NO MATTER HOW MANY TIMES I see it, I never get tired of it: The emerald sheen of the surrounding hills this time of the year, the play of cloud shadows and sunshine which makes the grasslands look as if you’re gliding over in a boat and looking down at the sun-kissed grassy bottom of a shallow creek. It’s magical, there is no other way to put it.
I am nursing a recently injured knee so I am cautious while hiking but there is too much beauty to miss if I hold back. After a few days of taking it easy, I venture up the trails again in my favourite park of all.
Colours and sounds reward my efforts as soon as I get on the trail. I spot the last withering yellow petals of the arrow leaf balsamroot, gently swaying with the light breeze; intense blue larkspur, purple aster, and bright yellow dandelions. Higher up I discover bunches of my most beloved: wild flax. The blue of their petals is enough to make a so and so day glorious. The few water droplets left behind by the morning drizzle sparkle on the blue, round and perfect.