Being a first-hand witness to the change of seasons
It was a chilly November afternoon in 1977 and I could feel it in my bones that this would be the last day my dog Mutt and I would be able to hike around my woods on snowless ground.
All the leaves had fallen and were layered in a damp, soft carpet.
We barely made a sound as we trekked along the cushiony eastern shore of Limekiln Lake.
We ducked under the Birch and Spruce branches to shield us from the west wind which gave us a chilly reminder of the weather that was to come.
The branches resembled cold, wet fingers, reaching out to grab us.
The protruding rocks and roots along the trail were slimy and greasy, so each of my steps had to be carefully measured.
Mutt happily trodded along behind me stopping from time to time to stick her nose up in the air and take a big sniff.
We had made our way past the last lakeshore camp and had reached State land where the woods were thicker and the trail thinner and harder to follow.
The sky was a dark smokey gray and created quite a contrast against the lake.
We stopped to rest at a small cove along the shore.
I sat down and threw my legs over the side of the steep cut out slope.
A lone bent Cedar tree shot out over the water and looked as if it was trying to get a glimpse of what was going on further down the shore.
Mutt jumped into the lake up to her belly and took a short drink. She carefully waded around the slippery rock bottom.
I watched as she moved slowly around, staring down into the water.
I asked her what she was looking for, but she just ignored me.
She quickly dunked her head underwater and came up with an old, worn beaver stick.
She inched her way back to shore and struggled up the bank with her trophy—then shook her water-soaked fur all over me.
As Mutt chewed away at her prize, with watery eyes and runny nose, I stared out at the lake and watched the sky obscure it from view as if it was a giant eraser.
One snowflake fell… then two, then thousands began falling at once.
We shivered in awe at the thought that we had just witnessed the transition of fall to winter.
As we made our way back home the small flakes began to stick to the dry ground and mapped us away from the wet areas we needed to avoid.
Mitch Lee, Adirondack native & storyteller, lives at Inlet. ltmitch3rdny@aol.com
