Today I ran six miles on the Mickelson Trail, and it was a glorious day despite what many people perhaps thought about the cloudy, damp weather. The trail north of Custer is quite sheltered from the wind with an abundance of aspen trees alongside it, all dropping their golden leaves. Running with the aspens tall and white beside the trail and the leaves drifting down, it was like running through a Robert Frost poem.

                                                                                       

The leaves were damp from last night’s rain; I could smell the quintessential aroma of autumn, fallen leaves. It’s hard to conjure that smell in April or July, but come October, one whiff and you know what season it is. Add the faintest touch of wood smoke, and you have perfection.

 

What is it about fall that’s so nostalgic? The smell or sound of fallen leaves triggers a sensory memory for many people; just as much as evergreens at Christmas or fresh grass in spring. Fall can be depressing for people who always want sunshine and 70 degrees – but they can always move to Florida. Fall can be invigorating, but not if you spend every moment of every day indoors (and no, walking from the car to the front door does not count). Raking leaves, gathering pine cones, and filling bird feeders are all activities that you can do outdoors in the fall. Experiencing the change of seasons is one of the gifts of living here.

 

October

O hushed October morning mild,

Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;

Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,

Should waste them all.

The crows above the forest call;

Tomorrow they may form and go.

O hushed October morning mild,

Begin the hours of this day slow.

Make the day seem to us less brief.

Hearts not averse to being beguiled,

Beguile us in the way you know.

Release one leaf at break of day;

At noon release another leaf;

One from our trees, one far away.

Retard the sun with gentle mist;

Enchant the land with amethyst.

Slow, slow!

For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,

Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,

Whose clustered fruit must else be lost –

For the grapes’ sake along the wall.

            By Robert Frost