As the snow begins to fly . . .



Folding into the distance . . .

. . . my summer season ends.
 
Saturday November 1, I embarked on the next chapter of my life, celebrating it with a farewell hike on the stunningly scenic stretch of the Appalachian Trail from Pomfret Road to Cloudland Hill.



The trees are old friends here

I scaled the ladder-like set of steps at the roadside, climbed through a gloomy red pine plantation and out onto the meadow that soars upwards, rewarding the hiker with a view of gentle tree-clad slopes folding into the distance, punctuated with the scarred face of the Suicide Six ski area.

I’d not hiked the trail so late in the season before and it seemed unfamiliar in places (no wonder I got lost!) where deciduous trees had shed their leaves and the usually shaded trail was open to the snow-filled sky. Those leaves were inconveniently carpeting and obscuring the path! And yes, it snowed!

A solitary hiker

Just one other hiker was on the trail, well-equipped, and “stitching” together a section of trail from New York to Maine. Oh, and I got lost, unconsciously following natural flashes of white bark on aspen trees instead of white AT blazes.



I was on the downward slope by that time, so I knew which was the way to the road, but I was disoriented enough to enjoy the frisson of excitement and discovery as I encountered trees I had never seen before. Do I know every tree on the route, then, you might ask. Well, no, but large trees are so rare in this part of the world thanks to recurrent logging over the past two hundred years, that I do recognize the more significant ones.



Choke cherry colors

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday November 2, Joanne and I rose early, because of the clocks “falling back”, wrapped up warmly and headed down the hill – in her car because mine was full to bursting with belongings to be transported to Burlington – to the Pomfret Teago Firehouse for breakfast.

It was the annual fund-raising breakfast, and very good it was too! We have a volunteer fire department in Pomfret, as in so many small Vermont towns with their wooden houses, so the atmosphere was one of happy appreciation and camaraderie.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The event was well attended and the maple syrup, of course, was as local as can be: “Who made it?” I asked: “John Peters” was the answer.

 

 

 

 

 

Later that day I arrived in Burlington to be greeted by a sunshine-illuminated golden-leaved maple in my own back yard. Gee, but it’s good to be back home!