“Dark and dusty, painted on the sky, misty taste of moonshine, teardrop in my eye. Country roads take me home to the place I belong.” — Bill Danoff, Taffy Nivert and John Denver

The morning was damp and chilly with the kind of wet cold that settles into your bones, but a soft, warm layer or two, and the deep cool-blue freshness of the air, kept me moving forward.

There was a sadness in the woods. Summer’s magic singing birds were gone. The sun was too tired to rise very high above the horizon the way it had just a few weeks ago.

Maybe it wasn’t as much a sense of sadness, but rather, a foreboding uncertainty.

This time of the season can be petulant and temperamental, rolling through sunny skies, rainy and snowy days, angry windstorms and pounding waves as easily as a child moves through tantrums, naps and giggling fits.

I walked past the heavy steel gate and found a wonderland of autumn along the winding leaf-covered road. Simply looking down between my old boots as I walked sent my mind whirling.

The wet, black and green leaves were crowded together and stuck to the cold dark dirt on the road. The leaves changed composition from those of the poplars and birches to big, brown oak leaves and back again as I headed down toward the lake.

Needles from the yellowed fall tamaracks covered the road on a bend, looking like someone had spread pine sawdust. The air smelled sweet.

Though the singing birds had gone, the woods were by no means quiet.

The sounds of woodpeckers pounding and tapping seemed to be everywhere. Nuthatches were there too tapping, tooting. Two giant pileated black and white woodpeckers, with their shocking red crowns, jumped back and forth, playing hide-and-seek with each other from either side of a birch tree trunk.

Red squirrels chased chipmunks up and over and under logs and sticks, making loud rustling sounds as they raced through the leaves. Red squirrels chased gray squirrels too. Though the grays seemed to be twice the size, they lacked sorely the rowdy, terrorizing intentions of their red-haired cousins.

Several years ago, I was out on a mist-netting adventure to band Kirtland’s warblers in Schoolcraft County, south of Munising. Researchers cautioned that we needed to check the nets before waiting too long.

Given the opportunity, red squirrels would attack and kill songbirds entangled in the fine black cloth netting. Around the bird feeders, red squirrels will chase anything from docile juncos and the cheerful chickadees to crows and blue jays, which are by no means shrinking violets.

These surly and aggrieved squirrels have no problem chattering their many concerns to me from a nearby branch, be it at home in the yard or here along this forest road bending closer toward the lake.

Numerous deer trails cut through the high yellowed grasses into the woods, down from the steep slopes and into a thick dark curtain of trees.

The road here showed fresh tracks from adults, and at least one small, deer. Its tiny tracks cut into the sand, looking like warm, sugared peanut butter cookies, almost good enough to taste.

There was also fox and coyote scat here in the road. These samples didn’t look as fresh, nor — as you might imagine — did they in any way look appetizing.

As the road climbed higher, I cut down along a line of trees, trying to screen myself from the view of ducks and anything else that might be out there on the water.

When I moved closer, I was quiet, but not enough.

A quacking mallard spattered up off the water and flew away. When I got to the shoreline, I remained concealed behind the trees as I walked.

The water was down low, exposing rocks, mud and wilted grasses and reeds. I looked for tracks, but didn’t see any, though the sharp-pointed stumps along the hillside and the paths through the mud meant beavers.

A group of five trumpeter swans — two adults and three cygnets — flapped loudly as they tried to take off from the gray-green waters of the lake. Their trumpeting sound echoed through the trees and the misty skies.

Not too far away, from a thick stand of trees along the lakeshore, a moose grunted and moaned. I walked out into view along the lakeshore now, hoping to get a couple of photos of a massive rock wall across the water, covered with orange lichen.

I hoped the moose would step into view.

After waiting a few moments, I walked back up the hillside to the road. There, I continued walking with upland tree growth, fallen trees and stumps to my left and the thick cedars below me to the right along the lakeshore.

A ruffed grouse flushed from the forest floor with its familiar heart-stopping flutter.

A few steps more and the bright, shiny sound of water running fast and tumbling soon met my ears. A tiny rivulet hopped and fell over rocks and logs, dumping down through a ravine. I thought about the sound being one of the most joyous I know.

If played as a soundtrack over sad scenes and discouraging developments, this welcome and peaceful sound would still be bound to light a spark of hope and faith inside.

For me, it’s a sound capable of transporting me to serene and simple settings in my mind – clarion, like the song of springtime’s first robin.

The road widened when it hit a broad powerline and intersected with a wet, sandy trail. A good distance below me, the far edge of the lake was visible in the open space created by the electric line clearing.

Scanning with my camera lens, I found nothing there.

I took a few deep breaths and listened to the silence. It was roaring peaceful and wonderful. I turned back down the leaf-covered road that snaked around and down through those woods along the lake.

I walked quietly through the leaves back toward the big metal gate. I stopped to take some pictures of the beautiful dried grasses and the lush moss that covered an old bent log, just off the trail.

As I approached the gate, two more grouse sputtered up from the forest floor off to my left. I got a real good look at them. One was rusty, the other gray. I wished I had seen them soon enough to get a good picture or two.

Ruffed grouse are one of those familiar creatures that I’ve known since childhood. It’s comforting that they can still be with me now in these days.

This beautiful and inspiring morning walk was afforded to me by a gracious neighbor who gave me permission to walk here on his private property. I am deeply grateful, and I thank him very much.

Back in the car I realized how invigorating this outing had been. It had touched my heart and my soul, opening me up to whatever was out there to sense, presenting me with a clearing, a sunny sky inside on a cloudy day.

I started the car and slowly pulled away, rolling down the window on my driver’s side. I didn’t want to be out of that fresh, clean air.

My elbow rested on the car door while I moved over the dirt road out toward the county road, passing the turtle pond full of green water, rotting gray logs and quiet.

This had indeed been a fine Sunday morning, solemn and satisfying, real and true.

Editor’s note: John Pepin is the deputy public information officer for the Michigan Department of Natural Resources. Outdoors North is a weekly column produced by the Michigan Department of Natural Resources on a wide range of topics important to those who enjoy and appreciate Michigan’s world-class natural resources of the Upper Peninsula. Send correspondence to pepinj@michigan.gov or 1990 U.S. 41 South, Marquette, MI 49855.