Autumn glory

(Mirror reflections on the Kunjamuk)

I have been nearly in a swoon for the past month over the gorgeous fall foliage this year.  Granted, I always think the trees are beautiful, despite what people say about this or that year being not as nice as another, but this year is stupendous.  I hope you have been able to get out to see the display!



While Bill attended a conference in Orlando, I spent a few days in late September and early October on day outings in the Adirondacks with friends. Karen took me to Speculator to kayak the Kunjamuk River. I almost never carry my camera in my boat, for fear of getting it wet, but I'm sure glad I did this time.  I was in complete awe at every bend of the river. 

(Karen is dwarfed by a brilliant overhanging maple)

Can you see Karen under the arch of this gorgeous maple?   Despite floating aimlessly at times to view the scenery and take pictures, we covered quite a few miles.  We had hoped to get to Elm Lake, but ten beaver dams used up a lot of our time and energy. We were able to stay in our boats and push ourselves through four of them, but we had to get out and climb over six dams hauling our boats behind us.  Apparently, the beaver population is booming in the Adirondack wilderness!

(Buttermilk Falls in Long Lake)

On October first, I took my elderly parents for, what I called, My Grand Boyle Adirondack Fall Foliage Tour. I knew they would love riding through the Adirondacks to places they used to visit.  We stopped at Sarah's Cafe in North Creek for coffee and a bun, visited friends in Indian Lake, walked the short distance into Buttermilk Falls in Long Lake, had lunch at the Adirondack Hotel with a view of the water after walking the causeway in Long Lake Village, came back along Indian Lake, and returned to their Saratoga home by way of the Lake Desolation Road.

(one of our favorite campsites at Indian Lake turns golden)

The gray macadam of route 30 literally felt like a thin line parting two walls of red, orange, and yellow, highlighted by dark spruce green.  My mother, father, and I were a tree-crazy trio.  We could barely hold a conversation, because every sentence was punctuated with "did you see that red tree over there?" and "it is sooo gorgeous!"  We decided that, if one of us missed a sight on one side of the road, there was always an equally glorious sight on the other.  Our heads swiveled.

(fallen leaves on a campground path at Indian Lake)

One time, a number of years ago, Bill and I were in Colorado, visiting the high-elevation town of Nederland.  A snow storm of a few days prior melted quickly in the strong sun.  The woman in the visitor's center told me how Colorado's brilliant blue sky always came out after a storm, unlike in the east where gray clouds might hover for days.  Then she said, "You should come here in the fall.  The aspen is beautiful."  I said, "I'm sure it's really pretty," and then added, with a smile, "but I come from the Northeast."  Need anyone say more? You wouldn't catch me leaving this area in late September and into October! 

(Lake Desolation)

My friend, Linda, said that she would like to go to Merck Forest.  Merck Forest is dedicated to teaching sustainable agriculture and forestry.  At 3100 acres, it also has lots of hiking trails.  "My foot is a little sore," Linda said, "so maybe we won't hike Mount Antone this time."  That was fine.  Merck Forest has great variety, all appealing.

(Merck Forest, Rupert, Vermont)

We drove through bucolic Washington County in peak foliage and into Vermont, entering Merck Forest's  maple-lined driveway.  Yellow and red leaves glittered in the bright sunshine, but when we got out of the car and began to walk towards the farm, blasts of chilly wind hit us in the face.  "I need to warm up," Linda said. "Let's hike the mountain," and we set off at a brisk pace.

When we reached the summit and saw miles of rolling hills and mountains below in dappled shades of color, we were glad we hadn't missed this. I have been visiting Merck Forest since childhood, and don't remember ever seeing as far as we could on this day with its clear cold atmosphere.  In addition, we were plenty warm, and Linda said that her foot held up fine. 

(view from the summit of Mount Antone at Merck Forest)

My Tuesday trips of 35 miles, to see my parents, give me a chance to watch the progress of fall color as it spread throughout the Capital Region.  Huge swaths of trees along the Northway glowed in red and gold by the 10th of October. Peak foliage was now close to home.

Sunday's forecast was for a high of 60 degrees and sunny. Bill was ready for a fall outing. We debated where we should get doughnuts.  Should we head east and try the new Cider Belly shop, highly advertised, in downtown Albany, and then continue on to Grafton for a walk around the lake?  Or go southwest, stopping at Indian Ladder Farms for doughnuts and hike a few trails at Thacher Park?  Despite all the good press, I was skeptical of Cider Belly and figured Indian Ladder was a sure bet for good cider doughnuts.  We decided to go southwest.

(Albany County from High Point at Thacher Park)

Indian Ladder Farms has the best cider doughnuts in the area (barring my home made ones!).  Half of the Capital District appeared to agree; the place was mobbed.  We wove our way through the crowd. However, the farm's well-orchestrated and friendly staff made the process of getting doughnuts and cider easy.  Outside, we found a picnic table and had no trouble demolishing our purchase!

Fortified for a walk, we drove up to Thacher Park.  Lots of families were here too, but the park has plenty of room for everyone, and, anyway, I like to see people enjoying the outdoors on a beautiful day.  We continued through the main park area to Thacher North.  Only a couple of cars were in the parking lot.  Scuffling in the leaves and smelling the fall aromas, we hiked the Fred Schroeder Trail to High Point Cliff, making a pleasant three-mile loop.

Again the atmosphere was crystal clear, the view gorgeous, and the colors a mix of bright oranges, yellows and reds with dark green for contrast.  

(Bill walks through a path of gold at Thacher North)

With peak color blazing in the Capital Region, Karen suggested that we take a final paddle for the season and go to nearby Kayaderosseras Creek. We called long time outings leader and friend, Charlie, to guide us, help us spot cars, and to add his pleasant company to our trip.  Charlie had been on the Kayaderosseras in all seasons over many years, and was familiar with every part of the calm gently-flowing creek. Besides the Kayaderosseras itself, we added a side trip to Lake Lonely, and eventually paddled into the exciting swells of Saratoga Lake, ending at the entrance to Fish Creek where one of the cars was parked.

As we parted to drive home, Karen and Charlie were already brainstorming adventures for next year.  It is never too soon to think ahead!

(Virginia paddling on the stream leading to Lake Lonely)

Now, in mid-October, I can see oranges and reds from my back porch, and throughout my neighborhood.  Fall foliage is going by in the north country, but I am stunned by the brilliant color right here at home. I'm still saying "Look at the tree over there!  Isn't it gorgeous?"  My head will be swiveling for another week or so, and I'll continue talking about this year's beautiful fall for a couple of weeks after that.

One of these days, I'll go for a neighborhood walk and pick up some leaves to iron between waxed paper.  The pressed leaves will hang in the kitchen window well into November as a reminder of October's glory. After that, I'll be ready to move into the next season, as winter brings a new beauty.

(it's a beautiful day in the neighborhood)

Tuesdays with Pop

(my father, Irv Boyle, at the Hennig Preserve)

I have hiked with my father since childhood, but, recently, we have had a fall schedule. Fall Tuesdays are the days my mother takes a class at Skidmore.  In the past couple of years, my father's Alzheimer's has progressed to the point where she is afraid to leave him home alone for long.












When each fall season begins, I am ambivalent about  being locked into a rigid commitment, but as the weeks progress, I realize that I am getting the best of this deal.  Not only do I get quality time with my father whose lucidity increases on the trail, but I am out there, in the woods, on gorgeous fall days. I also know, more than ever, that our hiking days are limited.

I began this season with a trip to the Hennig Preserve. In the town of Providence, between Saratoga Springs and Galway, the Hennig Preserve is not far from my parents' home.  This past summer, Saratoga P.L.A.N. (Preserving Land and Nature) opened new trails on the south side of the 800-acre preserve.  I knew my father would love the variety offered by this area.                  

(trails are beautifully created and maintained by Saratoga P.L.A.N.)

We passed stone walls deep in the woods, and the remains of an old mill on the creek.

My father said, "This was a good idea, Virginia."  And in the next breath, he asked, "Does El know where we are?  When she comes home, will she know I'm out with you?"  I assured him that my mother knew where we were.










I was concerned that the trail went slightly down hill and that we would have to return on an upgrade, but my father told me that he thought it would be fine.  "Coming here was a good idea, Virginia.  What made you think of this?"  I told him that I had led an ADK (Adirondack Mountain Club) hike here a couple of months before and had checked out the trail.  I knew he would like it.  "Does El know where we are?  Does she know I'm out with you?" he asked.



Even though the south side was new to him, my father remembered having been on the north side trails.  "I skied here many times."  Then we talked about the Hennigs and how they had accumulated this acreage and had chosen to donate it as a land trust. "Coming here today was a good idea, Virginia."

(my father and I thought the tall fir trees made a nice backdrop to this autumnal scene)

It was a good idea.  With the fall foliage coming on, temperatures in the 50s, and a clear blue sky, I couldn't think of any place I'd rather be.

After about a mile and a half, we picked a "turn-around" spot across from a large beaver pond.  We sat on a fallen log under a huge pine tree.  The aroma of evergreens filled the air and the sounds of trickling water going over the beaver dam broke the silence.

"This has looked just like this for hundreds of years," my father mused.  "Think of all the people who would have seen this place just like we are...Indians, early settlers...and all the things that have happened in the world since, and this is still the same."

(beavers worked hard to make this dam and pond)

In fact, we had just passed old house and mill foundations, the remains of a cistern, and stone walls.  A hundred or more years ago, this was a very active settled area.  We talked again about the Hennigs donating the land, then turned, and headed back.

Driving slowly along the dirt road, we noticed a few vehicles parked on the opposite side.  "It's Tuesday," I said, "that's the day they work on the trails."  A petite older woman, head bent down, strolled along the roadside.

"That's, that's--," my father exclaimed, his face bright.  "Barbara Hennig," I said, finishing his sentence.  I turned the car around and pulled up near her.  This was surely the icing on the cake.  We both got out of the car and my father and Barbara had a joyful reunion, while I explained where we had just hiked. My father thanked her over and over for her part in donating this land.

According to my mother, he talked about this outing for days.

The next week was drizzly.  I needed a plan and decided to take my father out to the new Mountainman store at Stafford's Bridge on Fish Creek near Saratoga Lake.  He was in awe of all the kayaks and gear.  "What an inventory!" he exclaimed.  A young man, working in the shop, told us that this was the last day they would be open until Spring.  "Well, I'll be back in the Spring," my father said.  "I need a lighter kayak.  I'm having trouble getting my kayak on the car."

The rain stopped.  We had sandwiches with us that my mother had made, in case we were able to hike and have a "trail lunch."  I drove us to the Spa where we ate them in the parking lot.

My father has a route that he likes to walk at the Spa (Saratoga Spa State Park).  His walk usually takes him about 40 minutes along the road, down the hill to Kayaderosseras Creek and the geyser, and back up by the Roosevelt Baths to the car.  When I walk it with him, we always stop on the bridge over the creek, and have the same conversation every time.

"I've kayaked this many times," he says, and then he will tell me of all the different people he has been here with. "Those are good memories," he adds.  I have found that the more his memory leaves him, the more he tells me how important it is to remember.

This time, though, he said, "The last time I came here, I was by myself and I walked along the boundary fence on that far side for quite a ways.  I wanted to see how far the fence went.  I must have gone a mile or more and then turned around.  I began to think that if anything happened, El would never find me."

(the Kayaderosseras Creek runs through the park)

This scared me a little.  He was absolutely right.  My mother would never know where to look for him.  I tucked this location in the back of my mind, in case my mother ever calls, saying in a panic, "He went for his walk at the Spa and it's been two hours. Where do you think he might be?"  I reinforced the idea that walking by himself, bushwhacking through the trees, was not a good idea.




We took a trail away from the road.  "When I come here, and walk this trail," my father said, "I can almost imagine that I'm somewhere else, maybe up north or somewhere."  Ahh, a man after my own heart, I thought.  I often fantasize that I'm actually in the mountains or in deep woods, when I'm really close to home.

(It's easy to pretend that we are farther away from home than we actually are)

I told my father that I think water always makes a place more interesting.  "Yes," he agreed.  "We're lucky to live where we do.  And I've kayaked this many times."  He proceeded to tell me again of all the people he had been here with over the years.

One week when I left Saratoga, I took a detour to check out Woods Hollow Nature Preserve on the border of Milton and Ballston Spa. The next week, I took my father there.

Woods Hollow is a small preserve riddled with old roads, surrounding a tiny reservoir and a marsh. I had printed a trail map off the computer.  At the many intersections, I showed him where we were on the map.  I was a little concerned that he might feel insecure in a place that was unfamiliar, but he showed no apprehension, just saying, now and then, as if it were a new thought each time, "Now, does El know where we are?  Does she know I'm out with you?"  I was glad that he was certain my mother would not be concerned about his whereabouts if she knew he was with me.

We talked about skiing.  The trails were mostly flat with rolling hills.  "This would be nice place to ski, Virginia," he said.  Then we came to the big sledding hill.  We walked over to the top.  "I wouldn't ski that.  Maybe when I was younger, but not now."  I pointed out that there was also a more gradual downhill trail nearby. 

(this bench, facing a marsh, is one of many located in the Woods Hollow Nature Preserve)

We admired the little reservoir and took a narrow path along its edge. When we came to another intersection, I sat on a bench and encouraged him to do the same.  On the bench were two acorn caps on one stem.  "That's El and me," he said with a smile, as he put the acorns in his pocket.  "I'll show them to her and tell her that."

We stopped at Stewart's for ice cream on our way home, a tradition we have always had.  My father said, "That was a good hike, Virginia.  I guess I'm doing pretty well for being nearly 90."  I agreed and told him how great it was that we were still out there hiking together.

When we got back to the house, I reminded him that he had the stem of acorn caps in his pocket.  Later, when I talked to my mother on the phone, she said, "He remembered to tell me all about the acorns.  I've put them on the little kitchen shelf."

The following Tuesday began gray and chilly.  I had told my mother that I wasn't exactly sure where we would go.  Maybe we would go to the Spa again, or maybe to Moreau State Park.  Because I was vague, she did not have gear out for him.

When I decided that we would take one of the trails off Spier Falls Road at Moreau to a pond, I considered his footwear and thought his sneakers with sturdy ribbed soles looked fine.  He got out his coat, hat, and gloves, and was impressed that I knew it was hunting season and had brought blaze-orange vests for us. 

(we like to find interesting natural elements, such as this tree root that resembles a yoga pose)

The trip began with a chat with a hunter in the parking area.  As a long time hunter himself, my father regaled the man with his own tales of hunting at Indian Lake.  Our outing went down hill from there, both literally and figuratively.

Leaves were about five inches deep on the trail as we headed on a steady down grade towards the pond. "I should have brought my walking stick," my father said.  "You should have told me I would need a walking stick."  I admitted to him that I never thought of the walking stick, and that I would surely have told him to bring it, but the idea just had not crossed my mind.  A few minutes later, he said, "I should have my walking stick.  You should have told me to bring it."

(fallen foliage lies deep on the trail through a young beech forest)

Then, "You should have told me to wear hiking boots.  My balance isn't as good as it used to be, you know.  And I should have a walking stick."  The trail began a significant descent, and I suggested we turn around.  "Yes, we should," he said.

We got back to the car and drove along the road. We could see the pond, that I had wanted to hike to, through the trees.  It was covered with geese. "Look at all those geese!" he exclaimed. I knew he would have loved going to this pond that felt remote but was not far from the road. "And look at those colored leaves."  The "color season," as he calls it, is his favorite.


We decided that walking would be much better in the main area of the park on the paved campground roads. We headed out on a trail alongside a pond near the lake area. Strangely, there was not a single goose here.

(the sun shone briefly on this paved path near the camping area)

"My fingers are cold," he said.  I looked at his gloves.  He had brought the gloves he wore for yard work.  There was a hole in the tip of one finger.  "I should have brought my winter gloves," he said.  We talked about how the cold weather had come on suddenly and we just hadn't thought yet about needing warmer clothes.  I knew that my mother would have thought of it though.  If I had told her that we were going to go to Moreau, she would have had his hiking boots, hiking pole, and a knit hat and gloves laid out for him.

("No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!" by Thomas Hood)

Time to give this one up, I thought.  We walked back to the car.  In minutes he was warm and comfortable, and happy with the obligatory stop at Stewart's.  I reminded him of the good parts of our walk: the pond through the trees with the geese, the brilliant patch of colored leaves we had seen along the roadside, and the ice cream.

This time, my mother was at the house when we returned. I secretly told her about all the things that had gone wrong.  Later, she called me and said, "I know you were disappointed in the hike today, so I had to call to tell you that all I am hearing about are the colored leaves, and the interesting trail and ponds. In his mind, it was a success."

My father remembering the day as a success was all that mattered.  It was a good day for me then, too.