We awoke once again, though many miles distant from home to early morning fog, soon burned off by the sun. There was a cool, light wind and nippy enough in the cottage for us to turn on the heat. Riley has adjusted as he always does, to his altered environment, and has no problem reacting in a manner that has become predictable enough. As long as, when the sun is out, he is able to relax in its warm embrace, he is content, and it is my husband's concern that he have those opportunities. So, right after breakfast, out they go, my husband to sit reading the papers, our little companion to bask beside him in the sun.

Setting out on our first day's excursion we stopped at Chesley's as usual, to pick up a copy of the Boston Globe, then drove on to the National Parks Services Headquarters station to procure our week's parking permit for all the sites we planned on visiting. Not as busy there as we often find it, quite contradicting the crowds we would see later at many sites, sans permits.

Then on to Smarts Brook, where we found an assortment of vehicles parked in the lot before the trailhead that we embarked on. The trail is fairly long, and there are loops leading off to other trails, so we knew from past experience that it wasn't likely we would see any of the people belonging to those vehicles, on the trail circuit we were headed for. There is also the choice of which end to start at to complete the circuit. We tend to go left to right. Cool enough to wear light jackets, and we did. Riley expressed some excitement at the prospect, so we're fairly certain he recognized where we were, from past years' experiences, let alone this past spring's.

There were chickadees teasing about in the woods, cheerily chirping. Bright splashes of colour greeted us from turning dogwood and maples among the mostly needled trees of hemlock, pine and spruce. A Whitethroat sparrow on its way south sang its lonely trill. The brook tumbled down the mountainside, splurging with shine and heartily raucous sound for our benefit. The granite sides of the gorge, banded red and black, glistened, catching light from the sun. We ascended to the pine flats, the sweet fragrance of a lovely fall day increasing our pleasure. Remaining remnants of goldenrod and asters lined the trail, along with spent blueberry bushes.

In the always-moist atmosphere, mountain sorrel, clover and mosses are there in abundance. There were intermittent light clouds to interrupt the penetrating shafts of sunlight making their way through the forest canopy. We accessed the Yellowjacket trail and commenced the following part of the circuit, an often dim interior of the forest whose trails lead through and over marshy patches on the forest floor. The occasional slender streams forded by narrow-planked footbridges.

The stillness of the environment soothing, the trail soft underfoot, and Riley forging steadily ahead. We wonder, really, does he remember from one trip to another? His normally phlegmatic attitude was uncharacteristically challenged when he emitted excited whines as we parked; surely evidence that he does recall and does anticipate and appreciate. As soon as he entered the trails he seemed assured, eager to go on. Or, so we imagine.

Although we had long since parted with the brook, we met up with it again in a musical cascade of water falling over boulders, and a deep, blue pool where we recalled in many years past, our daughter's German Shepherd mix Shannie, used to love to swim. As did our own little miniature poodle Button, whose memory follows us.

Then the trail verged off again and stillness returned. Finally, we accessed the large bridge to take us across the stream and we came abreast of the old familiar cart track, wide and open, the forest closing in on either side. Halfway completed our circuit at this point, we walked at a leisurely pace. No more ascents; the balance of the trek on fairly predictably level ground; the left of the trail steeply treed and rising while to the right, the forested slope was falling away, with the trees descending, stippling the slope below us.

Finally, arrival at the cut to begin the last descent, which always reminded us of a hidden, secret Rip Van Winkley-moss-covered delight of a forest trail, for its short length leading down to the trail exit, where the trail narrows considerably, criss-crossed with tree roots, marbled with rocks and stones.