A clear sky, a nippy morning. A kayak on a quiet lake. A warming sun that impedes the need for fleece. A bag of chips and a jar of salsa. A flock of geese, the scent of cottonwood, the lapping of paddles in water. On land, a canopy of trees in their cheeriest colors.
Now picture this: a winding trial through forest and prairie, through undulating terrain made by ancient glaciers. A field of flowers, a farmer’s land. A 40-minute run through all of this, past the abandoned camp of an Irish settler who came in 1855. There beside the trail grow the season’s last raspberries — a tiny indulgence, with a sweetness that lingers.
This is why I miss autumn.