The myth of autumn

Coldly, sadly descends

The autumn evening. The field

Strewn with its dank yellow drifts

Of withered leaves, and the elms,

Fade into dimness apace,

Silent; hardly a shout

From a few boys later at their play!

– "Rugby Chapel"

– Matthew Arnold

No matter how many times I hear it – and I hear it a lot in the north country – I view the statement "Fall is my favorite time of year!" with a decent mixture of wonder and scorn.

I've always been a summer guy, myself, all warmth and sunshine. Maybe it's from spending most of my first 12 years in Arizona; maybe it's genetic code, but give me hot and sunny over crisp and dreary every time.

I have heard the argument that the beauty of the leaves turning, especially in the Adirondacks and along the Seaway, is matchless. And in our minds eye, it can be so; we recall the Kodachrome visions of deep reds and shouting-out yellows and luminous oranges merging to turn hillsides and island into shimmering scenes of nature's glory. But if you look around, you might wonder where that ideal image is, as drab and dull reality frequently overtakes the memory of vibrancy. In my experience, the scene almost never matches the memory.

And in the north country, fall isn't a long, luxurious glide into a short, mild winter. Recall last year, if you will, when the snow started falling in earnest at Halloween and didn't really stop until sometime in January. By the time winter officially arrived, we had 6-foot snow banks obscuring our view of the street. Fall is not a quiet and satisfying and reflective season when you spend half of it behind a snow blower.

I pulled my boat out of the water yesterday, a day when Lake Bonaparte was as serene as a farm pond. For late September, there were a lot of boats still moored at the docks along the shore. But it was obvious that the majority of the lake's seasonal and permanent residents had shouldered their melancholy and put their boats on trailers to spend the long, dark winter. This job, pulling the boat, is one I dread – not because it's difficult, but because it is a tangible sign that summer is over. I have no doubt this is a scene – and a feeling – replicated on all the lakes and rivers of Northern New York.

This September has been insidious, feeding the myth that fall is such a wonderful time of year. Golf courses are still busy and lawnmowers are still running. For you putative autumn lovers, this is probably what you live for.

But the Summer People – most definitely including me – know better; we know the cold winds will be coming off the lake soon enough, carrying feet of snow and obscuring the sun for months. And we can't truly appreciate any season that leads directly to that. Although, hasn't this been a beautiful week?