For my first trip this year I braved those still nippy nights by arriving in late April, a bit earlier than usual. As I drove in, I was shocked to see my valley oaks completely naked! Withered and gray, their twisted branches appeared to be completely without life. But in a day or so a magical thing happened. Tiny brown nubs began to appear  along those seemingly lifeless branches, noticeably expanding steadily over the course of the week. By the time I left, a few of them had already grown large enough to pop open and give birth to their baby green leaves, as if to announce to the world that their mother trees had survived another harsh winter and were thrilled to be dressed in green once again. The sunlight reflecting off of the snow caps on the distant mountains surrounding the valley was almost too bright to look at directly. A few of the valley fields were bare and brown, being plowed in preparation for planting grains. And the alfalfa in neighboring fields was short and stubby, but poised and ready to get on with the summer growing season.

When I returned in May, those same fields were bright green with fast growing alfalfa. And in the grain fields, seedlings were eagerly popping their heads up through the brown earth to greet the sun. Between the cultivated fields there were occasional expanses of purple lupine spikes and umbrellas of golden yellow mustard mingling in glowing perfusion.  The pointed mountain peaks in the background were striking as always, proudly showing off their dwindling but still glorious blankets of snow. Crystal clear creeks were flowing spritely, happily doing their job of transporting the runoff from the melting snow to the river. Cattle, no doubt relieved to be released from their drab winter diet, grazed happily in verdant green pastures. From my gazebo I watched pairs of birds of various sizes and plumages flit from oak to oak to find the perfect spot to set up housekeeping among the fresh green leaves. It was as if the whole valley had awakened from its long winter sleep, and was excited to be alive.

It’s June now, and I’ve returned to soak up the ambiance of the only place in the world that truly welcomes me home. It seems like I’ve been gone only a few moments, but in my absence Shangri La has taken on a whole new character. My oaks are now fully adorned with their dark green canopies, welcoming passing birds to rest in their shade. The purple and yellow of the lupine and mustard have been replaced by Oregon gold and pink sweet peas, punctuated here and there by other smaller wildflowers. Together they form a chorus of rainbow colored voices, joining in a song of praise declaring how thankful they are to be living in Shangri La. The alfalfa is now tall and ready for its monthly shearing. In fact, some is already cut and drying in preparation for baling, while a few fields proudly sport a full crop of bales ready for pickup. In neighboring fields mature wheat stalks wave gently in the wind now, and some even have a few rows already cut and drying in preparation for winnowing. All the fields with crops still standing are being watered by giant sprinklers that occasionally splatter big fat drops on the windshields of passers-by.

The distant mountain peaks now display only tiny remnants of their winter snow coats, as the summer season mostly offers an endless parade of sizzling sunny days. But the intense blue skies are punctuated now and then with puffy clouds sailing by, and occasionally even sharing a drop or two of their precious moisture with the now parched earth. Back in May, I recall the temperatures were still a bit nippy at night and comfortably warm during the day. By contrast, during this week leading up to the solstice, the afternoons have been too hot for this long time “coastie” to be comfortable. So I eagerly look forward to the mild evening temperatures of June, needing only a light blanket to keep cozy while snoozing peacefully through the quiet summer nights of Shangri La.

My projects are mostly outdoors, so I can diligently work on them in the morning. However, I’m forced to spend the heat of the day in the shade of my gazebo. Oh poor me…  While there I must carefully divide my time between napping, sipping lemonade, and admiring my world class view, at the same time allowing myself to be gently caressed by a cool breeze wafting up from the valley floor. I don’t even realize how hot it is outside my oasis until I need a refill of my lemonade. Just walking out into the direct sun gives me great appreciation for my special spot. Then later, as the afternoon sun rolls into the western sky, the air temperature softens and I can again venture forth and resume working on the project of the day.

I always make sure, though, to head for the gazebo when the sun begins to dip behind the nearby western hills. I review my day as the shadow from the setting sun flows slowly eastward across the valley and climbs the hills in the distance. The top half of majestic Mt Shasta towers authoritatively above those hills, allowing the suns last rays to fall gently on its slopes. I feel a special spiritual connection as I watch the resulting pink alpenglow materialize. And as if that show is not enough, it  may be followed by an encore of a unique sunset, filling the whole sky from horizon to horizon with brightly colored cloud formations. On special occasions I’ve even been treated to a treasured rainbow along with them. I must leave tomorrow, but I’ll be back again in July. I wonder, what new colors and vistas will be waiting for me then?   Whatever they are I know they’ll make me feel right at home.