Returning to a place

“I’ve read that because of the drought and unseasonably warm temperatures, the fall foliage could be muted this year,” my friend said on a recent day hike.

That certainly seemed to be the case during our annual visit to Ricketts Glen State Park just days before. Although many of the leaves of the deciduous trees remained green, the foliage on most of the maples had turned a rusty brown; absent were the vibrant scarlets and vermillions we remembered from other autumns.

The lake was low as well, likely from the summer drought. The falls along Kitchen Creek, usually spectacular rushing cataracts, had turned to mere trickles over the shale rock formations. A few water striders darted about on the surfaces of shallow pools. Only the sky overhead remained a faultless blue.

I heard a couple of duck calls at eventide, but we saw none on the lake. Once, while sitting by the late afternoon campfire, I caught sight of the white triangular tail of a hawk as it disappeared through the trees. Only the chipmunks were out in force, chasing one another about the campsite. One made a hesitant approach to beg some crumbs, then scurried across the porch of our cabin to hide among the rocks.

Chickadees piped in the early mornings, and twice we noticed flocks of blackbirds rooting among the branches and leaves in the forest thickets.

Overnight the stars shone brightly, much more so than here at home.  We tagged Orion and his dogs, Taurus, the Seven Sisters, Castor and Pollux, Ursa Major and Minor, Cepheus and Cassiopeia. We rcalled the recent photos of Saturn’s rings and moons sent back across the solar system by Cassini before it plunged into the planet.

This morning I read that the fall foliage is supposed to be spectacular. Perhaps this year we had ventured into the wilds too early, I thought.

But no matter the color of her smock, nature still heals.

Sunrise, Lake Jean, 2017 © Thomas A. Doty

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