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Splendid day experienced in out-of-doors

John Pepin, Michigan Department of Natural Resources, Journal columnist

“Oh, it’s a long, long time from May to December, but the days grow short when you reach September.” — Ali Staton, John Green, Stephen Granville

As I sat out back in the iron-railed chair — with the brown, cross-hatched backing — the wind blowing through the tops of the trees and across my face that afternoon was warm.

Beside me was a cool cola surrounding a mountain of ice cubes inside a glass. I watched as the birds in the chokecherry trees, pulled off the fruit and ate their fill.

The skies were clear and blue, with the occasional stratus clouds puffing their way on past in billowy fashion. It was one of those mystical-magical halcyon days when it felt so good just to be alive and to be outside, soaking up the sunshine.

During that week, there had been several of these phenomenal days stretched out, all in a line, strung together like exquisite jewels on the necklace of a proper grand duchess. Grand indeed.

I have often wished I could bottle up just one of those perfect days to be uncorked later, on some breath-freezing, chest-compressing, cold February morning — one of those days when Jack Frost has drained all the juice out of my car battery and the wind is so strong and raw it feels like it’s going to strip the skin off the backs of my hands, exposing the bones.

After there were a couple more of these warm days and nights, the rains came — heavy rains that swelled the rivers and turned their mouths brown and slick like chocolate milk.

Gravel washed down the sides of the roads and, in some places, washed out the roads to travel. In other places, water pooled in yards and around houses and out buildings, with no other place to go.

When the skies stopped crying, the sun came back out, but it was too late. The rains and cold winds had cooled the temperatures. The halcyon days were gone.

It was somewhere in here, with the help of Mother Nature, that I awoke from my daydream to suddenly become aware of the calendar.

Driving down a highway, in the western part of the region, I noticed the leaves of some of the maples, oaks and birches had turned color. In some small pockets, the reds, golds, yellows and oranges were almost at peak level — already.

While I had been basking in the final hurrah of summertime, paying no attention to much other than wondering how much longer that beautiful weather would last, nature was more than a few steps ahead of me — as usual — laying out the autumn cloak.

Only then had I realized the healing voices of the loons had disappeared completely from my evening skies. The hummingbirds had gone, the feeder they’d defended all summer long still hung from the eaves of the house, half-full.

The sun had blushed the apples on the trees in my yard.

The geese were flying south in large groups. The sandhill cranes were bunched up and ready to follow. A few brook trout my buddy and I pulled out of a day’s fishing were in gorgeous spawning colors, loaded with eggs and milt.

I stepped outside on a cool evening and found the winds tossing leaves from the long dark branches of the trees above me. Just the little bit of bare branches visible sent a blazing brand to my core, reminding me of what was soon to come.

These branches looked stark against the deepening bluish-purple sky.

It was about this time I was quite pleased to see at least one old friend hanging around. It was a little brown bat that I had been seeing for a few weeks in the evenings, on the hunt for bugs, circling the open space in our yard, banking swiftly and cutting through the skies.

His presence was comforting. I have never seen so few bats in any year I can remember. White-nose syndrome has been devastating colonies of bats housed in the Upper Peninsula and across several states.

I have accompanied scientists into the caves who are trying to find an answer to the attack of this invisible enemy. Hopefully, their efforts will soon be successful.

I’ve been watching a doe, a fawn and a yearling deer who have been frequenting our backyard, stopping under the apple trees for a snack. I talk to them and they stand and seem to listen, while they continue to chomp.

After a day or so, all the apples the wind had knocked down to the ground had disappeared. I reached up to a branch loaded with beauties and shook a few down for the deer.

I had stood on a step ladder a few days earlier, helping the girls pull down enough good-looking apples to bake a glorious pie. Unlike the green apples we’d pull off the wild trees when I was a kid — and would have to season with salt to eat — these tasted just great, right off the branch.

I’ve seen a four-point stag hanging around the edges of the yard and crossing the road early and late. I suspect he eats our apples under the cover of darkness. I call him “Buck Naked.”

The days were shortening rather quickly, with evening’s shadows falling sooner and sooner each night. It was, after all, almost the first day of autumn, according to the heavens.

I felt at a loss to explain the swift passage of time.

My dad always used to say time goes by faster and faster the older you get. I didn’t understand what he was talking about. I remember wondering what he meant.

I now know. It wasn’t the only thing he was right about that took years for me to discover. Strange isn’t it, how that works?

My heart races, but can’t keep up, with the days flying by. I have this clear feeling now I’ll never have enough time to do all the things I want to do. Books, hikes, trips, stories, building, breathing, growing, feeling.

When the autumn weather turns the leaves to flame, one hasn’t got time for the waiting game.

The last day I can remember having a clear calendar recollection this year, one that I can say I was truly in-sync with nature, was sometime around Memorial Day.

After that, things have been a blur.

All of this said, I love the fall.

It may still be my favorite season.

I seem to have to be dragged by nature from one season into the next – never ready to leave one and start the next. It’s no secret many human beings struggle with change. Ironically, it’s the one constant in the universe.

After these latest rains, there are now plenty of pretty leaves, in of a whole range of colors, lying amid the wet, green grass in my backyard. Fall is here, whether I am ready, aware or accepting.

I’d better get moving. I am determined to catch up to the season, running after it like that little kid at the end of Shane.

I envision sitting in my snuggly, blue hoodie, sitting around the stone-circled fire pit in the backyard, drinking something pumpkin-spiced.

I can almost see one of those big yellow harvest moons rising-up into the chilly skies from behind the bare trees. I can hear the fire crackling as I sink back farther into my chair.

And these few precious days, I’ll spend with you…

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.

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