Green Is a Fall Color, too.

 The leaves of Thimbleberry will eventually turn various shades of yellow and brown, not usually bright like a Crayola (c) crayon, and not usually considered a highlight of the Fall Colors Season.  But this leaf, visited by some sort of insect or virus, seemed attractive to me, and made me think about the forthcoming hype about fall colors.  First of all, it's no Fall yet, but various commercial entities are gearing up for ways to make money off people who will go somewhere away from home to enjoy a display of fall colors, and maybe drop some money at motels, restaurants, and gas stations in these places.  Of course, there will be others visiting where they came from.  Sort of like Thanksgiving and Christmas when millions of people changes places for a few days.  Where I live, the forests are mostly evergreen, so the reds, oranges, and yellows that will appear soon are just beacons in the green.  If one pays attention to details in an evergreen forest, one begins to notice and appreciate shades of green, say the difference between Ponderosa Pine and Sugar Pine, or between Oaks and Maples before they assume their fall colors. 

And, before the most popular trees (for tourists) turn red, orange and yellow, there's a period of berries ripening that I find quite enjoyable.  Here's a Wild Rose and

a False Solomon's Seal.  All three photos here were taken within 100 feet of each other and 200 feet of my home on the South side of Quincy.

For several years now, I have been a regular contributor of photos to various web sites that promote fall color viewing, and I will probably do so again this year.  But some of the stereotypical patterns of reporting on the Fall are making it hard for me to suppress my curmudgeonly habits.  For instance, what does it mean to say "the Quaking Aspens are at 65% along Last Chance Creek?"  Sixty-five percent of what?  Does 100% mean the brightest colors they have ever achieved?  Or, the brightest they will get this year? (That would mean someone's hiding a crystal ball.)  Do people manipulate these numbers in order to optimize or maximize tourism to these colorful places?

Another habit I've frowned upon is the idea of nature as one big post card, best enjoyed through the window of a warm car moving dangerously slow on a highway shared by cars and trucks that don't want to go so slow.  We call those people "leaf peepers."  For some reason that phrase strikes me as voyeuristic and makes me think the trees might turn red from embarrassment.

Then there's the prediction business.  "Are we going to have a good year for fall colors?"  TV interviews are given on this topic about which nobody knows much of anything.  Besides our very limited ability to predict such things, a "good year" is a subjective thing anyway.

My recommendation for an enjoyable fall outing would be to get out of the car and walk around.  Try to find an individual beautiful leaf and sketch it, photograph it, press it into a notebook, teach your children (or let them teach you)  how to make a leaf rubbing, have a picnic by a stream, and basically ignore everyone who tells you where to go and what to do during the season of fall colors.  Visualize a place on the planet that doesn't have our kind of fall.  A desert, or a tropical island, for instance, or a grassland.  Perhaps direct your attention to the fall sky - stars, planets, meteors, the Moon - and night time sounds.  Or, just stay home and watch football games and fall colors videos.  The possibilities are endless.

Maybe this silly reaction to the coming fall is some sort of flashback to 1960 when I first learned that the mascot of my new college was the Green Wave.  We fans were called Greenies for short.