Morning Ramble

We walked through the local woods yesterday, my friend and I, on the most gorgeous morning of the fall. Here in New England, after the weather has dipped near freezing and the leaves have begun to fall in earnest we have these days of reprieve. I was delighted to have escaped the many things I should have been doing to be wandering through the woods in good company. Ten minutes into our walk I tied my long-sleeved shirt around my waist and felt like a school-boy walking home in the warm afternoon with the whole rest of the day free for bike riding and play.

Several times over the past few weeks, I have turned to my wife and said ‘This is peak.’ I say it half jokingly and half seriously. The joke is two-fold, first that the certainty of pronouncements often comes in inverse relationship to their accuracy and reliability. Saying something with great conviction is not the same thing as speaking the truth. But it’s a thing up here in New England – this notion that there is a ‘peak’ time for the fall colors. I suppose it’s accurate to say there is a stretch of several weeks when colors are brightest—when the gorgeous yellows and bright oranges and deep reds transform the usual green canopy into a tapestry of wonder. (My toddler grandson, in his innocence and clear perception, treats the colorful leaves as flowers – he dutifully goes over, bends down and sniffs. I join him in his homage. Though I catch no fragrance, the gesture seem appropriate.)

There must be some way to scientifically calculate the precise moment of peak color—taking into consideration all the trees at all the altitudes and latitudes of the area and averaging them exactly. Perhaps we could establish a area-wide scientific investigation. We’d ask every person of every age to go out every day to observe and count the leaves on evry tree. It would be a wonderful enterprise of grand scale and great seriousness. Of course we would all wear masks and keep our distance. We’d be safe in the outdoors and we’d all be grateful for the diversion. We’d all look and look while we counted and exactly measured the color of each leaf. After reporting our numbers, a beautiful map would appear, a colorful map indicating the precise rise and fall from peak color. Beauty seekers would travel from around the world and wander the area with the day’s exactly accurate map in hand. But maybe this is just a pipe-dream and we’ll have to settle for wandering on our own and our daily Covid hot-spot maps of more somber hues of yellow, orange and red.

When I was in college beginning to study sociology, I was fascinated with the concept of appropriate measurement scale. My professor illustrated this theory by saying ‘You don’t need a micrometer to cook a hotdog. You just put it on the grill and try to eat it after it’s hot and before it burns.’ The second hand on my wristwatch (am I giving myself away as hopelessly old-fashioned?) is not necessary for planning to get together with a friend.

I have to admit that I’m a ballpark kind of guy. I don’t really care whether it is 62 or 63 degrees. ‘Low sixties’ is close enough for me. Poking my head out the door and waving my arm around is usually enough to give me a sense of what clothing is appropriate for my next outdoor activity. Though I must confess to checking my phone each morning when I get up to see the weather forecast for the day. I don’t need the hour by hour, the predicted high and low and the precipitation forecast is enough.

The second part of the joke, and I suppose it’s not such a good joke if I have to take so long to explain it, is that I’ve said ‘This is peak.’ before, several times. In theory, there can be only one peak moment for the season. But I suppose, now that I think about it more clearly, there could be one peak moment for each location and even for each tree. The sugar maple near the entrance to the garden has clearly passed peak. The flaming reds and oranges have given way to an increasingly visible lattice of dark branches set off against the blue sky.

The serious part of my repeated pronouncements of peak is two-fold as well. First is the acknowledgment that you can never know the apex of any event, the maximum altitude of the thing, until after the fact. The peak can be certainly identified only after the descent begins. The fullness is appreciated in the midst of diminishment.

My second serious intent is a subtle stand taken for the immeasurable. I suppose this is where I have been headed with the whole joke—why I find it funny again and again.

Life is immeasurable. Life is not a thing that can be plotted on a graph. Of course there are many different amplitudes of our lives. Sometimes we succeed at what we set out to do, sometimes we miss the mark. Sometimes others praise us for our determination and courage, other times we are criticized for our stubbornness and lack of willingness to alter our course.

There are, however, peak moments when we are fully present and appreciative of exactly where we are. They seem to come and with a grace of their own. Yesterday morning was such a moment – walking a trail through the local forest. Yellow leaves fell from the blue sky as we walked into the pleasant morning. An old stonewall followed beside us for a while, its mossy green stones reminding us of the many others who have walked and worked these hills long before our morning ramble.