When I was in my twenties I worked what seemed like an endless string of seasonal jobs with various government agencies that saw me laid off in the Autumn with money in my pockets. Thus began a lifelong custom of running around in the woods in the Fall. Backpacking, fishing, travel, big mountains and rivers, bottles and other things passed around campfires on the first cold nights: the ceremonial and often raucous wake for the recently expired Summer.
The early trips were to New England, then the Northern Rockies, lately the Adirondacks. There have been a few one-time-only locations too, but mostly I’ve flown North in the Fall. I seem to need the sting of the first cold nights, the fire of the Maple leaves, and especially the sweet smell of Balsam and Spruce. I have had a long string of companions on these trips, fell in with others along the way, and have done some of them solo. I’ve been gone on some of them as long as a month. Since I’ve been employed year-round (something that thankfully didn’t happen to me until I was in my thirties) these trips have also given me one of my most pleasurable annual exchanges with management.
I explain to them that in my absence, should they require my advice or assistance with absolutely anything, at any time, I’d be happy to oblige. The only caveat is this: Since I won’t be anywhere with cell service, you’ll have to find me. Start by asking around in the bars in, say, Pinedale Wyoming, Gardiner Montana, or Saranac New York.
Good luck with that.
By now this annual hajj is instinctual. In August I start to become restless without clearly knowing why. The next thing you know, my living room is littered with books and maps. The pulse of my year is most palpable as Fall begins, and is best taken along a steep brook or on a trail in the forest.
Right now I’m waiting out a storm in a hotel somewhere in the Adirondacks. More photos and observations to follow…
