alchemy

The transmutation of base metals into gold is a singularly human aspiration that dates back as far as the third century CE. Yet, for millions of years, Mother Nature--like Rumplestiltskin at his spinning wheel--has woven her own golden magic, transforming entire vistas into something fleeting and radiant and transcendently more valuable than any precious metal.

On the eighth of October, we went in search of fall foliage, only to find a forest dressed in its customary greens. This past Sunday, we went in search of nothing more than a revitalizing day out, and we found not only what we sought but a lakeshore drenched in color. The event was momentous, not only for the soon-to-be-lost seasonal views, but for two significant Maisie milestones: 1.) for the first time ever, for the entire round-trip drive, our dog did not empty her breakfast into the Pupchuckery (a less negative name for the vomit bowl that accompanies her every journey), not even once, and 2.) our brave and seasoned adventurer no longer exhibited any hint of trepidation to cross the wooden bridge spanning the water. She blazed ahead as eager to explore this creaky terrain as she was to wander and sniff through any solid-earth portion of the park.

Sunday morning welcomed us back to a place that had bustled with activity throughout the summer months, that now stood so silent, when we stepped out of the car we could hear the whoosh-whoosh of a bird's wings in the forest and nothing more but a few random chirps and trills and the rustling of leaves in each intermittent breeze. Until the early afternoon, it felt as though we had the whole of the park to ourselves. It was both a feast for the eyes and, for the soul, an experience in sheer serenity. Leaf-strewn paths lent a cheerful chorus of crunches beneath our feet. Brilliant harvest hues shimmered in the water and glowed like benevolent bonfires against an overcast sky. Geese gathered on the banks, then floated lazily over the rippling wake of a lone passing fisherman.

We walked for hours, across familiar lawns and into previously unexplored corners and crevices, stopping at a beachside picnic table for lunch. Once sated, Dennie, Maisie, and I hiked over the bridge and into the woods, descending one hill to the vacant swimming beach, then climbing another to traverse the forest trail alongside a series of charming lakeside cabins. There we met a darling little fellow, the likes of whom we haven't seen around our property for many years. Chickarees, also known as Douglas squirrels, are tiny compared to our usual gray, red, and black squirrels; their tails are less bushy, their bellies red, their chatter hilariously squeaky and cartoonish, and their speed, well that is beyond compare. Maisie is not the sort of dog who will generally chase another animal, but apparently two chickarees in frenzied pursuit of one another is a temptation too great to resist. (Note to self: in preparation for the possibility that human arms may one day be ripped completely free of the leash-holder's body, always carry duct tape for restorative purposes.)

I love this time of year, more than any other. I could probably wax poetic about the sensory virtues of the season for a hundred paragraphs or more. But I won't. A picture, they say, is worth a thousand words. So, instead, I leave you with just this photographic glimpse, hinting at a perfectly perfect day--a day spent immersed in the extraordinary alchemy of autumn.