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

 

Today while washing windows, which is a very meditative activity – just ask the Karate Kid – I pondered on the fact that while people that visit us here at our home outside Custer profess to love the view we have and express envy that we live so close to nature, they never really want to venture outdoors. Yes, our view is lovely, but what drew us to this place wasn’t just that we could look at nature, we could actually experience it. However, most of our guests seem content to peer at it through the windows.

                                                                                         

I don’t expect that everyone who drops in for coffee on a Saturday morning is going to want to go for a hike, but for those who stay overnight or spend a weekend, I would think would want to at least take a walk. We live just over a mile from the Custer State Park boundary; we’re less than a mile as the crow flies from Bismarck Lake; about half a mile up the road is access to national forest land connected with the Norbeck Wildlife Preserve and Black Elk Wilderness. For some reason, it doesn’t draw our guests as I had assumed.

 

Even barring those excursions due to time constraints, there is a pond across the road from our house. If you stand at the edge of our front yard and throw a rock you can hit the water; I point this out to illustrate that it’s very close. There is an excellent view of it from our living room, but less than one in 10 people actually will walk over to it for a better look. It’s the home of ducks, geese, herons (well, their lunch spot rather than home), turtles, and frogs but few people seem to want a closer view, and no one has asked to go out in our canoe.

 

What has happened to our collective curiosity? Are we so lacking in vigor and imagination that we can’t muster the energy to go outdoors even when the opportunity presents itself? There is so much nature to enjoy, but I worry about its future if the public remains so apathetic.