These Fading Summer Days

 We've been gone most of the summer, and so it surprises me--upon our late August return--to find that the Joe-Pye weed, that first harbinger of autumn, is already starting to look a little ragged from age.  These fading summer days are given like a gift, unextravagant, unexceptional, almost too commonplace to mention.  And yet, for those who have eyes to see it, their glory is unparalleled.

 We began the summer season by going one last time back up to my old school in New York State, where I finally graduated from my doctoral program.  (Now at last, I am allowed to use the title "Doctor," but I'm embarrassed to do it.)  On the way home, we stopped by Niagara Falls.  Later in the summer, we camped in the scenic New River Gorge of West Virginia.  And finally, we spent a very long vacation season in the incomparable splendor of the Hawaiian Islands.  All three of these places were more spectacular than the woods around Pittsburgh.  But I'm glad to be home, where the green of the maple trees is already yellowing.

 August is its own kind of summer.  Evenings and mornings are cool, though the afternoons are hot.  You have to look closely, but much of the forest is a tint yellower than in midsummer.  

 And yet, the yellowing is a little early this year.  When the green is washed out early, despite sufficient summer rainfall, it means that the winter will be hard.  This fine young sycamore is ready for a long, white season of rest.    

 Raccoon Lake: Across the water, the beach stands empty.  It will get one last busy time as the upcoming three-day weekend attracts the end-of-summer crowd.  

 I must admit that I wasn't prepared for just how much I would love Hawaii: the rocky coasts, the jagged mountains, deserts, dense forests, the waterfalls--and all of it caressed in those gentle Pacific breezes.  I occasionally said to my wife, "Now, remind me again why anyone lives in Pennsylvania."

Not all beauties can be stunning, like Hawaii.  Some beauties are subtle.  Some are understated.  At this far edge of summer, the forest has a vegetal smell, almost like a pot of stewing spinach.  It's the pungent aroma of wet earth and decaying wood.  The hollows are veiled in mist.  It was good to be back in native territory.  I was gone almost all summer, and so I missed the crowds who flock to this park when school is out.  But the woods is a place of solitude again, ready for my weekly return...