Riding up was very fall like with leaves on the ground, icicles in the crick clinging to sticks over little deep pools, and that smell, so difficult to describe, dirt and decaying leaves and, well, fall. The leaves had mostly left the branches of the aspens, baring the brown-grey branches. But every once-in-a-while, a wild patch of yellow would pop out of the piney green background, leaves shaking like pom-poms. The water splashing over the rocks sounded joyful.
The view takes your breath away. Layer upon layer of mountains and on past them to the far plains, a half-moon rising in late afternoon. The breeze sounds through the evergreens against a sky so blue. A dusting of snow covers the high peaks and a chipmunk skitters around fallen logs. There is a peace here.