to yellow as grasses cure
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Arizona Rose
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Bracken fern fades to silvery brown
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Because each grove of Aspen grows from a singular root structure, the organism can live for thousands of years as long as environmental conditions allow. This also means trees of the same clone will change color at the same time, with neighboring Aspens growing from a different root complex turning earlier or later.
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| Aspens regenerate first on burned slopes |
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Gambel Oak leaves are last to go
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Autumn sunshine filtered through Aspen leaves
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Geranium leaves add color at the ground level
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Slender white trunks reach for the vault of sky
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Fallen leaves carpet the forest floor
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Entire slopes blaze with color
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Though I cherish the change of seasons the end of summer is bittersweet,
even a little melancholy. I know in my head it is just part of the
larger process, but my heart already misses the soft green rustle of
Aspen leaves on a warm breeze. But winter is coming; and all of Nature
knows it.
While the color of fall is ephemeral and fleeting, I revel in it every
moment that I can. Though this year's leaves are nearly gone, I know they'll
be back, and I look forward to next spring when the buds reappear, heralding the next generation of life.
