On the soft early mornings of summer, my husband and I like to hike through a nearby natural area. We hop out of the bed we love so much in the wintertime, toss on shorts, t-shirts and Tevas, grab the dog leash off the doorknob, and we’re off: a little more than a mile to the gate, a couple miles on the trail, a mile and a half back from the other end. Walking steadily, the circuit takes about an hour and a half. If the dog wanders and we find interesting flora and fauna, or if we have something weighty to discuss, sometimes it’s a couple hours. Sometimes we meet people we know and we all walk downtown for breakfast. At the height of the summer, we can do all that and still make it to work on time. It feels like a good way to anchor our lives in the real world.

Right now the real world is supposed to be warm and green, but I'm still waiting.

 Summer is supposed to look like this, and it does - in a few places. 

Our historic last frost date is June 19. All that means, really, is that over the past 130 years or so, June 19 was the latest recorded frost (which is separate from, and earlier than, the latest recorded snow, which in turn is almost indistinguishable from the earliest recorded snow). Although we’re usually safe after mid-May if we cover the tomatoes on a few iffy nights, our tradition is not to plant our garden until after Father’s Day. 

Which was Sunday.

June 19.

As a result, the plants we’d nurtured since early spring were still on the sleeping porch, hardening off in the cool air through the open windows, when an unforecast night wind blew away the cloud cover and dropped the temperature to 21.

On June 20.

On the sleeping porch.

My spouse was moderately hopeful but recognized that I was not. “I think,” I said, “that this is all going to be really limp as soon as it thaws out.” He waggled his eyebrows and we ran upstairs to dive back into our warm bed. Later we’d dump that whole iteration of the garden into the compost pile.

This morning, we were back on the trail, although I was wearing capris and a fleece and my Teva’d toes were slightly blue. We wanted to greet the sun on this solstice, the longest day of the year — only a second longer than yesterday, though, and the sun actually rose later than it has been. With jagged mountain peaks to the east, a tiny tilt of the earth can make a difference of hundreds of feet of elevation to block the rising sun. Starting today, we tilt back toward a valley and the days will grow longer for a while. Go figure. I hope they grow warmer as well.

This morning was cold, somewhere in the mid 30s, so my feet weren’t very nimble when I had to execute the peculiar stutter-step/leap that people who live in snake country know so well. The snake on the path was cold too, and barely bothered to jiggle his rattles, more a pfft than a bzzt. I leapt over it; it went back to sleep. The dog didn't even bother to woof.

Then things grew better. 

 This little fox was just waking up. 

The bobcat kept its eyes on us but didn't bother to get up. (Sorry he's a little blurry. My fingers were cold. He was in the sun; I was not, and he didn't seem willing to move over and share the warm rock with me.)

The Steller's jay was not thrilled to be awakened. It managed to look half-asleep and mean at the same time. This is the way I feel. I want my warm bed.

Back home, we've returned to square 1 on the garden. If we're lucky, we might harvest tomatoes the size of Walter's. That's the price we pay for living in one of the most beautiful places in the world, where we can walk to all this every morning. But wow, is it too much to ask that spring arrive before the world starts tilting back toward winter?

Happy summer, those of you who get one!