The Quiet Season | Remastered Edition


I love this time of year. I call it the Quiet Season. I love riding out to the Great Salt Lake through the farmland, where there is little or no traffic. I rarely see other riders, but the ones I do see are serious ones like me. I never see other women riders, I must be the only crazy one. It’s cold, but layering almost eliminates the bite of the wind. During my ride, I am rewarded with colors, smells and
sounds that few others experience. There is so much to see. The Halloween candy is gone, and so are the showy colors of leaves
on the trees. They have been replaced with quiet golds and browns that whisper in the wind. As I ride along, the musty smell of
fallen leaves rises up from the ground with a pleasant aroma – filling me with memories of
walking through mountains during deer hunts long long ago. All of the trees reach their
dark limbs high in the sky, gently waving in the late fall breeze. Their beauty rivals that of their showier
predecessors, but in a quiet way. The restful season has come. Hay bales are waiting in the fields to be gathered- sitting patiently- like soldiers in rows along the fences. Corn fields are also at rest now. Only stubble remains in endless rows that reach out
to the horizon. Freshly turned earth in other fields reveals
dark brown richness, waiting for snow to blanket it with quiet
stillness, and peace. The furrows will wait for spring to awaken from the slumber of freezing winter nights
that will come. Geese fly above me as I ride,
calling to each other as they fly. “Hurry,” they say. “Hurry, must hurry, “to warmer places to rest for the winter.” I love their graceful wings, and long curved curved necks that stretch out
in earnest as they fly towards the lake to land and rest before resuming their long
journey southward. I often wish I could join them and fly far far away to lands unknown and unseen. I ride by pumpkin fields with hundreds of pumpkins that have not yet been harvested. Perhaps they will sprout next year and
make another field of yellow and orange for children to run through,
and pick the biggest and best lantern for their holiday of
mischief. But for now, it is filled only with
memories – and quietly passes on. The sun swiftly moves towards the
horizon and I finally reached the lake edge. No other time of day can rival the
colors at the evening sun. The hills on Antelope Island are a rich
chestnut brown and beckon me to come and explore their
secrets but I cannot. Time is no longer on my side and I must
return before the evening light is gone. Reluctantly, I turn away from the scene and
gold and orange, and ride towards home. I love this time of year.

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