In the deep fall don’t you imagine the leaves think how comfortable it will be to touch the earth instead of the nothingness of air and the endless freshets of wind? And don’t you think the trees themselves, especially those with mossy, warm caves, begin to think of the birds that will come – six, a dozen – to sleep inside their bodies? And don’t you hear the goldenrod whispering goodbye, the everlasting being crowned with the first tuffets of snow? The pond vanishes, and the white field over which the fox runs so quickly brings out its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its bellows. And at evening especially, the piled firewood shifts a little, longing to be on its way. — Mary Oliver, Song for Autumn
Autumn whispers to us through trees. For trees, naturally rooted to place, learn a thing or two in their seasons. Whole communities once thrived in places where only trees stand today. Old stone walls and cellar holes, old road beds and grooves in stone that once served as a simple mill. These things become more apparent when we act like trees and linger awhile.
Humans aren’t rooted to a place, not really, we’re too prone to wandering. In this way, we’re more like the leaves, sailing off to find our place in the wind, eventually landing and becoming a part of the place we settle into in our time. If leaves become loam and feed the forest, don’t we too feed the future in our service to others?
But there’s a restlessness in many of us. Perhaps remembering our time as leaves and longing to fly once again, a fire burns inside. Our fire, when fully expressed, may transform and carry us to places we couldn’t imagine before we fed the spark. Feed the fire, autumn whispers.
Surely, ash returns to earth just as leaves do. But how far might it soar before it turns back towards the earth? We live in days, but ought to think in seasons. Everything has its time. The earth awaits.
“I cannot endure to waste anything so precious as autumnal sunshine by staying in the house.” ― Nathaniel Hawthorne,The American Notebooks
I write this knowing what awaits me. Today is the day of reckoning for a lover of trees. For in late October we turn our eyes from the skies to the work at hand, and sweat and toil to relocate those countless, blessed fallen leaves from the yard and place them with their kin in the woods. This process will repeat itself several times before it’s done, and this writer will bow to the trees in the order of their fall; the maple and elm, hickory and oak, even the pine sheds itself of old needles. Autumn is called fall for a reason, after all, so fall they must.
My secret is a fondness for such labor. It’s a workout to be sure, but work that fills the soul, as weeding or washing dishes fills the soul when meditated upon in the moment. Our singular focus on any one thing is preciously rare in this world of sound bites and notifications. Leave the phone behind and get back to the work—and find yourself in the process.
There will be no rider mower efficiency in this work. I made the choice to walk my lawn when mowing a few years ago, and don’t regret it. There is a soreness that offers solace on a crisp October day, earned through such moments wrestling fallen leaves. If this seems wonderful to you, come celebrate with me. For there are more than enough leaves to share, and only so much autumnal sunshine to work with.
Burnt wood has bared witness to many songs sung Warmed up the hands And the hearts of the young And the old gather round Till the flames are all done Passing down their words of wisdom — Caamp, Of Love and Life
For all the beauty of October days and the march of amber and crimson southward, it’s the crispness in the air that makes the month resonate. You aren’t just seeing October—you feel it. But crisp air takes on a little bite when the sun drops below the horizon and the last glow of orange and pink fade in the clouds above. This is when we turn our eyes downward, and make our own orange glow, fed with fallen twigs and split wood and tales of days gone by and times we hope will come. October is a time for campfires and conversation.
There are no perfect days, but somehow we are able to string just enough moments together to make it feel like there is. We ought to find time outdoors with nature, to contemplate things more profoundly timeless and patient than we are. We ought to use our time for productive work that calls to us, be it writing or yard work or something that pays the bills in fair trade for our precious hours. And we ought to spend time with those who round us out and make us feel a part of something bigger than ourselves.
Gathering around a fire is nothing new, it’s been a part of human existence long enough that we might as well call it the beginning. Conversations inevitably roar with the biggest flames. But when those flames have died down the orange embers speak to you, if you listen to them. This is when conversations become hushed, and the co-conspirators of living draw upon magic. The stars above remind us that time is a uniquely human construct, something we reconcile in such moments with embers. On this spinning globe, living is seasonal. The fire transforms just as the seasons do, just as we do, and we become one with the universe.
There haven’t been a lot of hiking blog posts this year as there simply haven’t been a lot of hikes. Similarly, there haven’t been a lot of waterfall visits or posts either. Life sometimes has other plans for us. So imagine my delight when I could combine two 4000 footers with one of the highest rated waterfalls in New England. You might day we hit the trifecta, but we didn’t stop at three amazing experiences. On a spectacular October day after a day of heavy rains, we were set up for quite a day in the White Mountains.
That heavy rain factored in to where we parked and which trail head we started from. The easy button on this day was to pay the fee for parking at the Cog Railway parking lot and hiking up the Ammonoosuc Ravine Trail. This is a relatively easy trail to warm up on, until you hit the gem pool and begin a steep incline. This was a workout for this author, recently celebrating long streaks of 10,000 steps on flat land and thinking that translated into better fitness, but it was a small price to pay for the spectacular views of falling water and, once above tree line, the vistas from Mount Monroe and Mount Washington. Ironically, my Apple Watch died halfway through the hike and my streak of 10K steps “ended” on a day I did far more. Go figure.
The Ammonoosuc Ravine Trail offers plenty of opportunity to see falling water. The Gem Pool is a lovely spot with a 35 foot waterfall right on the trail and impossible to miss. Further along, there’s a side spur that features a more stunning view of a 600-700 foot cascade that was roaring on this particular day. Some blown-down trees partially blocked the spur trail but it was a small investment in time for an incredible view. Talking to one hiker as we came back to the main trail, I mentioned that it was totally worth the side trip. He politely ignored me and continued his hike up to Mount Monroe. I wondered, how many incredible moments do we miss out on when we’re so singularly focused on a goal? To use Pico Iyer’s phrase, we abdicate possibility in such moments.
The trail eventually brings you to the AMC Lakes of the Clouds Hut, closed for the season when we arrived, but offering a warm sunny spot to take a break before continuing to summit Mount Monroe. This is where serendipity stepped in, and we bumped into the two sons of a close friend as they descended from Monroe just after we’d done the same. A few minutes for either party and the encounter would never have happened. Life is full of such chance encounters when we put ourselves in a position to experience them.
The hike to Mount Washington from Mount Monroe looks relatively simple, but that’s the White Mountains for you. The reality is a hike up a boulder field one deliberate step at a time. Some trail runners make quick work of this, for me it was an opportunity to pace myself. The two sons were soon summiting Mount Washington while I took my sweet time. My hiking buddy Tom was kind enough to wait for me now and then. Getting back in hiking shape after months away from it takes a few hikes. Resuming my quest to complete the 48 4000 footers on the highest peak wasn’t reckless (Washington is relatively easy compared to some lower peaks), but it was bold.
On this particular day, the Mount Washington Observatory was celebrating its 90th birthday with tours of the weather station. This was a wonderful opportunity to see what happens behind that door, and literally top the experience off with a climb to the weather observatory itself, the highest point you can stand on in New England, and have a look around. Opportunities like that don’t come along often, and it was another moment of serendipity on this day of days.
If this all sounds like it was too good to be true, well, I still had to pay penance for the audacity of hiking two of the highest peaks in one day. That price was paid in the form of a pair of boots that weren’t up to the task, making the descent rather painful, and with some cramping in the thighs as the finish was just in sight. There were lessons learned on this day: Don’t ever go on a hike unprepared for the things you’ll put yourself through, and always have the best boots available to help finish the job. If there’s a positive lesson, and you’ve no doubt picked up on it already, it’s that putting yourself out there pays dividends in experience both challenging and inspiring. We may live a grander and more full life simply by moving towards it.
Upper Ammonoosuc Ravine FallsGem Pool, Ammonoosuc RavineMount Washington from Mount Monroe. Looks close, doesn’t it?Mount MonroeLake of the Clouds with Mount Washington rising above it all
It is the season of migrants flying at night feeling the turning earth beneath them — W. S. Merwin, Echoing Light
You feel it all happening quickly in October. The relentless, accelerating momentum of autumn. Change is quite literally in the air: Harvests and migrations, foliage and crispy air, all point to the shrinking daylight and collectively announcing that things are different now in this part of the world.
As it happens, you grasp at bits of it to attempt to lock them into your memories. It’s a lot like the last few conversations you’ll have with a loved one who doesn’t have much time left to live—each little gesture, each sentence uttered, are amplified in meaning. It’s now or never, you think. But it’s always now or never, isn’t it?
The earth is turning beneath us, moving us away from the sun. There’s something bewitching in the air, disguised in reds and oranges and yellows, and in the determined cacophony of migration above. There is enchantment in this brevity. Our days grow shorter every morning, yet it’s never felt so good to be alive.
Rafted up for a fireworks show over a dark pond, I casually watched the heavily overloaded pontoon boat next to the boat I was on tilt precariously to port. Shouts erupted and intoxicated people shifted a bit too far to starboard, more shouting and finally everyone froze in a state of fragile equilibrium. The fireworks were about to happen and damnit if everyone on that boat wasn’t going to see them. We all want to be part of the story—sometimes we come dangerously close to writing a new story in the process.
The irony of the moment wasn’t lost on me. The fireworks were in celebration of Independence Day, yet here they were so eager to be a part of the group that they nearly overwhelmed the very thing they all wanted to be a part of. A few characters jostling for better position and the danger of capsizing and thus losing everything was apparent to everyone. I don’t know if they even noticed the fireworks had started until well into the show.
We live in a world where everyone is jostling for a seat at the table. Those who hadn’t traditionally been invited to the show naturally expect their fair share. Those who traditionally had the show to themselves resent the competition for the best seats and buy into stories about scarcity and loss of identity. And Mother Earth rocks dangerously close to capsizing while we all shout at each other.
Happy Independence Day, America. Let’s be smart and look out for each other. For the world is watching and hoping for the best. Aren’t we too?
Living on a quiet wooded street near a stream for 23 years, you see all kinds of wildlife passing through. The usual animals range from turkey, rabbits, snapping turtles and deer to those a notch up on the food chain, like bobcat, coyote, fox and bear. You get to a point where you feel like you know the place and have seen it all. And then nature surprises you with something different.
Taking a walk on the cul-du-sac on a humid night after a day of rain, the sky began a light show of soft orange and yellow moving to deeper orange, pinks and reds. The street had long since dried out and most of the focus was on what was happening in the sky. But then something caught our eye. Some form of critter moving deliberately down the street in our direction. First thought was some kind of bug, but it was almost the length of a chipmunk. On further inspection, it was what I believe to be a rusty crayfish (Orconectes rusticus).
This thing had black eyes that saw us coming from twenty feet away, and it immediately curled into a defensive position. Debating what to do with it, I decided to remove it from the potential danger (the middle of the street) and move it towards the stream. A bucket and brush did the trick, and this oddity was safely off the street and probably walking through deep grass to the water by the time we finished our walk.
It was only later when researching this crayfish that I realized it was an invasive species, introduced to waterways as bait or dumped from aquariums. I cursed myself for helping it thrive in an unnatural environment, but you don’t always know what you’re working with until it’s too late. I wasn’t inclined to make jambalaya out of it, and until the moment I found out it was invasive I felt it had earned another day on this planet walking down the middle of a long street between wherever it was to where it was clearly going.
Humans deliberately and inadvertently help invasive species move into new environments. After years of the expected, this was a first in my particular environment. Maybe shellfish walking down the street is common in your neck of the woods but not so much in Southern New Hampshire. It does make me wonder, what the heck will I see walking down the street next?
Mid-March brought the turkeys back. They roost high in the white pine trees at the edge of the forest, protected from the coyotes, bobcats and other predators who long for a turkey dinner. They’re silent during the early morning hours until something disturbs them. This morning that something was me.
Coffee in hand, I walked out into the songbird chorus of pre-dawn, stood silently to let the world sink in, and caught a glimpse of motion out of the corner of my eye. Turning to greet it, I watched a single turkey glide away in the early light. Soon another one began it’s own glide from the high trees to some place further away. A few beats later another dozen flew off silently, and then the squawking began. Grumpy morning conversation about the guy with his coffee disturbing the sleep-in.
I ought to write about St. Patrick’s Day or the luck of the Irish. I ought to write about war and pandemics and the collective pain we all feel at the disruption of our lives by things out of our control. But the sight of turkey’s gliding silently through a dim, foggy morning in New Hampshire reminded me that we each leave our small ripple on the universe in our own way. Today I disturbed the roost, but they don’t seem worse for the wear.
It made me wonder, what else lies dormant, waiting to be stirred in the foggy morning?
The Omni Mount Washington Hotel was built in 1902, making it 120 years old this year. When you walk into this place, you feel the history and grandeur. It’s a time machine of sorts, bringing you back to another era. And yet it’s timeless (if a bit creaky here and there). I’d stayed here before, maybe 15 years ago. When the world seemed different. The hotel has grown since then with more than $90 million in modernizations and additions. The old heated pool is gone, replaced by a 25,000 square foot modern spa, now with a newer heated pool a longer walk away down the hill (dress accordingly).
The hotel was built by Joseph Stickney between 1900 and 1902. He died a year after it opened, but his name is still associated with the place. The hotel stayed in the family until 1944, when the hotel, closed for the war, was sold off. Having stayed here twice now, I can say the place seems to be thriving. For Omni, it’s more than just an old hotel, there’s the Bretton Woods Ski Resort, a couple of golf courses, a large nordic center and a number of other properties to manage. Unlike some owners, they’re actually improving the investment instead of milking it for all it’s worth. It’s noticeably improved in the 7 years they’ve owned it.
Any resort begins with the people who support it, and you notice a fair measure of joy in the staff working the restaurants, bars, nordic center and hotel that you don’t always see in the hospitality industry. This mix of international and local staff genuinely seem happy to be there, happy to talk to you, happy to represent the Omni Mount Washington Hotel. This set the tone for the stay, as everything seemed so… pleasant. Hard to pull that off with 800 guests staying there on the first weekend of March, when everyone was busy and the guests can be demanding.
The dining options at the hotel are more than acceptable. There are three distinct restaurants with different menus: the main dining room (which used to have a large dance floor in the middle that’s become a popular bar), Stickney’s Restaurant, and for the busy weekends, a third themed dining option in the Grand Ballroom (on our stay a Chinese food buffet with Disney movies playing for families). The food was excellent for each of the meals we had, but with a notable luxury price tag. You don’t stay and eat at an Omni without throwing down some serious cash. So staying here is either a splurge or a lifestyle choice. Reservations are required for dinner at the Main Dining Room and Stickney’s, and I’m told you ought to make those reservations well in advance. We managed a late table at Stickney’s our first night and settled for the Ballroom buffet the second night.
The bar scene is active, with all the skiers and hikers returning to celebrate the calories burned with a nightcap or three. The Cave is an old speakeasy deep in the basement that reminded us of the Cavern in Liverpool where The Beatles once played. The walls are granite and brick, and you enter through a granite tunnel. There are plenty of other places to get a drink beyond this, and we spent a couple of hours talking about life in this mad world nursing glasses of wine in the Observatory.
Naturally, there’s plenty to do besides eating and drinking. We opted to skip the skiing on our weekend and instead went snowshoeing on the groomed trails that originate at the nordic center. The trails are extensive and relatively quiet. There was just enough snow left for snowshoeing or XC-skiing, but the horse drawn sleigh rides seemed to be suspended as the snow cover in this mild winter didn’t allow it in early March.
What do you do after snowshoeing for miles? You go for a swim in the outdoor pool, of course. With the water heated to—I’m guessing—85 degrees it provided the perfect way to soak in the mild winter air with spectacular views of the White Mountains and the Presidential Range. For all the changes Omni has made, I’m glad they still offer the heated outdoor pool. It was memorable fifteen years ago in the old pool, and it surely was this time in the new one.
There’s one more thing to know about the Mount Washington Hotel, and it’s the connection to history. For the hotel was the site of the Bretton Woods Conference in 1944, when 44 Allied nations gathered at the hotel to establish the Articles of Agreement for the International Bank for Reconstruction and Development (IBRD) and the International Monetary Fund (IMF). The hotel justifiably makes a point of highlighting this history, and you can walk around the table where some key discussions happened that impact us to this day.
So there you have it. The Omni Mount Washington Hotel is a glorious destination year-round. Our winter weekend reminded us just how wonderful this place is. You’ll pay for it, but it surely is an experience worth having now and then. I hope it won’t be another fifteen years for me.
The Omni Mount Washington HotelHeated pool with Mount Washington in the backgroundSite of the Bretton Woods Conference
“The tops of mountains are among the unfinished parts of the globe, whither it is a slight insult to the gods to climb and pry into their secrets, and try their effect on our humanity. Only daring and insolent men, perchance, go there.”― Henry David Thoreau, The Maine Woods
The White Mountains of New Hampshire are my destination of choice when I seek “unfinished parts of the globe” close to home. Lately I haven’t summited many mountains, what with life and all. But I still seek them out and hope for more time to pry into their secrets.
I took the easy route for the sunrise picture below, standing beside a large window at the Mount Washington Hotel and immersed in Victorian elegance while looking out at the Presidential Range. Opting for the quick picture instead of hiking up to greet them in person might seem like cheating. Not very daring or insolent at all, really. But then again, the picture wasn’t going to wait for me to exit the building, let alone climb a trail. And so here it is, reflections and all, to remind me that there are mountains still to climb. Should we dare to go there.
