Fall Colors

Saturday morning's sun struggled to make an appearance through the light cloud cover. I drove across town to Lawrence Park, one of Kalispell's green spaces that wraps around the embankment of Buffalo Hill and stretches along the Stillwater River.

I knew that the neighbors around the park have worked hard to make it accessible to a diverse group of locals--children's playground, covered shelter for gathering, walking trails--but until I googled Lawrence Park, I didn't know that it was also a Disc Golf course. Folf. I'd seen the tall baskets scattered around the park, but had no idea what they were.

http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=FOLF

When we still had our whippet, Lucy, we would bring her to Lawrence Park for Frisbee catching and ball throwing because it has a wonderful, large area for doggie play. She loved the chance to explore the trails and meet new friends.

I passed a wooden gazebo that was being decorated for a child's party. Women laughed as they tossed rolls of crepe paper up over the exposed rafters, creating a colorful, loopy ceiling above the large picnic tables holding pastries and presents.

Children ran back and forth from the party to the playground with its swings, slides and monkey bars. I walked toward the river, and only then noticed how beautiful the trees were becoming. A small flame tree leapt out at me from the rest and I had to snap a picture with my phone.

From that point on, I was in full autumn mode, finding color everywhere. I stolled along the paved path, shuffling through piles of orange and yellow leaves, remembering the way they smelled when I was a child. My dad would rake a huge pile into the gutter where my brother and I would leap, hiding in the golden depths until the tiny stems and bits of dried leaf winkled down our collars, making us itch like mad.



I thought of my own son, Eli, doing the same thing on raking day and smiled at the coming generations of leaf-pile swimmers among the children back in the playground.

From a distance, I could see the pedestrian/bicycle bridge, erected by the Lawrence Park organizers, that allowed access from the park to Whitefish Stage Road with its traffic and noise. Thankfully, it was too far away to intrude on my thoughts as I lingered there by the water.

I paused on the bridge and spent some time watching the gently flowing river. Upstream, the trees and grasses crowded in toward a curve in the stream, while downstream, the river seemed wilder, somehow, faster and more rocky.

I remembered coming to the park earlier in the spring just at the peak of the thaw, when the river was racing beneath the bridge, foaming and fighting over its banks, pushing logs and debris to a new resting place south of town. The scene was very different today, as if nature was tamping itself down into embers for a long winter's rest.

I had almost forgotten that my reason for coming to the park was a brisk walk. It was difficult to hurry along the trail. I couldn't bear to miss any of the fleeting fall sights.

I climbed up the switchbacks that heralded the end of the Park's trail. Ahead lay the busy street and reality. Turning around to retrace my steps to my car on the other end of the path, I took one final photo. The river, the trees, the green expanse of the golf course peeking out over the embankment. It had been a magical walk that reminded me to slow down and enjoy the days as they progressed to the snows of winter that would come soon enough.