by Mitch Lee
It was a clear, blue-sky day on that last Friday of September 1977 as I pedalled my 11-year-old self home from school. I was thinking it would probably be the last day I would be riding without gloves on my hands.
The leaves were a full palette of color and the air was filled with that distinct aroma of fall.
The two-mile journey from where I made the turn onto Limekiln Road was solemn; not even the sound of a passing car was heard.
It was not until I coasted by the sawmill where the whine of the large cut blades flooded the air that I knew there were others than myself in my woods.
I hopped off my bike when I got to the top of the hill and pushed it around the closed gate at the head of the snowmobile trail.
The tall, yellow grasses swept across my ankles when I remounted my bike and made my way down.
Here I was alone in the woods, trying to dodge puddles and rocks.
I weaved slowly up to the old logging road that had long since been abandoned.
Even for the most seasoned woodsman this road would be hard to spot, but I had used it often as it came right down the back of Seventh Lake Mountain and to my own house.
The trail, no more than a deer track, was too narrow for me to ride. It was littered with downed trees from wind storms from the past thirty years. I had to push my way home for almost three-quarters of a mile.
Those were my woods, my playground.
Several times I leaned my bike up against a large downed tree to scale it and survey the forest floor.
I spooked out a deer and made several squirrels unhappy as I crunched along in the new bed of fallen leaves.
When I came to the edge of the opening of the hillside behind my house I stopped and sat on a large slab of rock.
The warmth of the stone from a whole day of sunshine felt good on the palms of my hands. This would be the last day those large rocks would feel warm to the touch.
I picked up a small piece of reddish-colored granite and sketched an image of a few crumpled leaves attached to a twig onto the large rock.
I carefully pulled each line, listening to the scrape of the smaller stone against the rock.
With each line my sketch grew until I was quite satisfied with the image I had captured.
Laying back on the rock I let the warmth creep through my jacket and into my shoulder blades while I closed my eyes.
Taking little notice of the time, I held onto my bike seat and sent myself down the hill and into the garage.
I made good use of those last few warm days of fall.
Colder weather was imminent with each passing day.
The entire world around me was beginning to go dormant, though I was still active and quite alive.
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Mitch Lee, Adirondack native & storyteller, lives at Inlet. ltmitch3rdny@aol.com