Monday night saw cooler overnight temperatures and overcast skies. No sun for Riley to bask in after breakfast on Tuesday morning. The forecast was for cool and overcast, but as we drove away from the cottage out came the sun and the sky began clearing off the clouds.

The highway passing through the mountain route was studded with beckoning lookouts, the mountain sides ornamented with red, orange, lime and gold, and there were ample cars stopped at the lookouts so we decided we would bypass them all, including our very favourite lookout with magnificent views that always captured the admiration of our aesthetic, now glowing with colour, accentuating the texture and perspective of the constantly unfolding diorama that is the White Mountain National Forest.

Our ears gulped repeatedly from the pressure of achieving height as we drove higher into the mountains with the mounting highway; one pinnacle after another looming into sight, then engulfed by the landscape as one peak folded into yet another in the monumental geology of this most amazing environment. Hard to believe that we had ourselves once long ago clambered to the summits of some of the mountains we saw spread before us.

The sun shone more brilliantly as the clouds continued to recede, and then, suddenly we drove into a dense white mist capping the mountain tops reducing visibility, casting an otherwordly aspect over what we could see of the landscape that surrounded us. At the peak of the highway height there was almost zero visibility, then as we gradually descended the the highway on the downside of the mountain, the mist slowly dispersed and the sun returned on this crisp autumn day.

Arriving at the parking lot for Sabbaday Falls we were disconcerted to note how crowded it was on this Tuesday. Superannuated tourists (which category qualified us as well) whose plans to enjoy seasonal nature were not the least enthusiasm-dampened that this is a school day, a working day. People decamped from their vehicles to begin the brief uphill slog to the site, greeted by the colours of the woods, ambling along beside the mountain stream that fell from the mountain above, feeding the spectacular falls we were approaching. Ferns, dogwood, maples and birch rich with changing foliage greeted us.

Riley becomes confused when he is aware of the presence of many people in his immediate vicinity, so our progress was slow, encouraging him to just come along and take no mind of the crowds. No other dogs present, just people, many nodding in pleasant courtesy at one another.

Coming abreast of the first of the sights, the foot of the falls and the aqua-pool that results before spiralling on to the stream below, we accessed the flattened granite series to the approach enabling a view of the cleft in the mantle of the foot of the mountain over which the water flushed down, spilling over in generous, roaring abundance, a sheet of crystal, shattered by the violence of its raceway passage.

The higher we ascended over a network of stairs, the less crowded the atmosphere became, and we took many photographs of the fascinating spectacle, sans crowds to spoil the natural beauty we tried to capture with the camera lens. What can trump a mountain stream's passage over the granite mantle of the mountain, with colourful trees clinging tenaciously nearby?

Cooler overnight temperatures on Sunday night left a heavy dew from inversion when Monday morning dawned. Although we felt none too spunky; rather lazy, in fact, we decided to plan for the Rattlesnake, reasoning that the weekend now over, crowds would be reduced at that popular climb.

It felt a trifle cooler, yet still warm with sun and cloud sparring to offer a little of both throughout the day, with the temperature finally nudging just over 70-degrees, and a very nice breeze. There were, thankfully, far fewer motorcycles on the road, a nice relief from their incessant, jarring blasts.

We had a pleasant drive, enjoying the rapidly changing foliage colouration; beautiful but, we thought, not quite a vibrant as Ontario's. A bit of chauvinistic nonsense there, to be sure. We drove through weary, worn towns and passed countless ski lodges, lakeside motels and cottages, mini-golf and tourism service-focused establishments. Along with impeccably maintained rural homes, some of pure heritage status and most impressive. Not so the motorhome parks and recreational boat and auto emporiums.

Finally, we embarked on the circuitous drive around Squam Lake, past Lake Winnepesaukee, where the drive becomes one of sightings of farms and elegant horse ranches to the left, cottages and rural estates to the right, contiguous with the lakeshore. We arrived at the trail parking areas to find both almost full, so much for our past-weekend theory. As we set out it was clear we would be sharing the next few hours with many others in near proximity.

We heard and saw chickadees, nuthatches and bluejays as we began the ascent. Oak, maple, beech and birch predominate with an understory of striped maple and some sumac and dogwood. The acrid odour of drying foliage complemented by leafy showers occasioned by wind bursts gave additional substance to the climb. People passed us coming down, others on their way up, each time a smile and a greeting, some with young children, some with companion dogs, sometimes both; occasionally just a single person intent on a vigorous climb and a pleasant opportunity to experience a series of lovely autumn landscapes in a fabulous geological setting. I always note that there is a preponderance of single women doing this; not so often single men.

The upward trek is tricky enough, faced with a series of rock-steps and trails heavily laddered with entwining tree roots. When we finally reached the area where the trail forks to the left, up to the modest summit of Rattlesnake, or to the right, a lookout whose views are not over Squam Lake like the summit, but where the sightlines and the views, in our opinion, are superior, we turned off first to the right. Most people, not from the area and unfamiliar with the climb, miss the outlook. A pity, really. We often try to direct people's attention to this oversight; some are interested, some not.

We took ample photographs, drinking in the contrasts, the stunted pines gripping their rock bases, sending down roots to the elusive soil. The robust mahogany of the oak leaves, the immensity of the landscape below, the mountain slopes beyond in the distance, the gripping drama of it all. We remained awhile, sat together and discussed our pleasure in seeing it all again, how satisfying it all was to us, to have and enjoy this privilege. When a few others made their way to this point, we felt it was time to depart. Then we made our way over to the trail continuance and the rise leading to the summit overlooking the lake.

And there we lingered, viewing the sumptuous fall scene, speaking with the blessedly few others whose timing there echoed our own. Finally, deciding to descend, our passage was considerably easier, and that included for Riley, better able to successfully pick his way on the descent which understandably, aside from the need to be nimble enough not to misstep the roots and the rocks, was much swifter than the ascent.

But who was in a hurry, anyway?

We turned in early Saturday night; my husband, taking Riley out for the last time before bedtime, reporting another perfectly clear sky, the Big Dipper directly overhead. Finding ourselves too sleepy to read much, we still awoke later than usual, the next morning as well. Yet another fantastic weather day ahead of us to make the most of; blue sky, full radiant sun, high projected of an astonishing 80, for 28 September.

We heard on the news that a volcano in central Honshu (the main island of the three that comprise Japan) had erupted, killing up to 30 mountain climbers, and wondered why there didn't appear to have been any warning ahead of time as surely unusual seismic activity would have been picked up to enable proaction. Turns out there were warning signs interpreted and lodge owners of the many establishments located on the slopes had been advised.

We set out for the day's adventure late, at noon, took another, alternate route bypassing the main highway to Franconia Notch, and there saw plenty of trailer parks, tawdry motels, cabins, small towns, quarries. Also a large, space-consuming cemetery just at the junction of a town so small the cemetery clearly held vast generations of former residents -- of that town and likely enough, adjoining ones. And a truly astounding number of motorcycles all this week, increasing on the weekend. Very few motorcyclists wear helmets; almost none in fact, and no other protective gear, let alone appropriate footwear. Some play loud radios and how they can even hear them above the din erupting from their back end is beyond me; it's a deafening tumult. "Live Free Or Die"

Splendid views as usual on the approach to the Notch. The Basin parking lots were packed, fuller than we'd even seen them. People with young families, with dogs, couples and groups, extended families, all converging on the spectacle of one of nature's more modest but still notable geological marvels. The short trek to the Basin itself was crowded overwhelmingly. So many dogs present as well of all sizes and breeds; as much as we could do to avert Riley's truculent attention from them.

Finally, we set out on the trail and the crowd thinned. Each time we see it, the trail looks more worn. We could see where several old trees had come down recently in the near forest interior. At the lower reaches of the granite plateaus, we saw a good number of people assembled and plodded on upward ourselves. Riley was decidedly less energetic and enthusiastic than he's been on our earlier climbs. The roots and rocks are even trickier at the Basin trail, albeit of shorter duration. We finally veered off the trail over to the smooth, granite raceway because at that level no one else was yet present. There, we sat awhile on boulders, appreciating the beauty of the day, the scene and the tranquility embellished by the rushing water.

Soon enough, a handful of people began arriving to do for themselves what we had been enjoying. At that point we were just below the huge old pine we had first noted and admired for its size and age, posing one of our young boys beside it for a memorable photograph. We estimated it must have fallen a few years later, which would date the event to approximately 35 - 40 years ago. We've seen it countless times since then, needless to say. It still looks perfectly stout, lying across the raceway.

People were making their way on the descent. We could clearly see that the doughty young and fit and the curiously adventurous were making their way across the switchback to attain the continuing trail leading eventually up to the mountain lake. Possible now, because of the fall low-water level. We spoke with one fellow as he was descending from that expedition. Took him many hours of patient plodding as it had done us, in an earlier lifetime.

Another glorious day awaited us on Saturday. We were up early yet again, sun streaming through the bedroom window. The day before, while climbing the Welch trail to the ledge, my husband had decided that the climb merited some assistance and looked about for a fallen branch that could pass muster. He had always in the past carried with him an all-purpose Swiss army knife containing a miniature, but efficient saw. He had, in a spirit of generosity, given it away. We had stopped the day before at a somewhat isolated place that we knew carried all manner of knives, but they were awaiting a shipment to arrive, hadn't any with sawblades.

Although we would return a few days later to find the shipment had arrived and my husband then acquired a new knife that would serve the purpose, on this climb he had only a knife without the required saw, so spying a branch on the forest floor that he thought would fit the bill, he cracked off with his foot the length he thought would do, then used his hand on the opposite, more slender end, to break it off there as well to the required height. That end snapped back at him and in the process lacerated his hand, not far from the centre of his palm, affecting the area close to two of his fingers. We always carry first-aid stuff of a simple nature and he was able to clean and bind the wound, and we forged on. The next morning he saw to it that his hand was well band-aided.

But we also decided we'd give the more energetic hikes a break, take a relatively short hike, then drive on to Antique Alley, an activity that always beckons us during our trips to the area. From our more recent experiences, in contrast to what we had come across in the past in the realm of worthwhile objects of art and antiques, we weren't expecting much, but it's always intriguing to look around and see what is available.

Before setting off, the parents of the owners of the place we were staying at happened to be strolling by after a country walk of their own, nearby. We'd met them before over the years. They live outside Boston, in a small community there, and visit as often as they are able to. Their other son and his family live much closer to them, in fact in hand-shaking distance. Their older son maintains apiaries on their property and he produces the best honey my husband has ever tasted, as a honey aficionado. In contrast to our having three children and one grandchild, they have two children and eight grandchildren. That's life.

After our conversation we set off for our day's-worth excursion; a short hike, a long drive, anticipating not much more than the entertainment value in visiting group antique shops. With this in mind, we decided to return to our favourite hiking spot, Smarts Brook, and embarked on a shortened hike on yet another beautiful day, part sun, relatively mild and a slight wind. Just as well a shortened hike was on tap, we were well exercised from our previous two days' excursions, as was Riley.

A taunting, teasing flock of chickadees and the inevitable nuthatch greeted us close to the trailhead. We snapped our share of photographs, capturing some of the multitudes of micro-landscapes we find so admirably picturesque. Then turned back all too soon, to drive off to Antique Alley.

We usually make that drive on trail-inclement days, in pouring rain. Not this time. Since we had fairly low expectations of seeing anything of inherent antique value, given the last few years of scant offerings, we decided to bypass the group dealers we'd seen nothing of note from. To visit only the two Parker-French shops whose offerings, to be truthful, also lacked quality of late, but from which we'd derived so many of the items we now treasure, in the past. There, we took our time moseying about, saw items of absolutely no interest, even as 'collectibles'. Until we came across two elderly figures of Chinese provenance priced amazingly low (at $40 the pair).

We spoke briefly to old familiar faces, then departed. To drive back to Paws, another group dealership we'd dropped by a few days previously, to look into acquiring a pair of cleverly carved marble books we'd picked out, absent price tags. The owner had then priced them, and we returned to pick them up. These clever little 'books' look accurate enough to be tempted to riffle their pages.

Overnight Thursday presented a cool night, clear and comfortable. Bedtime reading for me is Robert Fowler's account of his abduction by al-Qaeda in Niger and his months of imprisonment. Makes for interesting reading, and elicits a certain amount of empathy for his plight and that of his fellow abductees, but I don't personally like the man's sour attitude expressed amply, about Canada's  government and his obvious resentments.

Sharing a 'double' size bed once again, with Riley's propensity to insist on sleeping horizontally rather than vertically beside me is no great fun. I tend to creep over to my husband's paltry side of the bed; he's larger than me, obviously needs more room for comfort and I tend to squeeze him, allowing Riley more room than he allows us to enjoy. Whose fault is that? Not toy-dog-sized Riley's. Oh Yeah.

After a leisurely breakfast and some sun-bathing, coffee-drinking laziness we decided to climb to the overlook at Welch-Dickey. The trail access parking lot areas were stuffed. We offered Riley water before setting out, changed into our hiking boots and set off, each of us carrying the equivalent of fanny packs and cameras and Riley's water bottle. He needs hydration, but we seldom feel the need for any on our treks.

Couldn't ask for a more beautiful day, sunny, slight breeze, and forecast for the mid-70s. We took the right-hand trail at the junction, came across the switchback to ford the mountain stream over boulders and set off. A challenge for Riley, intrigued by the prospect of a trail he surely does not entirely recall, though he did it last four years ago. Clear water gushing over rocks and boulders, a typical mountain stream, picturesque and musical. Lots of immature dogwood, as though newly colonized. Few conifers aside from the occasional pine well hidden by a screen of hardwoods: maple, beech, oak and yellow birch primarily, with some sumac and striped maple in the understory. The wind kept dislodging foliage, with leaves wafting down and acorns constantly dropping with an audible crack! on the forest floor. One series after another of rock 'steps' on the ascent, and ladders of tree roots.

Bluejays' calls pealed through the woods. Other climbers passed us time and again, sometimes stopping briefly to chat, but always exchanging cheerful greetings, expressions of thankfulness for the perfect weather. Most, we knew, would do the circuit and I envied them, fondly recalling so many of the highlights of the ascent, the col from Welch to Dickey, the added ascent to Dickey and all the geographic features so familiar over the years of climbing the double peaks in the past.

We took our time, waited for Riley, occasionally having to lift him over areas too much a challenge for an elderly toy poodle, but he's a determined, stoic and adept little hiker, scoping out quite efficiently any alternatives to the route useful to him. We finally reached the plateau where a wide rock-faced area leads to the overlook, and where the National Forest Service protects areas of tenderly sensitive alpine growth.

We stayed there awhile, nostalgic for the time past when we would forge on to the summit/s. We lingered, enjoying the views, the changing foliage, then headed back to the descent, retracing our steps, a much less time-consuming, but footing-sensitive descent. Where once this would have taken us perhaps an hour-and-a-half, we spent three and a half hours on this little expedition, and glad that we are still capable of at least doing that much. The last time we managed the circuit was when we were 72, taking our then-13-year-old granddaughter with us, and it took us an interminable five hours to complete the circuit. When, years earlier, we had enjoyed that mountain hike with our teen-age children, we could manage the 5.4-mile mountain hike in well under three hours.

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.

We finished our packing on Tuesday, September 23 and the following day set off on our trip once again to the Waterville Valley in New Hampshire. The thought of hiking those favourite mountain trails of ours during the scenic time of fall colours proved irresistible to us.

My husband left our morning bed Wednesday morning far earlier than me, intent on preparing a thermos of coffee and one of tea for our trip, and to begin loading up the truck. I did get up eventually, but that was to put on the bedside lamp and read a bit more of that fascinating book by Simon Winchester, Krakatoa. It was far, far too early to get up. My husband too made his way back to bed and we both fell asleep again until half-past eight.

Time to shower, for little Riley to do his duty, and while we busied ourselves with last-minute stuff, Riley had his breakfast. We did finally leave, at 10:00; no big hurry; we'd get there eventually. As we left we were exposed to an unusual heavy morning fog, but traffic was light and that was most acceptable. We did run into housing construction taking up the roadway in a new subdivision down close to the Mer Bleue, so we took an alternate route to get to Anderson Road by backtracking on Innes and finally accessed the 417.

Again not much traffic, and plenty of eye candy with the forest on either side of the highway well into autumn, showing blazes of bright red, golds, yellow, and lime greens. I discovered that the sun glasses I was using were literally 'rose coloured'; its colour tincture turned everything a bright rosy hue. Bit of a cheat, that.

Not much traffic again, and plenty to see with vultures wheeling overhead, geese rising in formation from the Ottawa River, not yet prepared to leave for Southern climes, but getting to that point. The highway forest ablaze with scarlet of the sumacs and bright red maples, yellow birch, providing a pleasing backdrop to our trip. And, in a sense, so did the audio book my husband had selected for us to listen to on our way to New Hampshire: Oliver Sacks's "The Mind's Eye".

Driving through Montreal wasn't at all as nasty as it often turns out to be. A little slow, but passable, and before we knew it, we were through. Same for the border crossing when we eventually reached it. Only one vehicle before ours. The usual interrogatory style was dispensed with on this occasion, and we were swiftly waved through. A mile up from there we stopped at the Vermont rest stop we usually use, to get a break from driving, walk about a bit, exercise Riley, and have a late brunch.

When we reached the Franklin Notch, the roads there were deserted as well. By then though, the fog had followed us for a while -- or, more correctly, we had followed it -- the skies had cleared and the sun was fully out. White cloud-puffs stuck themselves to the mountain peaks as they so often do. And viewing those peaks it's hard to realize we once climbed them all. From there it took no time to arrive at our destination, though it was almost 5:00 pm.

Our hosts, as genial as ever, it was good to see the place, to speak with them, and then finally to settle in to the cottage, unpacking and preparing for our stay. They laughed when they informed us that a photograph of us was being featured on their new web site. In fact, it appears as well on their new brochure; a smiling pair of happy clients.

Our unpacking completed, we set off to do the food shopping at the Hannaford's supermarket a few miles' distant. Riley had to put up with being fed his dinner at 7:00, but he was a good little scout about the inconvenience. A perfect little travel companion, and a little sweetheart.