Spring in the mountains of Idaho is a time of fits and starts, lurching us forward and backward and forward again into the day that winter suddenly becomes summer.  When we get deep into the days of spring, when the sky is a deeper blue, and the hills are green and snow still clings to the mountain tops…whew.  That, almost, could be my favorite two-week season.

At the campground, I awoke earlier than I had hoped as I needed the sleep. Grateful, still, as it allowed an early visit to the beach with Ember, my dog, before others arrived. I felt the spectacularity and holiness of this space, so visible at this hour.  The thing is, though, that the beauty is so profound that I felt almost numb.  I didn’t have the capacity to absorb it to its fullest even though with the deepest longing, I tried.  It’s a bit like loving someone and knowing they won’t always be with you, so you want to ingest as much of their essence as you possibly can to carry you through that time without them.  But you can’t.

On our walk to the lake, we crossed a road.  I looked down the corridor of evergreens accumulated at the side of the macadam and then up to the sky above.  The clarity of the air is sharp.  Like glasses-that-are-too-strong-and-give-you-a-headache sharp. The lush cerulean blue in contrast with the pines, which normally seeming dark needled, now appear to have lights inside each spike, or the spruces with a blush of new-growth-green on its tips; the depth, clarity and contrast of blue and green almost hurts my eyes.

The turquoise mountain waters surrounding the lake’s edge roll into a deep navy that scream “You will only know my surface because I am dark, I am deep, I am absurdly cold!”  That’s a joke… sort of.  The water is so cold, it will steal your breath faster than the cutest boy (or girl) that gives you their special smile for the first time.  It’s cold.  It’s recent snow in liquid form.  In the early morning hours, before these colors truly emerge with the rising sun, the fog clings in clumps to the lake surface like lint on corduroy.  The mast of a small sailboat here, the bow of a power boat there…protruding through the morning mist.

The outlet from the lake has water so clear that you might think you were looking through a window to the river bottom…and I mean, like the day you wash your windows clear…not the “my dog already put nose prints on my window” clear.  The water is so inviting and refreshing that in just looking at it you already feel 5 degrees cooler…knowing that in reality the water is about 10 degrees colder than you are imagining.

Once out of the lake area and driving south along the base of the Sawtooth Mountain range, my morning continues to be brightened as Ember and I take in the Stanley Basin.  This is the time of year where ponds, still and flat as a mirror, have sprung up thanks to the snow melt.  They are snow puddles.  For about a month, they will reflect all the intensity around them, but as the spring wanes and the summer waxes and the surrounding colors start to soften, so too, the pond loses its intensity until it is no more.

The sage brush, which most of the year is a grey blue color, is in its fullest state of green.  Barely a hint of its summer hues is visible, as I realize I have again forgotten that sagebrush can actually be something other than its muted self.

In these fields of green, I spot the tawny lumps of antelope.  A threesome over there in the distance, a dozen over here closer to the roadside.  Ember is not impressed by tawny lumps.  She hasn’t yet figured out these are animals.  They are not moving, other than to graze.  An easy, quiet morning with heads down and bellies becoming full.  Further on down the road, a pair of Sandhill cranes walk their gawky, spindly legs through the tall grass and on occasion go head down to consume insects.  I always think they look as though they belong solely in the tropics, not in the mountains with their almost stork-like silhouettes: long, skinny legs, tapered, ovalish bodies and long necks.  How is it these large creatures survive on insects (and corn when they can get it)?

In contrast to the riotous color of my surrounds, the weathered grey wood of the snake fencing, the loading chutes and the head gates that serve as entrances to the local ranches are more pronounced than they will be in a month.  Soon the colors that are shouting out right now will subdue themselves and blend with that subtle, practical, mountain-life grey.

The Salmon River carves and riffles its way, uniquely, north.  Also known as the River of No Return, the Salmon is mostly shallow through this valley so along a good portion of its path there are bumps and bubbles and activity that let you know, like everything else around here, it is active and alive.

When scanning the horizon (which is impossible to cease from doing), there are, of course, the vast array of mountain peaks, primarily the Sawtooths to the west and the White Clouds to the east.  This time of year, they are still largely freckled with snow.  In some of the larger bowls the snow actually appears to be sagging as it sits with heaviness at the bottom of the bowl and its outer edges still clinging slightly higher up the sides. It feels heavy. It is reluctant to leave.

I have spent the majority of my life living in mountainous regions, and yet every spring it is almost a surprise to me, this fleeting outburst of intensity.  It feels, however, a welcome friend when the frantic race of molecules explodes into non-dormant life with full energy for a short, but intentional re-birth.