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by D. J. Herda It is nearly the middle of April as I sit behind my desk, pounding out these words. That means that it is nearly spring. And, while I gaze upon the weather map and note places with high temperatures barely approaching abominable, I can’t help but think about what a perfect time it is to be living and writing here in southwestern Utah’s high desert plateau country. Here, springtime means cool western breezes, Ralph Lauren cashmere sweaters, warm nurturing sunshine, and thunderstorms out of nowhere. It means green grass and red tulips. It means the forsythia are in bloom, and the redbud trees are beginning to show their leaves. The girls are all wearing short skirts and tight tops—sweaters or otherwise—and walking along briskly, kicking themselves for rushing the season but anxious, nonetheless, to show off what they’ve been working so hard to maintain over the past six months. Of course, the lowlands of Utah are hardly the most perfect place on earth for a writer to enjoy spring. They are far from comparable to springtime in the Colorado Rockies, for example, which I was privy to enjoy for the better part of a decade a few years ago. In Steamboat Springs, where I spent a lifetime one year, the season is marked by hot dry sun-drenched days followed by bone-chilling star-filled nights. Springtime in the Rockies means a sense of rebirth and a feeling of renewal. It means an easing of the way between the bitter cold of winter and the hot dry summer heat. It also means mud season. As the sun climbs higher into the afternoon sky with each passing day, its strengthening rays melt the snow off the mountain and send the runoff racing down toward the town and the Yampa River running through the valley. Besides turning the river—a gently rolling trout stream barely worthy of the name for most of the year—into a raging torrent, it turns every square inch of real estate from hardened clay into a slick, gooey, slimey mess. Cars descending from gravel driveways carry the muck onto the highways, where the wheels from the vehicle ahead of you kick it up onto your windshield just as you’re reaching to change the CD in the player. Plumbers drag it in from the yard onto your freshly cleaned carpet as they head for the bathroom, snake in hand and dollar signs in eyes. Dogs and cats come limping home caked in the bloody stuff and wreaking of old worm castings. But it’s worth it. It’s worth it, too, after working hard on that new novel all week long before getting dressed to the gills on Friday night, hopping in the car, and heading on over to your favorite restaurant for a well-earned repast of Rocky Mountain trout almandine with praline sauce and angel-hair pasta, all finished off by a chilled glass of Pinot Grigio. Or it is, at least, until you arrive at the front door and find the ubiquitous sign posted there: “Closed for Mud Season.” At which you shrug, hop back in the car, and head downtown to your favorite country and western bar for a burger and a beer and find, in its place, the same sign. An hour later, disgruntled, stomach rumbling, and cranky as all get out, you return home, break out the saltines, and open a can of tuna, secure in the thought that, although the entire town closes up each spring (no tourists in mud season means no reason to stay open…well, duh!), in four to six weeks, the town will reawaken from its snooze and things will again switch into high gear. So you content yourself with late-night TV and an early trip to bed. The next morning, you awaken to spend most of Saturday planting tomatoes and peppers and lettuce and cabbage, followed by another late night of TV and another early turn-in before Sunday morning arrives and you go out to the garden and begin pulling up the plants that froze the night before. Undeterred, you hop into the car and head down the valley toward the outfitter’s shop to rent a kayak for a Sunday-afternoon spin down the Yampa, only to find the outfitter is closed because the river is too dangerous to navigate. It’s too dangerous to fish, as well, so you give up all thoughts of dusting off your rod and reel. So, you drive around the valley for a few hours, marveling at just how much mud one mountain can generate, and return home to reheat some week-old spaghetti, plop down for another fun-filled evening of late-night TV, and awaken on Monday with a new plan for the duration. This spring, you tell yourself, things are going to be different. This spring, unlike every other spring you have ever spent in the mountains, you’re going to get in your car and drive somewhere where they’ve never heard of raging rivers and melting snow and mud. This spring, you tell yourself, you’re going to escape the eternal Season of Mud to the high desert plateau of the southwestern U.S., if only for a week or two. I understand Utah is nice this time of year. And I…am D. J. Herda. # # #
D. J. Herda is President of the American Society of
Authors and Writers (http://amsaw.org),
an organization made up of authors, writers, editors, publishers, agents,
directors, producers, and other media professionals who rely upon the printed
word in the creation of quality literature and entertainment. He is
a member of the Author's Guild, a former member of the American Society of
Journalists and Authors, and a former member of the National Press Club.
He has published more than 80 books and several hundred thousand articles,
short stories, columns, interviews, plays, and scripts. |
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