A stiff fall breeze swept through my woods around Limekiln Lake on a late September day in 1977. I reveled in the comforting, hollow sound.
With each step I took, the wind made its way down my neck and sent a chilling quiver down my spine.
Each dry leaf was rubbing against its neighbor, waiting its turn to fall to the ground.
My dog Mutt tramped back out of the brush to see if I was alright. She rubbed the back of my legs in a quick half circle before running off again to see what was out ahead of us.
We didn’t have any particular destination in mind as we explored the ridge at the far end of the lake.
When I found the top of the ridge I could see the entire lake with its millions of tiny rolling whitecaps.
Without the protection of the ridge wall, the wind was really chilly.
I gave out a whistle and started back down hill. I went straight on to the lake, trying to pick up the trail that flowed close to the shore.
When I struck it, I made my way to the shore and tried to hop from rock to rock, holding onto overhead tree branches that bent over the water.
Feeling a little like Tarzan, I made good progress till Mutt bounded out of the woods and plunged into the dark waters. She begged me to toss her a stick to chase.
We played fetch until my fingers got so sore from the cold water that I had to quit.
I begged Mutt to follow me as I raced her down the thin pathway to the bridge over the inlet.
It was there that the hollow sound of the Fall woods was drowned by the coursing brook that flowed under the bridge.
It was a bit colder in the darkness of the canopy of trees, so I decided to jog all the way home to warm up.
My heavy breathing mixed with the sound of Mutt’s claws tapping along the roadway once again blocked some of the woods’ hollow sounds.
Mitch Lee, Adirondack native & storyteller, lives at Inlet. ltmitch3rdny@aol.com