Our time here in New Hampshire is drawing to a close this week. It’s time to say goodbye to our northern home, where we lived, worked, played, and worked out all summer and into the fall. For over four months, I drove most days to Sanford, Maine, to use the closest YMCA with a pool. It was an hour each way, which sounds like a lot, but it was such a pretty drive, that I really didn’t mind. For the first three months I also had the wonderful company of Meredith with me to make the trip that much more pleasant. We would talk about anything and everything and nothing. We would enjoy the drive and appreciate the glimpses into rural life up here in the network of back roads and byways. I’m grateful for the time we had, and I really miss her, especially on the drives this past week, when the seasons have truly switched over, and the views are so incredible. And I know she misses me and New England too. It really left an imprint on her this year. So, in the spirit of trying to catch lightning in a bottle and hold on to the fleeting little things that caught our eye and tickled our sense of wonder, I decided to capture a stream of consciousness of sorts on one of my drives over this week. I recorded my thoughts audibly onto my phone and have transcribed them here to give a bit of a memory vignette. And of course, I am including pictures, because, at heart I love the image as much as the written word.

So much nature. So much gold. So fleeting. Nothing gold can stay.

Robert Frost and Pony Boy are galloping through my head on this drive through valleys of mist and gold and rust and cobweb-pockets on the trees. The sun rising in the east, lighting the road in a glorious bath of gold and yellows and reds. Leaves and regrets all falling to the ground. Rubber tire marks serpentine the road, advertising the lack of entertainment for this area of rural New Hampshire. And as the road rises and falls, the sun blinds and hides, acorns bounce, crows hop-hop, and I continue my hunt for the little moose, seen on neighbor’s trail cams. Swiveling my head up every driveway and dirt road. Slowing down for 20 turkeys, speeding up to catch the mist. Imagining it can’t get any prettier and then I turn a corner and it does. Through the tiny, quaint towns, white buildings, oozing charm and a proud history. The lake is all but empty of boats and birds. The heron and cormorants have moved on. The mountains are starting to come into their blankets of color and smoke rises from chimneys.

There are countless ancient cemeteries along this road. They dot the landscape like the teeth of a jack o’lantern, tidy, crooked, unevenly spaced, sun bleached, old, but not forgotten. American flags planted. Grass neatly mown. 

More stripes of golden sun a little bit higher now as my road turns north towards Maine. Towards a turtle crossing but never a turtle. Increasingly towards the hope of seeing a moose. Stone walls hedged in by gigantic ferns that have now turned to rust. Crossroads between the gorgeous witch’s house and the llama farm. Which way to go today? Which way should I go? Which way would a moose go?

It’s mornings like this in this part of the world where I’d much rather go follow the mist. I find myself easily distracted and pulling over to look at trees, or taking a left where I’ve never taken a left before. It’s just so stunningly beautiful. At least it is to me. The scrub brush, marshlands, forests. Home to darting chipmunks and squirrels, skunks, possums and porcupines, deer, the rare fox, coyote, and the always allusive moose. The birch trees and elm trees and maple; the mighty mighty oaks raining so many acorns down this year. The evergreens raining down pinecones and pitch. 

Throughout the drive my eyes land on some decrepit farm houses, beautifully restored homes, homes newly built, homes recently burnt. Cars, trucks, tractors, interspersed with wood for sale, lobster traps, walking sticks for sale (over 100!). There is a big orange cat crossing the road up ahead, past the cheapest gas in the state. He stalks as if he’s on the lookout for the mice who are starting to make their way indoors as it gets colder and the nights grow short. 

Political signs are a bit of a blight on the landscape here, interrupting the cows and the horses and the fields freshly mown for the last time this season. Hay neatly baled.

The long drive past many different pockets of water: stream, pond, river, creek, fresh mountain spring, with bottles and containers and people lined up to fill their jugs. Passing by the farm stands, tidy and encouraging passersby to eat local, eat seasonally. Taste your food and know where from where it came. I know from where I came. And I know where I’m going.