And Just Like That, the Leaves Are Gone

The possibility for magic; an Atticus memory

Good morning, from a chilly Jackson, where we may see a faint fall of wispy snowflakes during our morning miles. Nothing charges the late autumn air quite like the possibility of snow, even if it will melt within minutes.

Add it to these ghostly woods, that have quickly lost nearly all the remaining leaves, which we shared with you in a postcard post this week. That happened to be our last day of much color.

Ann of Green Gables marveled that we are lucky to live in a world where there are Octobers. Those of us in regions of audacious autumn foliage displays agree. But my favorite month here has always been November.

The decedent potpourri of decay fills the forest air. Where leaves had crunched underfoot a week ago, they have grown soft and no longer smell crisp, but sweet. Treetops are bare, and we walk beneath bony limbs stretching to reach the skies for the first time since early spring.

Oh, how we love the sprout of new leaves, anticipate their colorful death, and then cherish the first stretch of their disappearance.

Before development became as constant in the Mount Washington Valley, these were the weeks when we glimpsed wildlife on our trail treks more than any other. Bears sauntering, full-rumped, deer nearly floating gently among silvery trees, the possibility of the advancing crush and crash of branches as a moose with massive antlers moves among bright birch trees.

In our more heavy hiking years, we loved nighttime outings. Powerful headlamps washed the skeletal forest with light. Without dense green brush to hide behind, eyes sparkled as they studied us.

My favorite moose story occurred late one night in deep snow in the saddle between Jackson’s twin peaks, North and South Doublehead. It was the night of one of our super moons, and it was quite frozen. Daytime hikers had left a waist-deep trough with their snowshoes. It was hard-packed, but I still wore mine to keep the integrity of what they’d worked to create.

Atticus’s Muttluks padded along, their gentle slap, slap, slap on firm snow. On either side, snow towered over the “Little Giant.” He moved happily through this snowy canyon while I followed.

We’d just come from South Doublehead and were deep in the saddle, headed for the peak of North Doublehead. It was ten at night, and the glow of the super moon was so brilliant that I turned off my headlamp as we walked.

There was Atti’s gentle footfalls as he trundled along, followed by the louder slap of my snowshoes.

Just ahead of us, a moose was walking in the opposite direction. He had an enormous rack, which would soon fall in that winter.

Now, moose don’t have the best eyesight, and in comparison to this massive fellow approaching us, Atticus was so tiny. I clicked my headlamp on so the moose could see us.