It is late October. New Hampshire has been exploding with bright colors that envelop the countryside. Fall seems late this year. It is unfolding slowly and the greens of many trees are holding on.

But today I was stopped in my tracks by the peaceful beauty of local apple trees. Never before had I stared in awe and felt such profound peace in an orchard I hike regularly. To me, the fragrance of bursting white buds bringing the orchard to life and the red shine of the apples ripening have always held the glory.

The harvest is almost over. A hush is overtaking the rows as they start to shed their leaf cloaks to take a long-deserved rest after months of pruning, growth, production, spraying, and finally, harvest. There is no humming of bees, tractors, or voices. No ladders lean against trunks; the huge wooden boxes set around the orchard to receive hand-picked apples have been filled and transported to a central location for sorting, shipping, and sale.

I hadn’t planned to write. I hadn’t even planned to notice. This was going to be a quick hike with my dogs. The camera I carry on most of my hikes was back on the kitchen counter. Even my phone camera was sitting useless in my car. I didn’t want this awe to escape. So, I pulled some wrinkled index cards and a half-working pen from my pack and started jotting down impressions.

The multitude of subtle colors surrounding me came first. Scribbling orange, gold, yellow or red wasn’t enough. I jotted down orange-maroon, orange-rust, orange-brown, orange-gold. Then pink-orange, rose-yellow, green-spotted edges, light green veins, and dark brown veins. The leaves at the ends of the branches seemed to have aged the fastest. They had changed to a plethora of maroon shades.

But when the sun peeked out from behind the clouds and hit that tree, even the darkest colors sparkled with yellow-white sunshine. How many colors could I see on one tree that was just my height? How could I put into words the brilliant uniqueness of every leaf on that one tree? They reminded me of snowflakes, but this time Mother Nature’s artistry was in “my” familiar orchard, and in just one tree among hundreds. All the other trees beckoned to me to visit them, pause, and soak in their unique beauty. I’d have to come back another day.

My observations and scribbles shifted to weeds, grasses, granite slabs, surrounding woods and hills, the rustle of the wind. I looked down as I stepped over New Hampshire granite warmed by the sun; remembering the many times I’d sat on that special spot to absorb the view. I noticed the juxtaposition of all kinds of weeds among the trees. The color, leaf shape, size and branching structure of each had its own unique beauty. And they added to the kaleidoscope I was immersed in. I squatted down to wonder at a 12-inch-high broadleaf plant struggling to survive in the wild grass. It had a purple color I don’t think Crayola has manufactured or named in a crayon. The wind broke me from my reverie as it bent my purple plant and all the golden grasses and set them swaying.  

My impatient dogs took the chance to romp, roll and wrestle against me to regain my attention. They were wondering why my pace was so slow. What seemed like walking meditation to me was puzzling to the dogs.

Deep gray clouds were approaching and the wind was beginning to roar. It seemed as if we’d get stuck in a ferocious rainstorm if I didn’t pick up my pace. So I scribbled a few more phrases and tucked my wrinkled, dirty index cards into my pack so we could beat the rain. We hustled back to the car. Sleet hit just as I got the dogs safely into the car and started up my motor.

I had only index cards to remind me of the surprise I encountered in the “everyday” orchard just a mile from my house. A treasure whose seasonal beauty and mystique I had only half understood called to me today in a way it never had.

I know I’ll head out again in the winter with camera as well as note cards, certain that I’ll find a different beauty, magic, power, and mood, as long as I slow down and pause.

 by Meg Downey Hardy, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener

Photo credit : liz west, Some rights reserved