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The days they pass so quickly now, nights are seldom long, time around me whispers when it's cold," - John Denver
With the skies gray and chilly, threatening rain, I'm visiting an old hardwood forest I like to frequent in the autumn.
This is a place where golden maple leaves reign supreme at this time of year. Sometime next month, they will have all fallen from the trees and be knee deep in places, crunching as I brush past and through them.
The sound is familiar and one I align with pleasant days from my childhood when raking leaves, diving into piles of them and running or riding my bike through them topped my list of fun fall things to do.
Growing up with all four seasons, I kind of just got used to it as part of the passage of time throughout the year. I remember thinking that everywhere must have the same changes that we do here.
Obviously, that was wrong.
Despite my familiarity with autumn, it was no less amazing to me then and still is. On warm late summer days, I often lay back against a tree or a boulder and watch the shimmer of the beautiful colored leaves in the trees above.
Each dazzling leaf holds on with its tiny stem for as long as it can before either simply detaching and dropping to the ground in a fanciful twirling spiral or is dislodged by a sharp or strong, overpowering gust of wind that tosses many leaves into the air, where they often fly far before they too whirl to the earth.
There's a river here and the wet, dirt road I'm walking is mostly behind a locked gate, but walking is allowed.
The drizzle now wetting my face reminds me that the autumn often also brings dim days of rain and winds - cold, shivering occasions when sadness tends to appear before me like summertime's fading gray ghost.
On days like these, my bones creak in recollection of every hill I've climbed, all the riverbanks I've ambled down or across and the times when I have fallen down stairways, ladders or hillsides.
Two chipmunks out in the forest are making their clucking alarm noises on alternating beats. The hollow clopping - like a mallet on a wooden block - sounds like a game of ping pong going on.
The charming sounds of American goldfinches reach my ears from branches above. An eastern phoebe sits on a stump flipping its tail, watching for bugs to catch.
The road dips down a grade headed toward the river running cold, black and foamy -hemlocks and cedars dominate the trees standing along its banks.
I often equate autumn with a deep-seated loneliness, sadness and loss. I'm not sure if it's because of the falling of the leaves, the stark bare of the tree branches or the promise that the season that follows will be characterized by ice, cold and quiet.
This is a time when warm shirts and jackets are a pleasurable comfort.
However, eventually even they will prove to be no match for the cutting winds that bite right through these thick fabrics to sap the warmth, strength and energy from the heartiest of travelers here.
I reach a place where the road splits. I take the narrower way to the left which brings me close to the river. The sound of the water rushing over boulders and river stones is loud but pleasant and reassuring.
It's a sound that makes me want to float downstream on the arms of the river. I feel left out of the fun stranded here on shore. I want to explore, discover and enjoy the sight of new and unknown territory.
I sit down on one of the rocks and lean back against a white birch. I've got a good sturdy place to rest, so I close my eyes and listen intently to the sounds of the water.
After a couple of minutes, I begin to drift off to sleep. I doze there suspended between the world around me and the faith and comfort of the river's strength.
I probably napped for 15 to 20 minutes. I awakened refreshed and alert to a blue jay's scolding, but a little chillier than I was before I got comfortable.
I see a deer downriver from my spot. It's a doe. She moves to the edge of the rapids and dips her head down for a drink.
I feel like I am just as much a part of the setting here now as she is. I feel a kinship, a belonging that is satisfying. If I were planning to stay, I'd light a fire and enjoy the heat and the crackling sound it would produce.
Perhaps another day.
For now, I stand up and dust the dirt off my backside. I stretch a little and shake out the kinks. I walk down the riverbank toward the doe. She has since ducked back into the woods.
Outdoors North is a weekly column produced by the Michigan Department of Natural Resources on a wide range of topics important to those who enjoy and appreciate Michigan's world-class natural resources of the Upper Peninsula.