Autumn Daydreams

Words and Photos by Vern Hobbs

My friend, the displaced Yankee, seemed unusually glum as he nursed a beer at our favorite beach bar. "Why the long face?" I ask, perching on the adjacent stool.

"I get homesick this time o’ year," he lamented. "By Octobah I’ve slogged through five months of summah, and sweated out a few hurricanes, too!" Fervor swells in his New England accent as my friend adds arm-waving gestures to his impassioned dialog. "There aren’t any seasons down here! Just heat, and humidity, and that little cool-down around Christmas time that everybody calls a ‘cold snap!’"

The sleepy tourists and laid back surfers were beginning to take notice of the mounting tirade. The bartender threw me a, "Do something with your friend" look. We needed two more beers -- fast!

"This one’s on me." I say, hoping to calm my heat-stressed companion before we get tossed out of the tiki bar. "Take a long sip there, ol’ buddy, and tell me what it’s like where you come from ‘this time o’ year.’"

"Oh, man, I wish you could see it!" my friend says, sympathizing with my never having seen a New England autumn. "Say, maybe we oughta go!" he adds, his face brightening at the notion. "We’ll start out in Portland -- Portland, Maine!" he exclaims, rising off his stool with excitement.

Portland, he explains with Chamber of Commerce conviction, has retained the character of a rugged New England port town while evolving into a progressive, modern city. This symbiotic blend of new and old is owed to Portland’s efforts to preserve its working waterfront. The fishing boats and freighters moored along the city’s wharves are not floating museums or tourist attractions -- they’re the real thing. Rather than let its harbor front become a grimy place visitors go out of their way to avoid, Portland has made it the heart of the city. Bars, restaurants, shops, and pedestrian malls are tastefully mingled with the industrial trappings necessary to a working port.

"Pack a sweatah! We’ll be pahtyin’ along the bay and it’s mighty nippy down there in Octobah!" my friend says with a sparkle in his eye. With much enthusiasm he describes the good times we’ll have at places like Two Dollar Dewey’s, with its endless assortment of microbrews; Bull Feeney’s, where authentic Irish folk singers will having us crying one minute and dancing the next, or the Dry Dock Bar, where we’ll hear frightful sea stories in this fishermen’s hangout immortalized by author Linda Greenlaw in her book, “All Fishermen are Liars.”

"After we sleep that one off, ol’ pal, we’ll head for the lake country and the north woods!" he tells me, explaining that to fully appreciate the beauty of a New England fall, one must travel beyond the coast.

U.S. Highway 302 leads west out of Portland, into the heart of classic, rural New England. The urban landscape quickly gives way to wooded hillsides and sloping meadows painted in brilliant hues of red, orange, and yellow. Cool, crisp mornings beneath cobalt blue skies are plentiful in October. Soon we top a hill and look down on the sparkling expanse of Sebago Lake.

The village of Naples, straddling the Songo Locks that once connected the Lakes Region to the Atlantic bustles with activity during the summer. Sailing, dinner cruises, seaplane rides, and jet skis abound, but by mid-October Naples is dormant -- hibernating in preparation for the long winter ahead. This lakeside hamlet, however, still demands a stop, even if the shops and eateries are boarded up for the season. The vista from the causeway requires a leisurely stroll to be best appreciated. “Breathtaking” is a good adjective, especially on October mornings when the sun illuminates the surrounding hills and the absence of wind turns the lake into a mirror that doubles the magnificent image.

Beyond Naples the hills get steeper and the highway winds in response. The scarlet-dappled wood lots, dissected by ancient stone walls, send even the least sentimental traveler digging into their memory for that certain Robert Frost verse, memorized long ago in some American Lit class, that perfectly describes the scene. The farms and forests are punctuated by tiny towns, many still boasting a Grange Hall, most with a statue of an unnamed union soldier, and all with a tall, steepled white church. Somewhere amidst this colorful daydream the hum of the pavement changes ever so slightly. We have entered New Hampshire.

"New Hampshire! The White Mountains! Now there’s the place to be in Octobah!" my pal announces with a ring of absolution.

The White Mountains National Forest encompasses the majestic Presidential Range of the northern Appalachians including fabled Mount Washington. If breathtaking described the hills around Sebago Lake, then words do not exist to adequately measure the beauty of the White Mountains at the peak of autumn.

The panoramas unfold one after another, each more amazing that the last, as 302 snakes deeper into the Mount Washington Valley. The rugged mountains are contrasted against gentle farms and villages that line the valley. Roadside stands, packed with apples and pumpkins, remind us of the season even more than the flaming foliage on the mountainsides.

"We’ll take the route 16A cutoff at North Conway and spend the night in Jackson Village," my friend announces, totally absorbed in the fantasy road trip.

U.S. 302 meets state route 16 at the busy resort town of Conway. A few miles north of the junction, route 16A turns off onto the less traveled Jackson loop, or “cutoff,” as locals call it. Nestled in the steep valley of the Ellis River, Jackson seems plucked from a Currier and Ives lithograph. A perfectly preserved covered bridge leads into the village where daily life revolves around the post office, grammar school, and bakery. Cozy mountain inns, replete with fireplaces and hearty breakfasts, look down from the surrounding hillsides and onto the epitome of the classic New England village.

The fact that Halloween is just weeks away has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that Tuesday is "Hoot Night" at the Wildcat Tavern in Jackson. The weekly open-mic talent show is a long standing tradition at the Wildcat, and should not be missed! The old tavern is also famous for traditional New England fare in the dining room, affordable lodging, and plentiful Yankee hospitality.

Route 16A rejoins the main route north of the village and climbs steeply toward Pinkham Notch, starting point of the famous Mount Washington Auto Road. This legendary road, which predates the automobile, was viewed by early car makers as the perfect place to prove their designs. The first was Freelan O. Stanley, who drove his steam powered "Locomobile" to the 6,200-foot summit in 1899. Mount Washington itself is famous, or perhaps infamous, for its harsh and ever-changing weather. The highest wind speed ever recorded at the Earth’s surface, 231 MPH, occurred here on April 12, 1934. Freezing temps are common year round, and an average of 256 inches of snow falls on the mountain annually.

"After we drive the auto road we’ll hit the trails! Pack your hikin’ boots!" my Yankee compadre declares as he orders another round.

Driving through the mountains and valleys in autumn is an amazing experience, but to fully absorb this brief season, you must literally get your feet on the ground. Twelve-hundred miles of hiking trails, including the storied Appalachian Trail, course through the White Mountains.

Here, out in nature, the sensual intrigue of these magical few weeks before the onset of winter becomes clear. Deep in the kaleidoscope of the autumn forest, the manmade sounds fade, and the senses grow acute to the wonders that surround us. We realize that fall is not just blazing color and pumpkin pie. It is the crunch of fallen leaves beneath our feet, and the bite of frosty air filling our nostrils, as we sniff the aroma of wood-smoke drifting up from a farmhouse in the valley. It is a perception from a long dormant part of our being that tells us the angle of the sun is a little lower, the world about us is changing, and we must savor this fleeting, beautiful moment in time.

My friend is quiet, mellowed by the mental image of his native New England in autumn. From behind tightly closed eyes, he tilts his head backward, and asks, "Can you see it, ol’ buddy? Can you see that pale, afternoon sun shafting down through that canopy of yellow birch leaves? Can feel that nip in the air? Can you smell those north woods?"