fall

We All Need A Little Hell Right Now

/ A. Swanson / Leave a comment

This fall has been gorgeous! Weather in the mid-60’s (F). The smoky haze of summer nothing but a vague memory, replaced with an edgy bright brilliant blue. Sparrows, bluebirds, grackles, warblers…flocking in preparation of the journey south. Kettles of turkey vultures spiraling upward, their black and brown wings charred cinders escaping an invisible blaze. The bite of winter may be coming (maybe), but at the moment, it seems like nothing more than a rumor (and, if it’s anything like last year, it’ll stay mild and dry).

It’s the perfect time to slip back into Hell Canyon, especially with all of the turmoil, the fire and brimstone uncertainty and outrageous normalization of all things corrupt and crazy, the shameless exploitation of all that is bright and beautiful in this world. Vitriol that is all too easy to find and oh so hard to escape. But Mother Nature has the answer for those who seek.

View from the rim of Hell Canyon. Twenty-six years after the Jasper Fire, numerous snags are still standing.

And therein lies the way forward: getting out into the world. Finding wild things that make your heart sing (just like in the 60’s song, but this time referring to Mother Nature). Voices of leaves rustling in the breeze. The hiking trail a spilled mug of hot chocolate, floating burnt marshmallow-y fungus riding atop. Unpretentious purple aster flowers speaking in lavender tones as you pass.

Redosier dogwoods (Cornus sericea) add blush tones to the bright yellows and greens of the canyon bottom.
Brilliant golds of aspen trees shimmer in the afternoon sun.
A snag likely created in the 2000 Jasper Fire: at over 83,000 acres, this wildfire remains the largest in South Dakota history. Snags provide shelter, feeding and nesting structures for many insects and wildlife species such as bats, squirrels, and avian cavity nesters, including American kestrels, an assortment of woodpeckers, nuthatches, mountain and eastern bluebirds (both of which are found in the Black Hills), and black-capped chickadees.
A view of an aspen stand looking up toward the canyon rim.

So the next time someone tells you to go to Hell…don’t jump to conclusions.

…Not so fast!

They could be letting you on a secret on how to find your way to a little slice…

Of heaven.

Now…go to hell (or somewhere like Hell Canyon).

Take Care and Be Kind.*

*And by all means, where ever you are…use your power

and VOTE.

Because Mother Nature is counting on you (so remember Her when you make your choices: in doing so, you’re voting for the good of all of us—and what could be better than that?).

Featured

Twas the Month Before Christmas

/ A. Swanson / 6 Comments

(or Hard Knocks from Not-Santa)

you can blame this little red squirrel (aka Not-Santa) who lives in the Black Hills for what follows— an inane taste of rhymey-ness. Apparently, he thinks it’s WAckY Wednesday…

Something’s clattering there, up on the roof shingle. November: no snowman, no Kristopher Kringle.

No child’s wishful gazing through frost on the pane. And jingles aren’t jangling to merry the game.

Boots of black or reindeer can’t account for this loud chatter. Curiosity beckons me to see what’s the matter.

Another loud noise as I open the door, step onto the deck. There’s no one around, only the sound peek! and the sound of a peck.

A pecker of wood hops up the side of a tree. Cocks its head sideways, stops and peers shyly at me.

I look to the sky. And, behold…what do I see? Industrious movement near the top of the tree.

A figure in red, not a shade fire engine-tinged; But the red of the rust on a pail or a hinge.

Instead of laughter behind a snowy white beard; There’s white on his face yes, but concealing a leer.

The creature’s tail is orange-red and jitters around. As he searches the treetops where treasure abounds.

Eyes gleam like the belt around Santa’s coat. Downy gray fur at the base of his throat.

The chuckling begins, not a bowl full of jelly. Revealing ill humor inside that round belly.

Tis not the season of giving or thanking, says he. No…it’s time for stashing and stowing frantically.

Human, get yourself gone, get out of the way.I needs enough cones to fill more than a sleigh.

Go rake some leaves, pull out thistles untidy. But leave me alone with this project…Alrighty?

One second more do I linger and wonder: When will he finish and stop this roof-thunder?

For two-thousand words I’m attempting to write. Today, not tomorrow I’ll finish this fight.

I linger and watch as he returns back to work. Scolding, tail twitching, to say “What a jerk!”

In contrast to him, my task isn’t survival. And honestly, Writing Muse needs a revival.

So I whistle to Timmy and up the hill we both trot; Uptightness untightening, mind no longer knotted in knots.

Mountain bluebirds flit, ringing sad-noted calls. Saying goodbye, goodbye, goodbye to you all.

And hello. Hello. Hello to mid-fall.

Thanks for reading. If you have a sec, I’d love to hear:

Are your squirrels (or other critters) acting squirrelly too?