UPROAD, DOWNSTREAM

Have you ever wondered whether it's some sort of cosmic joke that busy Mondays are often the prettiest days of the week?

It certainly seemed that way to me today, as I've necessarily spent practically all of it either at the desk or running errands…and of course, the weather was simply gorgeous. A couples of hours ago, however—between trips to the post office, library, and grocery—I grabbed the camera and spent a few minutes making photos. Man does not live by responsibility alone…

What drove me over the edge, or in this case, compelled me into a brief photo binge, was nothing more than a couple of views—but oh, my, what views! Spectacular even by autumn-dress standards, though I admit I may be a bit prejudiced.

The first view is of my road, about 500 yards from the cottage. My section, being on the dead-end portion, is paved but narrower, and lacks even a hint of a center divider line or guardrails along the top of the bank overlooking the river. It's also less traveled, and equally wooded. Alas, while there are plenty of leaves hereabouts, most are yellowish-brown or brownish yellow…except for those still green, or greenish-yellowish-brownish. The reason being there are lots of sycamores, hackberries, and boxelders along here, but precious few maples.

On the other hand, the second view is of the river looking immediately downstream from the cottage, which is pretty much a mix of the same three species of trees. Yup, those yellowish-brownish-greenish leaves look mighty lovely given a bit of warm evening light. Or maybe it just my prejudice showing.

Enjoy the views!

WAITING AND WATCHING

When I stepped outside this morning, it was chilly and damp, the sky thick with clouds and a feeling of rain in the air. Yet when I walked around the cottage and glanced at the sky, a barely waning Harvest Moon was just setting into the trees…and for a moment I thought the predicted rain might not materialize.

The river was quite in the dim light, even in the riffle—though maybe I'm so used to its murmur that I failed to hear it whispering over the rocks. Fog hung above the pools and swirled in the shadows. The bankside vegetation still looked mostly green, though now with a yellowish cast, as if summer's dose of chlorophyll in leaves and stems had finally gotten the message to cease and desist, and allow autumn to don its own warm hues.

From upstream came the honking of approaching geese—not migratory birds, but rather a few of the Canadas who often spend the night on one of the nearby ponds. The big birds passed directly overhead…and as I watched them cleave the air just above the tall sycamores, I noticed the sky had again been hidden behind a mottled scrim of clouds and fog.

I'd intended on making a foray afield to check on the seasonal progress and do a bit of photography at several locations a short drive from the cottage. The soft, flat light of such a day is especially good for photographing autumn leaf color, though I realize that may sound counterintuitive. Here along the river, there are practically no reds at the moment—not even on the usually blazing sumac or Virginia creeper; their leaves are either still green, or else sport various shades of yellow and orange.

I had to look long and hard to find anything red—and even those few I located were muted and not anything to compare with a showy swamp maple. Frankly, I'm not sure if it's just a slow season hereabouts for the bright colors to materialize with their knockout hues, or if if it's simply going to turn into one of those ho-hum years in which the show fizzles before it really begins. Only time will tell…

I was watching a handful of brown boxelder leaves drift slowly downstream when the first of the rain began. A drip here, a patter or two there, then a cold wet drop on the end of my nose. The thought of a cheery hearthfire sounded like a fine alternative for waiting out the morning and seeing what options the afternoon might deliver.

You can't hurry autumn any more than you can spring. The leaves will turn in their own time, just as the violets ignore all our advice and pleading as to when to bloom. Mankind, for all his bluster and meddling, has yet to tell a goose that it's time to head south, or a swamp maple that now's the moment to put on its bright scarlet cloak. The hummingbirds are long gone without our council. The groundhog has prepared his winter den and is busily fattening up for the season of cold he knows in his bones will soon enough arrive…and never once though of confirming this notion with anyone.

I like that. It gives me great comfort to know I'm not in charge—but merely allowed to stand and look…and marvel at all I witness.

A BIT OF SEASONAL COLOR

There's always a bit of color to be found…

Even if autumn is only a few days old, according to the calendar, and arrived on a day which hit an unseasonably warm 82 degrees.

Even if, once the seasonal changeover was complete, it clouded up and cooled off almost immediately, as if on cue, began sprinkling a day after that, and continued sprinkling, off and on, for the next three days.

Even if it was still sprinkling when I woke up at 4:37 a.m. this morning, and through the opened bedroom window, could hear water pattering from the eaves as well as the steady, underlying hum of the river finding it way over and around rocks in the riffle a hundred feet beyond.

No doubt a bit of color could certainly be found…rain or not.

So I lay in bed until my usual getting-up time, listening to sounds of rain and river—then arose, made coffee and breakfast, and watched as a late and reluctant dawn eventually did its best to shed some light on the situation. Moon the dog went to the door and nose-bumped the small set of wind chimes which hang from the knob—her way of signaling to be let outside. I opened the door for her, took a moment to exchange coffee cup for a camera, and followed.

It was still sprinkling. Yet in spite of recent rains, the river was clear and low. The ducks were in the pool upstream from the cottage, heads underwater, tails pointed toward the thick, gray sky. What's a little rain to a duck? In the sycamores on the nearby island, I could see dark shapes amid the wet green leaves; the turkey vultures were still huddled on their roost, waiting for the rain to cease before flying off in search of the day's first meal.

Buzzards aren't big on rain…and neither is Moon the dog. She'll stay out in anything short of a downpour long enough to do whatever has to be done, but not a moment longer. Even if the rain is light. I'd have to be ready to towel her off and wipe her muddy paws if I didn't want a mess in the house. So if I wanted to find a quick fix of autumnal color, I had to hurry.

My first quick tour along the bank revealed nothing. The Virginia creeper was still green. A few leaves on the sycamores were brown, while only a handful on the box elder were an uninspiring rusty yellow. Not what I was looking for.

Moon had completed her duties. Now, head lowered, tail down, and ears stuck out, she was heading for the open front door. I whistled at her and she paused momentarily in her suffering to fix me with a withering look, which said…I know what you're trying to do and I'm not hanging around.

I threatened her. "Don't you dare step inside until I've cleaned you off."

She turned disdainfully and continued walking—but paused on the deck, rump aimed my way, having seemingly developed a sudden interest in staring at the river. A dog's way of saying…I'll give you a couple of minutes and stand here under the overhang out of the rain—but keep in mind the deck is wet, I can't sit down, and I'm not going to wait forever.

I hurriedly checked along the edge of the graveled drive. Ahh-h-h, just what I was looking for, what I knew had to be out here somewhere close—that bit of seasonal color. I made a quick photo. Then I looked up. Moon was nowhere to be seen .

Intimidation can only get you so far with a dog who knows you.