By Andrew Larson

I have been forever fascinated by the flow of the seasons. Always admiring the stark contrasts that each provide against one another. Every season with its own distinct flavor, a sort of unique descriptor that is more accurately felt than described through any sort of words. Each season possessing its own reminders of the current time of year and the new environment that comes with it.

I do my best during each season, to step back and admire the moments that everything around me is completely indicative of the current season. Driving across a rolling green landscape dotted with juniper trees, gazing upon big skies above that are alive with deep rolling thunder clouds, bringing both storms and blue skies to the image in front of me. The epitome of summer monsoon season. Or drawing open the curtains to an immaculate blanket of snow gracing every stationary object in a coat of white. Blue skies and not a sign of wind to disturb the virgin snow delicately balanced on the even wispy oak branches. The white days of winter. Or the next season ahead of us, fall. When the organic smell of decaying leaves permeates the crisp air, while the color spectrum begins to fade to a drab brown, each day shorter than the last. 

However, something else aside from the essence of each season itself, has always captivated my thoughts even more. The transition seasons, that often get lost in the matrix between our distinct four season flow. The ‘shoulder seasons’ as I like to call them. The shoulder seasons are often short, hard to pick out, maybe even disregarded as the changing of times rather than an entire time in and of itself. This year, step back, and notice this new season.

Here in the White Mountains, it is a time between late monsoons rains transitioning into cooler winter storms. When elk are beginning to bugle, but have not fully entered the hormone crazed days of the rut. When stands of Aspen trees begin to wear colors of fall, while others cling tight to the greener memories of summer. The trout in our waters know the shoulder season, too. Males, beginning to show their vibrant spawning colors, eagerly move into spawning habitat while the females wait for the true onset of fall to begin their annual spawn. The earliest indicators of the fall waterfowl migration, species of teal begin to filter through our wetlands, bound for the warm winters that Mexico provides.

This moment of change, although in constant flow and transition, seems nearly worthy of a season name in and of itself. I treasure the month of September for this short season that brings elements of the crisp drab days of fall into the long and lush days of summer. A time when I can look forward to the oncoming days of fall and reminisce on the warm days of summer.

The shoulder season. A time when I can see change with my own two eyes. Where with each coming day, I can see a new leaf turn yellow, a new blade of grass unfurl from winter’s grasp, or see winters white cloak infuse with the yellow leaves of yesterday’s autumn. I will look ahead to the new season of fall, take a step back, and acknowledge the change while it unfolds.