We rose before dawn, made our way to a little-known forest path by the river where the hunters never go, and eased our way into this troubled world. How strange it was to see daybreak but have only a white sky. This is how tragic and wide-sweeping the fires out west are. Smoke is traveling 3,000 miles in this strangest of years. I can only imagine what it is like in the western skies.

Unlike out west, the breathing is still easy here. This morning was cold and crisp, like an October apple. I wore a hat and gloves, and my fingers were still cold. This is the result of the hundreds of winter peaks Atticus and I traversed years ago.

I ran hot in those years, often hiking without jacket, hat or gloves, even when the temperature was below zero. Of course I was bigger then and had more insulation. Now, though, my fingers remind me of a my bouts with frost bite.

We were out so early today that after our walk we took the drive up through Crawford Notch to the Littleton Co-Op. We get there every month or two, traveling an hour each way to pick up items our local grocery stores don’t carry. Going mid-week makes it easier now that it’s September and there aren’t many vacationers.

Not much color change yet, not even north of the notches where it always comes first, save for a few rusty trees. Everywhere we looked, that same surreal white sky offered an ominous backdrop to the mountains. It was a world without dimension. I’ve never seen it like that.

After shopping for Japanese purple yams and golden beets, we took a detour and drove to Robert Frost’s house, now called The Frost Place. It wasn’t open, not that we ever go when it is.

I like to sit on the front porch when no one is around, as the great poet used to, or we amble about in the garden behind the house.

Looking north, above the property, we saw our first and only blue sky of the day.

Samwise led Emily and me along the short Poetry Trail in the back. We stopped, Sam and Emi sniffed about, while I read the familiar poems. I even recited some not posted along the path. When we finished we daydreamed on the front porch for a spell.

I’m not certain how many more times we’ll visit this enchanted New England site in the future. We leave here for our winter adventure in December (COVID-19 and COVIDiots allowing), and when we return home, it will be with an eye toward eventually moving to rural Vermont. Two books should be nearly done then, and I am picturing a house, not unlike Frost’s—modest and small, surrounded by ten acres on a quiet dirt road,

Atticus and I frequented The Frost Place during off hours when we first moved north and lived on that side of the mountains. Sitting on that porch and looking across the road at Cannon Mountain and the Cannon Balls on the northern end of the Kinsman Range, I always felt as if we were sitting with Robert Frost’s ghost, and he was fine with us being as long as we were still and respectful.

That porch is where I wrote my last letter to my father. Not sure why I remember that, but it feels fitting now. I believe Frost’s was the only poetry collection Jack Ryan had on his busy shelves.

On that autumn afternoon years ago, the foliage was in her ripest orange and red glory. A sweet breeze stirred the leaves against a dream-blue sea of a sky dotted with white clouds. A sky so different from the apocalyptic backdrop of today.

It was a scene from a Norman Rockwell painting. The simplicity of Northern New England—the innocence of a land and setting still quiet and peaceful. Perfection made for an insurance company calendar.

I realize how fortunate we are to live here at the beginning of autumn. We spend our days embracing tranquility in a slow dance with Mother Nature. That’s what I prayed about with Emily and Samwise and the ghost of Robert Frost beside me on that old front porch this morning. I prayed to offer thanks.

When we got up to leave, Emily’s leg was a little stiff for sitting for so long after two walks, and I noted my own ache—the sinking pang of a goodbye.

In her book Wanderlust, Rebecca Solnit wrote, “When you give yourself to places, they give you yourself back; the more one comes to know them, the more one seeds them with the invisible crop of memories and associations that will be waiting for you when you come back, while new places offer up new thoughts, new possibilities.”

Ah yes, that’s where I find my heart these days, in that bittersweet marriage of memories and new possibilities.

It makes for a rich stew.

Thank you for reading, y’all.

Onward, by all means.

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PS: Our December departure date has been moved up to the 11th. A few friends know our itinerary, and I am so flush with anticipation, I’m tempted to share it with you here. But I think that my original thought of letting each stop be a surprise to you works best. Goodness knows, we all could surely use the joy of bright surprises in this troubling year. How grand it will be to share our adventures with you as they occur.

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