Story: Autumn Daydreams

My friend Skutch, the New Englander turned Florida surf-bum looked a bit forelorn as he sipped his beer at our favorite tiki bar.

"Why the long face?" I asked.

"I get homesick this time 'o year," he answered. "By Octobah I've had it with six months 'o summah and maybe a hurricane or two."

"Well, the next one's on me," I said, hoping to soothe Skutch's homesickness. "Take a sip there and tell me what it's like up where you come from this time of year."

"Oh, Vern, I wish you could see it...Say, maybe we oughta hop a plane and go up there!" Skutch says, his disposition brightening. "Yeah, we'll fly up to Portland -- Portland, Maine!"

With chamber of commerce vigor, Skutch describes how Portland has retained the flavor of a rugged seaport while evolving into a vibrant, modern city. This symbiotic blend of old and new is owed to Portland's efforts to preserve their working waterfront. Rather than allow the harbor area to become seedy and gritty, Portlanders have made it the heart of their city.

"We'll rent us a car and head out on 302...," Skutch goes on.

Highway 302 leads westward out of Portland straight into rural New England. Wooded hillsides and sloping meadows painted every shade of yellow, orange, and red, flank this contry road until the cobalt blue expanse of Sebago Lake fills the windshield. The village of Naples, staddling the Songo Locks and the waterway that once linked the Lake Country with the Atlantic, is preparing for hibernation by mid October. Despite the approaching dormancy the little town demands we stop and stroll along the causeway. The vista of reddening hillsides, reflected upon the mirror surface of Sebago Lake is not exagerated by use of the word, "breathtaking."

Past Naples the hills steepen and 302 begins to wind in response. The scarlet dappled woodlots are disected by stone walls that evoke the memory of a certain Robert Frost poem memorized in a long-ago American-lit class. The farm and forest landscape is puctuated by little towns, most still boasting a Grange Hall, a statue of an un-named Union soldier, and a white steepled church. Somewhere amid this colorful daydream, Maine gives way to New Hampshire.

"Ah, New Hampshire - no bettah place to be in Octobah!" Skutch declares as he orders another round.

The White Mountains National Forest encompasses the majestic Presidential Range of the Northern Appalachians, including Mount Washington. If "breathtaking" adequately described the hills around Sebago Lake, then a word has not yet been crafted that befits the White Mountains in autumn. The panoramas, each more amazing that the last, unfold as 302 snakes deeper into the Mount Washington Valley. The rugged mountains sweep down to farmland where roadside stands packed with red apples and bright orange pumpkins speak of the season as loudly as the flaming foliage on the hillsides.

"We'll take route 16A at North Conway - right up to Jackson...," Skutch announces as he maps out his fantasy, fall roadtrip.

Nestled in the steep valley of the Ellis River, Jackson seems plucked directly from a Currier and Ives lithograph. A perfectly restored covered bridge marks the entrance to this enchanted village where life still revolves around the post office, grammar school, and general store. Cozy New England inns repleate fireplaces and hearty breakfasts look down from the surrounding slopes. The fact that Halloween is near has nothing to do with the fact that Tuesday is "Hoot Night" at the Wildcat Tavern in Jackson. This weekly, open-mike, amature talent show is a long standing tradition that should not be missed.

Route 16 climbs out of Jackson toward Pinkham Notch, originating point of the fabled Mount Washington Auto Road. Predating the automobile, this legendary road was seen as the perfect proving ground by early car makers beginning with Freelan Stanley, who demonstrated his steam powered "locomobile" here in 1899. Mount Washington herself is known for harsh weather: The highest wind ever recorded at the earth's surface for example, 231 MPH on April 12, 1934, and an annual average snowfall of 256 inches!

"Pack yer hikin' boots, Buddy. After we drive the auto road we're hittin' the trails...," Skutch says.

Driving through the mountains and valleys in autumn is indeed a grand experiece, but Skutch is right, to fully experiece the season, you need to literally get your feet on the ground. Twelve hundred miles of hiking trails, including the famous Appalachian Trail, course through the White Mountains. Here, out in nature, the sensual intrigue of these few weeks, situated just prior to the onset of winter, becomes clear. Deep in the kaleidoscope of the autumnal forest the manmade world fades, allowing the senses to become acute. Fall becomes more than blazing vistas and pumpkin pie. It is the crunch of fallen leaves underfoot, the whiff of wood smoke drifiting up from a farmhouse in the distant valley, and the notion that a faintly discerable shift in the angle of the sun has awakened a dormant, primal instict that tells us to savor every moment of this magical, fleeting season.