Even the name is evocative of some sort of secret magic.
Peopled with children and their families daring against the cold nights, it was a colorfest for the eyes. The gurgling brook was stilled in places by knee high hand made dams. They formed a wading pond, a mirror for vain autumn trees, leaning low to admire themselves in their rustling burnt orange, brick yellow and lizard green full length dresses. The perfect reflection occasionally disturbed by a little shiny trout, breaking the glass ceiling to find her morning meal.
Last May when we camped here, it was very warm and the campground was nearly empty, which was part of the charm. I didn’t think I could be so taken with it again when the views were abbreviated by tents and bikes and campers, and the nights were freezing cold, but I tell you, I was taken in again, rising early to take a likeness with my silly iPad camera, and stepping out late to consider the jumble of comets and constellations who were trying, but failing, to orient me. No Big Dipper in this fall Southwest sky, and I’m not accustomed to looking for Pegasus, but I intend on learning soon.