We hunted in a drizzle so light that when ducking under a fir bough, the duff was dry. Under a seamless gray sky, damp air buoyed an aroma of grounded September leaves.
In the atmospheric stillness, I heard trees dripping accumulated mist. The only other sound was the panting of the dogs when they circled back into earshot. The color was loudest — sumac so red it appeared lit from within. The full range of hues possessed a vigor that can't be matched on cloudless days. Perhaps it was the sheen of rain, like spit on a marble floor or agates in an aquarium.
Next day, I ambled down to Secret Lake to pick cranberries. Calm water sparkled in generous, low-angle sunshine, and fat red berries were plentiful. I knelt in sphagnum moss at the shoreline and plucked two or three fruits at a swipe, making satisfying plunks in the bottom of a pail. Repetitive motion that promised rewards was a tonic. Enveloped in a bubble of peace and contentment, I actually felt hugged.
Next morning on that same shore, I caught the first bittersweet glimpse of winter. Under low overcast, the water was black and near freezing. Light snow dusted yellow tamarack and deep green spruce. To the north, a narrow rent in the cloud deck revealed a slash of blue sky — the final exit of autumn?
Late in the day, sunlight briefly peeked through a flat shelf of gray cloud, and the tamaracks blushed a luminous gold. From faraway I heard a burst of raven speech, as if to say, "Look! Look!"
Returning to the house, I broke off two small, dead aspen trunks and dragged them to the cabin. I bucked them into sticks with a Swede saw in fewer than three minutes and owned two armloads of dry wood. It was enough to heat the house for the frosty evening, and I felt blessed to be able to pluck "free" energy almost as casually as you might pick up a newspaper or a cup of coffee on an urban street corner.
At nightfall, I hurried to set up my telescope before another mass of forecast cloud rolled in. Our target was a faint comet, and I quickly located it in the constellation Corona Borealis. This easy find was possible because our remote sky is almost as dark and transparent as a sky can be. At 54x magnification, the comet was a fuzzy, elongated ball.
Ten minutes later, clouds rolled overhead, and as I was packing up the telescope, I heard wolves howling far off to the southwest. Much nearer, a barred owl hooted in counterpoint.