Sitting with the Ghost of Robert Frost

We rose before dawn, made our way to a little-known forest path by the river where the hunters never go, and eased our way into this troubled world. How strange it was to see daybreak but have only a white sky. This is how tragic and wide-sweeping the fires out west are. Smoke is traveling 3,000 miles in this strangest of years. I can only imagine what it is like in the western skies.

Unlike out west, the breathing is still easy here. This morning was cold and crisp, like an October apple. I wore a hat and gloves, and my fingers were still cold. This is the result of the hundreds of winter peaks Atticus and I traversed years ago.

I ran hot in those years, often hiking without jacket, hat or gloves, even when the temperature was below zero. Of course I was bigger then and had more insulation. Now, though, my fingers remind me of a my bouts with frost bite.

We were out so early today that after our walk we took the drive up through Crawford Notch to the Littleton Co-Op. We get there every…