Hells Canyon
I grew up in the mid-Atlantic state of New Jersey. New Jersey, for the uninitiated, is likely to conjure up images of manufacturing plants, highways, and lots of people. All of those things are there, in abundance in some spots, but it is also proudly announced on our license plates that it is the Garden State, and it has that name for good reason. I lived in an area that was suburban to be sure, but there were (and are) still large tracks of forest and it was only a 5 minute drive to Nettie Ochs Farm where they grew apples and made fresh cider on an ancient press each October.
The reason this all matters is because today, I was a child again. When I was growing up, autumn was my favorite season, and it is no different today. As I first stepped out on deck this morning, the sky was awash in gray clouds, piled in great swirling masses above the hills. As we set off on our adventures up the Clearwater and Snake River Valleys, I was delighted by the unmistakable earthy smell of fallen fruit and decaying leaves. Never mind that the leaves were the yellowing Netleaf Hackberrys and sandbar cottonwoods or the reds of sumac rather than maples, oaks and the like. It didn’t matter. I was transported. A strong breeze blew, causing leaves to break free from the branches above. Just as I had as a child, I tried (successfully!) to catch one for good luck. The rock here is basalt rather than the granite back east, but the changing hues stand out just as brilliantly against their craggy surfaces. There was a chill in the air that none of us could deny, nor would we want to. The sights and smells of this Fall day, though perhaps different in some ways from those of our youth, nonetheless kindled memories of autumnal pleasures—from harvests and jack-o-lanters to touchdowns and turkeys. Now, we all have a new set of sensory experiences to add to our storehouse of seasonal memories.
I grew up in the mid-Atlantic state of New Jersey. New Jersey, for the uninitiated, is likely to conjure up images of manufacturing plants, highways, and lots of people. All of those things are there, in abundance in some spots, but it is also proudly announced on our license plates that it is the Garden State, and it has that name for good reason. I lived in an area that was suburban to be sure, but there were (and are) still large tracks of forest and it was only a 5 minute drive to Nettie Ochs Farm where they grew apples and made fresh cider on an ancient press each October.
The reason this all matters is because today, I was a child again. When I was growing up, autumn was my favorite season, and it is no different today. As I first stepped out on deck this morning, the sky was awash in gray clouds, piled in great swirling masses above the hills. As we set off on our adventures up the Clearwater and Snake River Valleys, I was delighted by the unmistakable earthy smell of fallen fruit and decaying leaves. Never mind that the leaves were the yellowing Netleaf Hackberrys and sandbar cottonwoods or the reds of sumac rather than maples, oaks and the like. It didn’t matter. I was transported. A strong breeze blew, causing leaves to break free from the branches above. Just as I had as a child, I tried (successfully!) to catch one for good luck. The rock here is basalt rather than the granite back east, but the changing hues stand out just as brilliantly against their craggy surfaces. There was a chill in the air that none of us could deny, nor would we want to. The sights and smells of this Fall day, though perhaps different in some ways from those of our youth, nonetheless kindled memories of autumnal pleasures—from harvests and jack-o-lanters to touchdowns and turkeys. Now, we all have a new set of sensory experiences to add to our storehouse of seasonal memories.
