Fall at The Lot

I spent two nights at the cabin this week, which hasn't happened in a long while. Friday, I was with my family. Every year I think it can't possibly be more beautiful than the last.
But the sky turns an indescribable shade of blue on a Saturday morning. And the aspen trees mingle with the evergreens above the sagebrush, the combination of which takes your breath away.

It's especially fun when we get to be with this little one.
I gave her a taste of my s'more and it was over.

She went on several small hikes with Papa in her jammies on Saturday morning.

Last Tuesday, Karli called me in the late afternoon. We've been trying all summer and fall to get up to The Lot. It was a spur of the moment decision neither of us could pass up. We hustled to finish work, met for dinner in the city, and then drove up to the cabin. We started a fire and were roasting s'mores by ten.
We accidentally stayed up until 3:30 in the morning chatting (part of that time I was working, which helps me justify it.) We wanted to see the sunrise, something well worth getting up for--even with only three hours of sleep. We drove to the top of the canyon before heading home.
The snow on top of the Uintahs faded into the pale grey of the morning sky. The sagebrush was covered in frost. Everything was quiet. (Until we got out at the reservoir and started playing around with the camera.)

Thanks, Grandma and Grandpa. We love The Lot.

eventually all things merge into one

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.

paul mcclean, a river runs through it

the weber in october

Astronauts Anonymous

In elementary school I had a crush on a boy who went to space camp. It wasn't his affinity for astrology that made me fond of him. I remember being terribly embarrassed about his absence from school for a week in Florida to pretend to defy gravity and squint through telescopes. The only positive thing I could think of was the possibility of eating space ice cream, which to me, is delicious, especially the Neapolitan. Other than that, the thought of him following in the footsteps of Neil Armstrong was a bit...out there.

However, as the years have rolled on, I've found myself wanting to recant my space camp chides. There have been many a sweet night's sleep on the deck at the cabin, the prelude to which have been Dad pointing out constellations as we stare at the Milky Way, visible from the spot Grandpa plotted so many years ago. I spent a memorable summer night with a few girl cousins outside the teen bunkhouse on a ranch in Antimony, UT and witnessed what was the most spectacular star show I've seen to date. Year in and year out there have been August nights with E and O, comforters spread across us on the front lawn when we've looked up at the endless heavens, stared off into the darkness and planned our futures (none of which included space camp, but perhaps they should have?)

The truth is, as much as I didn't want to be into space, I am. So, the other night when I had the chance to look through D Man's new telescope, I bundled up and bounded out. I took one giant leap for woman kind and was out on the driveway squinting into a telescope and studying the moon. Dad not wanting to give up the opportunity either, was right behind me. His reaction was probably the most priceless: "Oh my stars!" he gasped, eyes as wide as flying saucers. (Even with his naturally punny tendencies, he didn't realize he'd said it.) We all took turns, all in disbelief at what we could see. The moon seemed touchable, all craters and textures. Mountains and valleys. I resisted the urge to usher all on-lookers inside to watch October Sky, although it might have to be our next neighborhood cinema screening sometime soon. Perhaps in my free time this summer I'll look into Space Camp. Apparently all the cool kids are going. (N and O, I'll make sure there's a spot for three.)

The Lot: a History

Each Christmas I'm excited by the amount of new good literature I get to add to my bookshelves. This year mom commented we're nearly out of room in the house, book bindings on colorful display in nearly every room. Late last night I rearranged a few things to make room for the books which now belong to my personal library. A big red-spined art book took its place prominently on the shelves in my bedroom. I'm pleased with its position alongside the thick green Robert A.M. Stern book that I received in 2004.

Perhaps of greatest literary treasure of late though, is the nine page piece penned by Grandpa some 22 years ago this Christmas simply titled, "The Lot." It outlines in greater detail than any other account (written or audible of which I'm aware) the acquisition and construction of one of my favorite places on the earth, a 3/4 acre of land up Weber Canyon. I've read it three times now, going over and over certain spots where Grandpa's writing seems to sing, his lyrics matching the mood of mornings spent in those mountains. I can still hear him whistle to the grandchildren down in the meadow by the swings, ushering us back up the hill for supper around the campfire. Of this spot he wrote:

"The carved wooden sign hangs on an inside wall of our cabin, in the canyon of the Upper Weber River in Summit County, Utah. In 'Spencerian Script,' or 'cursive' as the kids say, it reads simply, The Lot. You might think that such a sign should be on a tree or a post somewhere outside the cabin. But there it is, on the wall above the old green desk, under the open stairs to the lower loft. It reminds us that once there wasn't any cabin -- only The Lot.

"The ground there lies in a gentle slope, covered with a hundred or so quaking aspen, whose green, heart-shaped leaves tremble in the spring and summer breezes, until the autumn chill turns them to shimmering gold. Under the low winter sun, the tall, slender, gray-green trunks cast silent shadows across deepening snow. A few spruce and fir trees provide contrasting greenery during the shorter daylight hours from November 'til March. The night falls early; the darkness dispersed only when the sky is clear and the moon is up, or if one gazes upward to the myriad stars. April and springtime bring back the green of the trees and meadow and the longer hours of the sunshine, and the cycle of the seasons stars all over again...

"It is The Lot that stimulates the mind and refreshes the spirit. Sitting inside, it is the view to the outside that makes the sitting pleasurable. A fire in the evening and a good bed for sleeping afford comfort through the night. But in the morning, dawn brings the beautiful, graceful deer, quietly moving through the mountains and hillsides over across the valley, then the windows and walls on the north side of the cabin and finally floods The Lot with warmth and light.

There are from time to time mornings, both in summer and in
winter, when especially the world seems to begin anew...
The world has been visibly recreated in the night. Mornings
of creation I call them. (Henry David Thoreau, January 26, 1853)

"To experience the delight and the wonder of such a morning at The Lot is to know a special kind of personal re-creation. It is justification for ownership of such a place and vindication of all the work of fifteen years past -- and others yet to come."

Richard Forsberg Haglund, December 1987
photo by RCF, November 2009

Sunday Storm

my red heaven

Minerva Teichert said, "I want a little red in my heaven." I want to be in Minerva's heaven, for she has a signature shade all her own. I imagine her up there painting sunsets and bursting dahlias. Portraits of children with cheeks in brilliant shades of rouge. And autumn leaves like those we saw tonight on our way up the canyon to a place I believe to be a little piece of heaven.

Like a Minerva Teichert painting, there were no hard lines, just places where one color fades into another: green blends with yellow, then orange, then red. The further up we got, the less red there was. (The lack of red wasn't an indication of our relativity to heaven, just a change in landscape, I firmly believe.)

We pulled through the gate at The Lot as the sun began to rest its eyelids. The aspens seem to have turned early this year, fallen leaves like yellow confetti welcoming our weekend party up the stone path. We had just enough daylight left for a short walk before dinner. The light of the late afternoon played in the nooks and crannies of the hillside, casting shadows down the face of the mountain, subduing the fall hues.

When everyone was inside, I turned off the light on the deck and stepped out to look at the stars. Aspen branches stretched heavenwards and cradled the night's sky, a canvas of black and white. I located the Evening Star and the curve of the Big Dipper, which has dipped a bit lower than a few weeks ago. Under a Harvest Moon, I imagined Minerva painting a picture of our little Lot in the woods, cocooned in aspens and pines, one color fading into another.

sugar in the sky

Tonight we went to The Lot in the woods. This is my favorite time of year there. Against a backdrop of ever-green, the leaves wait in the wings for a fashion show in their robes of red, and gold, and rust. The quaking aspen cheer them on, shaking in the wind.

The sky was clear tonight, clouds having floated on to bluer skies. Sprinkled across a dark chocolate sky, we could see the milky way, as faint as fine sugar, a fairy-dusting of trillions of stars.

the sound of the river

As we pulled past the gate, I reached for my bag and grabbed my book. I tried to read on the way home; I needed to, even. But, I couldn't resist looking out the window as country gave way to city. Two bliss-filled days of sun and moon and mountain air. Campfires, cousins, and late night laughter. Sunshine streaming through quaking aspen. Pastures of sagebrush and a raging, winding river.

Our sleeping bags in front of the fireplace, last night cousin K and I talked of The Big City and the smaller one below us and where in life we've landed. The other conversations dimmed in the background. Accompanied by a snoring brother just above, our words became softer and more separated, and sleep summoned. One after the other we drifted off as glowing embers drew the last bits of shadow from the room. The only sound left was the rushing of the river.

Tonight, down in the valley, I rocked in the hammock while the sun sank below the Oquirrh Mountains to the west. My book folded across my lap, I let it remain, not wanting to renounce the day. A breeze blew through the branches above me and the faint smell of campfire danced past my nose and on into the back yard. I closed my eyes, and off in the distance, I heard the sound of the river.

{illustration by B. Posselli}

Scenes from Aspen Lane

For Grandma

stepping stones

We walk down the path where the gravel meets the wooden planks of the bridge, and then we divide. I head for the riverbank. My orange shoes carry me over the rocks until I am farther and farther away. Leaves rustle and the rush of the river provides percussion to the song in my head -- the one with lyrics about time, which roll over and over, eternally on repeat. It seems fitting that my heart wishes to sing about time, something that in this moment seems to be dying; in the early evening light, in the crisp air of fall, and in the leaves that hold their breath before they have to let go of the branches they've called home.

I hop from one rock to another. I step closer, pausing at the sight of leaves that have fallen to their watery grave. They lie stagnant in a small pool, separated from the larger part of the whole by several large rocks. Rest in peace, the rocks say as they shoulder-to-shoulder themselves, protecting the fallen ones from the rush of the river. Other leaves look down from branches above knowing that at any moment, they too will be plucked from their beds to join the throng, assembling in the pool below for Fall's Memorial. Bare branches bend in the breeze and create a sort of hollow hallowed sound; a recognition of their sacrifice for the Season and respect for the service carried on below.

The river courses on, passing trees with tired leaves and branches stripped of their color, naked except for those brave souls, the procrastinators who wait until the last minute before they fearlessly tally-ho into the water, not wanting to surrender to Time or to the Season. I turn to face the river. Wind dances across my cheeks. I curl my hair around my ears. I breathe in and let go, stepping back along the rocks, one orange step at a time, until I reach the bridge. The lyrics about time still run through my head as I step back up onto the dirt road.

Heaven

Lot Rocks

We headed for the Weber just before dusk. It's low on account of the drought. The spring run-off rushing sound was long gone; the calm, tranquil fall flow was music.

We all set off on our own, each escaping to different spots, our minds following our feet as all else but river dashed out. Dad was his usual boy-ish self; the boy who appears only a few places. I think the cabin brings it out in him most, though. He was off down the bank, leaping rock to rock, quickly jumping out of sight.

I began the hunt. I like to try and find the round rocks. They know the river well. They've lived it. They have felt Spring run-offs and fall tranquility, over and over again. I made a small pile a few hundred yards from the bridge. I'd return every so often to make an exchange, tossing back the less-round. I chose a couple for E.

Richard opened up a small hole in a long rock wall that other river-goers had started, letting the trapped water rush through, mightily. Dad put the last touches on his new form of rock art. He pointed it out to me from the top of the bank, quite pleased with himself, the boyish grin on his face bearing witness to the fact.

We entered Weber Meadow View just as the last bit of sun touched the mountains.

Just as all got quiet before we fell asleep on the deck under the stars Dad said, as he always does, "Can you hear the river?"

The Lot

Realizing it's near summer's end and we haven't managed a single trip up to The Lot with the Rhondeaus, we pow-wowed in the kitchen late Friday night to plan a spur-of-the-moment trip for Saturday evening. The traffic jam up Parley's only momentarily detained us, and O saved the day by busting out "Table Topics," coaxing us through each question.
Mid-marshmallow milkshake at The Polar King in Oakley, and after plenty of odd looks from the locals, (apparently laughing hysterically isn't something them folks do very often) Rich cupped his mouth with his hands and said, "Oh, no! Do you have the keys?!" The typical brother-sister "No!-I-thought-you-were-supposed to..." back-and-forth blame war ensued. But wait! Thank heaven for the Oakley Nagles! (Who laugh often and much, btw). We pulled up to their green house, not more than two blocks away, to find MTN2 and OMN on the grass hunting for grasshoppers amid piles of Hotwheels. Speaking of green, Sara had the green golf and the cabin keys were inside. Defeat. With chagrin, but armed with "Miles and Owen Stories," (after only ten minutes! I'm happy to tell all) we got in the car and discussed options on our way back to Ken's Kash where we had left E, O and Jonny to get "supplies."
In a last-stitch effort, I made a quick call to AEN and then to Sara. A few hairpin turns and a suspicious illegal deer-hunter at-large later, Sara was tossing the beloved cabin keys over a third-story balcony just below the Stein Eriksen Lodge in Deer Valley.
The fresh mountain air and glistening stars at Weber Meadowview were most definitely worth the road rallying. We toasted and roasted, listened to R's "abridged" ghost-stories, played cowboys and Indians (really), took photos in our usual spot (all this betwixt the continued intermittent hilarium) and headed down Weber Canyon exactly on time, (right guys?) We even managed to leave an entry in the cabin journal. For a full Cowboy-Indian montage, visit: MIRABLE DICTU.
Wingapo,
M