One more walk

One more walk

The last of the yellow leaves were scattered across the water, collecting in the slower bends of the stream and catching against the rocks along its banks. The maples had lost most of their color, and through the thinning canopy, I could see farther into the woods than I had just a few weeks earlier. The morning air was cold enough that I could see my breath as I pulled on my waders.

I gather a few things and make my way toward the water. There isn’t much of a plan. No particular stretch I need to reach or fish I need to catch. Just one more walk before another season comes to an end. It’s hard to believe we’re already here.

It seems like only a few weeks ago we were watching the first leaves unfold, waiting for the water to warm and looking forward to all the things we hoped to accomplish before summer slipped away. Now, here we are in the middle of October, watching some of those same leaves float downstream. Trout season is drawing to a close, bear season has already ended, and the calendar is beginning to take away some of the opportunities we spent so much of the year looking forward to. It happens every year, yet somehow it always seems to catch me by surprise.

Fall has always been one of my favorite times to be outside. For a few short weeks, the woods put on a display that is difficult to match anywhere else. The maples turn brilliant shades of red and orange, the birches and aspens glow yellow, and even the smallest streams seem to take on a different appearance beneath the changing canopy. But the best part of fall never seems to last very long.

One strong wind or a day of heavy rain can change the landscape almost overnight. A hillside that was full of color yesterday can look nearly bare the following morning. The oaks tend to hold on longer than most, their leaves turning brown and clinging to the branches well after the others have fallen. Before long, even those remaining colors begin to fade.

There is a noticeable change in the woods once the leaves are gone. The forest opens up, allowing you to see farther through the trees, but somehow it feels a little less welcoming. The bright greens of summer and the brilliant colors of early fall give way to shades of gray and brown. The woods seem to take on a more serious appearance. Maybe it’s because we know what’s coming.

Winter is still a little ways off, but its presence can already be felt on certain mornings. There is a dampness to the cold this time of year that seems to find its way through every layer of clothing. The first truly cold days always seem a little sharper than those we’ll experience a few months from now. Eventually, we’ll become accustomed to it. What feels bitter in October might feel comfortable in January. But for now, our bodies are still adjusting to the changing season.

And the changes are happening quickly. Soon enough, the last of the leaves will be gone, and we won’t see them return until April or May. That’s a long time to go without something we’ve spent the last several months surrounded by. I think that’s part of what makes these final days so meaningful.

We spend so much time looking ahead to the next season that it’s easy to overlook the one we’re standing in. Spring brings anticipation, summer seems full of possibility, and fall arrives with a long list of things we still hope to accomplish. Then suddenly, the days begin running out.

I didn’t spend nearly as much time trout fishing this year as I would have liked. There were other things to do, other places to go, and plenty of reasons to tell myself I’d get back to the stream another day. That’s probably something most outdoorsmen can relate to.

We begin each season with ideas of how we’re going to spend our time. There are lakes we want to fish, trails we want to walk, and places we hope to explore. Some of those plans become memories, while others remain things we’ll have to try again next year. And that’s all right. The end of one season doesn’t mean the opportunities disappear. They simply change.

The same woods that offered trout streams and warm afternoons a few months ago will soon offer entirely different experiences. There will be cold mornings, fresh snow, and tracks winding through places that were nearly impossible to see into during the summer. For those willing to venture out, there is still plenty waiting. It just asks a little more of us.

The days are shorter, the weather is less forgiving, and sometimes getting outside requires a little more determination than it did when the sun was shining and the temperatures were comfortable. But those experiences have a way of becoming some of the most memorable. Still, there is something worth appreciating about the things we’re leaving behind.

As I work my way upstream, the water pushes against my legs and a few remaining leaves drift past my boots. Every so often, I stop and look around. The stream is much the same as it was in the spring, but everything surrounding it has changed. A fallen tree lies across a familiar bend. The grass along the bank has turned brown, and the openings between the branches reveal pieces of the forest that were hidden only weeks ago.

I make a few more casts into the deeper water, watching the current carry my offering along the edge of a submerged log. A brown trout comes from underneath it, and a few moments later I’m kneeling in the shallow water, admiring the spots along its sides before slipping it back into the current. A few more follow throughout the morning. Nothing remarkable, but enough to remind me why I’d wanted to make this walk in the first place.

Before long, it’s time to climb out of the stream, walk back through the woods, and hang the waders up for another year. There will be other adventures between now and spring. Plenty of them, I hope. But as I step out of the water, with a few brown trout behind me and the last leaves drifting downstream, I’m not quite ready to think about those yet.

For now, I’m just glad I made one more walk.