On the second day of our autumn Waterville Valley, New Hampshire trip, it seemed, being within the clasp of the surrounding mountains, that dawn appears to enter daylight hours earlier than at home, just as the close of daylight hours seems earlier as well, with dusk introducing itself peremptorily, surprisingly early, transiting swiftly to deep velvety darkness.

We fell effortlessly into the cottage routine we've long become accustomed to, urging ourselves reluctantly out of our morning bed to shower, prepare breakfast, plan our activities for the day that beckoned ahead of us. As soon as breakfast is concluded, if there is any hint of sun, Riley communicates his anxiety to us to be allowed to go out to the lawn before the cottage, to bask in the sun.

We decided to make off for Smarts Brook, and on the way there, stop as usual for our daily newspaper fix at the nearby all-purpose stop where we gas up after our long drive from home, and where just about anything a traveller might want is available. As I wait in the car, I watch while SUVs, trucks and cars stop and their drivers dive into the store, soon exiting with pizza, subs, whatever they might think suitable for a late breakfast.

We're delighted to note that there is still ample colour left in copper beech leaves, yellow birch foliage. Dogwood leaves, patterned delicately in gold, pinks scarlet. Hemlock, spruce, pine gleamingly, assertively green within the suddenly bare deciduous portions of the forest surrounding the creek at Smarts Brook. The sky a blue sea upon which no clouds sail; bright rays penetrating deeper into the forest thanks to a depleted canopy.

Post-lipoma surgery, Riley virtually skips about, unimpeded, free from physical constraints, renewed, reborn, enthused, in his element, and ours.

The circuit consumes the late morning and early afternoon hours, enveloping us in the tangy aroma of tannin-crisp mounds of foliage on the forest floor.

A sudden wind unhinges from overhead branches remaining leaves, cascading them in gay abandon around us, festooning our hair, as though we have suddenly dissolved into the grater landscape, ourselves becoming merely another point of interest, a conceit abandoned as we forge on through the forest, irradiated by glimmers of sun reaching areas never before possible.

Awakening insects preparing for winter, and within us the vast reservoirs of pleasurable appreciation of life and its ineffable elements,