It got cold this week. I left for work one morning, and as soon as I got outside, I realized that my shorts and t-shirt wouldn’t suffice. Assuming that this was just a freak incident, I dressed similarly the next morning, with similar results. At that point, I started checking the weather in the morning before I left.
Autumn is a good thing. I’ve been waiting for it; I really love it. I’m hoping to take some time to hike up in the Shenandoahs with Amber, and just enjoy some weather that’s different than what I’ve gotten used to. I know that it’s Spring that is supposed to make us feel as if there’s possibility in the air, but it’s Autumn that does that for me. Walking home in the evening I get a little chill running through me, and I feel like anything could happen if I would just relax and let it.
I don’t think that I’ll ever lose my association between Autumn and backpacking the few hundred miles of the AT that go through Maine. Tuesday, for the first time since I hiked it in 1996, I read my journal that I kept throughout New Hampshire and Maine. I’ve been reading a few days’ worth every night, just enough to seed my dreams with possibility. They make me a little sad. I’d honestly like nothing more than to be backpacking in Maine again. Given my little foot problem, though, I know that’s hardly realistic. But a guy can dream.
This mix of sadness and happiness leaves me feeling a bit confused. I think the worst part is that I work so much that I feel that I might miss Autumn altogether. Hiking in Maine, I was a part of the change of the seasons. I felt, in a way, like my presence was an integral part of the turning of the leaves. If I hadn’t been present, it wouldn’t have happened quite as it did. Here, in Charlottesville, in my office, I feel like Autumn doesn’t need me, despite my need for it. That might be the saddest part of all.