| There are too many distractions for one to
fully appreciate its loveliness when evening comes to city streets. Man with
his houses and buildings and telephone poles and electric lights, has succeeded
in blotting out the sky, and busy as he is with his own little affairs he does
not have time to pause and contemplate those quiet and serene moments that
bring to close the busy day. Even canyon folks miss the beauty of evening. As
the sun sets canyon shadows are laid all to abruptly for one to enjoy the
delicate and gradual changes that take place in day's transformation into
night. Out on the lone prairie, on mesa or high plateau can the beholder fully appreciate the orchestration of the evening symphony and that best in the summertime when day lingers and the movements of earth and sky are slower and more majestic. The old sun takes his good time to call it quits for a day. The curtains are drawn with imperceptible slowness during summer whereas in winter they are pulled with slam! bang! swiftness so that the end of day and the beginning of night are almost one. Evening should be a more leisurely affair. Hurry is for the day when the busybodies are about. Evening is for the philosopher who pauses to consider the wisdom the departed day has brought. Evening is for the laborer from field, factory or mill resting from days toil. content with the knowledge of work well done. proud of the fruits of that toil. Evening is for the worried, hurried and harassed who seek moments of relaxation from (he incessant turmoil of daily living. Evening is for the aged. the elderly couple facing the evening of their lives unafraid, the years behind cherished memories, every moment one of endearing and lasting companionship, golden moments of felicity reflected in the fading golden light of a mellow sun. At eventide creatures of the desert emerge from their hiding places where they have wisely spent the day to avoid the heat. Desert shadows grow longer until they all flow together and the grotesque shadows of the saguaro become one with the lacy shadows of the mesquite and palo verde. Day's fading light of yellow and orange turns to rose and red. Finally there is only deep purple high on the mountains and day is done. The moon, bright and big eyed arrives on the scene. The stars appear one by one until finally the whole world is filled with moon dust and starlight and evening has gone and night has come....R.C. Of all people, desert people appreciate the mountains most. In summer, when the furnaces of the sun are blazing at their best (or worst), our mountains beckon with promises of cooling breeze, shaded forest, refreshing stream. We haven't the mountains to brag about as you find in some states, but the mountains we have are convenient and big enough to do a job of air conditioning. We make the most of them. There isn't a place in the desert which is not nudged by a mountain range, some high, some low, but all offering a summer retreat in a few hours of travel. A flat country of interminable depth and width would be boring. You have to have hills and the mountains beyond the hills to give you variety. Mountains grapple with the storms of winter and protect the valleys below. The lazy clouds of summer are halted over mountain peaks and the rain therefrom is a tribute to the land. Mountains take the late afternoon sunlight and do tricks with it, straining the white flame through upraised fingers into color patterns of variegated hue. The blues and reds and purples of mountain light defy the most skillful fingers wielding the most artistic brush. There is a spiritual quality about mountains, as any mountain climber will tell you. On a mountain peak, with the whole world below, one feels closer to God, as if there were sublimity in eminence. Maybe it comes from the feeling of being where few others have been because too few people climb mountains. Mountains emphasize the passing of the seasons. Most of us know the mountains best in summer for then they are of easier access. Perhaps in summer mountains are at their best, when streams are running, flowers are in bloom and trees are peopled with birds, their song the song of summer. Whoever has not slept beside a mountain stream or has not heard the soft sound of a gentle wind in the pine trees has missed pleasures that cannot be found elsewhere. Whoever has not huddled around a camp fire on a high mountain, with the morning chill in the air and the air itself redolent with the aroma of bacon and eggs frying and coffee boiling is truly an unfortunate soul and greatly to be pitied. Life has been ungenerous and unkind to the one who has not enjoyed the clean forest smell after a summer rain, or felt the soft crunchiness of a needle-strewn mountain path under his feet, or heard the thunder roll down mountain chasms, or drank deep from a cold mountain spring. Mountain pleasures are simple pleasures....R. C. |