By James McGuire
Contributing columnist
Another summer has come and gone. The passing equinox flipped its seasonal switch, making the change official. We’ve now begun our first steps along autumn’s grand-finale pathway.
Already, both weather and landscape have started to align themselves with the calendar’s proclamation. Daytime temps climb well into the 80s, while nights dip into the upper-50s.
September’s storied Harvest Moon is on the wane, its once-bright light fading into darkness.
There’s still a reasonable probability of an Indian Summer weather spell ahead. Or we might alternately face a flurry of those equinoctial storms often arriving this time of year.
Regardless of which scenario occurs, something in the air and light has been immutably transformed. A seasonal corner has been turned. Autumn is decidedly claiming the land, its presence irrefutable.
Nature writer Hal Borland says autumn is the prime time for “little journeys.” Short hikes, half-day excursions, small explorations “just down the road or across the nearest hilltop.”
I wholeheartedly agree!
This time of year I constantly find myself drawn to minor rambles. Practically any excuse or rumor is sufficient to get me out of the house and into the woods and fields.
The other morning I suddenly recalled a pawpaw grove located on a bend of one of the Great Miami’s smaller feeder creeks.
Pawpaws are my favorite wild treat. I dream and lust for them eleven months out of the year. But their season is brief. And so far, none of the patches I’ve checked has yielded a single fruit. My despair at procuring even a taste of something I so dearly love is mounting.
With hope, I drove to the backroad pull-off and set out on a pawpaw procuring mission the same morning the notion struck.
The scrubby woods bordering the little stream were cool and quiet, inviting. Jewels of leftover dew sparkled on the grass and leaves. The vegetation was still mostly green, though there were definite precursory hints—yellow on the walnut leaves, pale pink on a Virginia creeper spiraling up a dead ash. A maple contained a spattering of orange, while a sumac near where I’d parked, already sported plumes of scarlet.
Autumn’s color extravaganza was definitely on the way!
Where the creek makes a quarter-mile roundabout loop, I decided to shortcut my trek by cutting across the intervening field—a dense, hundred-yard expanse of weeds, predominately goldenrod.
Negotiating this pathless kingdom of rich yellow required a devil-may-care determination. It was a scratchy, itchy maze, dusty with chaff and pollen. No place for anyone with allergies! And doubtless a tick nirvana. My latent arachnophobia also kept kicking in—especially when I had to dodge one of those big black-and-yellow garden spiders.
Who knew what manner of creepy-crawly beastie was already scuttling up a pants leg or lurking under the back of my shirt?
Though goldenrods dominated, there were also sunflowers, Jerusalem artichokes, yellow wingstem, and other similar plants. Many in flower. Plus an occasional lingering ironweed to add a dash of purple, and a few New England asters gleaming like glorious blue jewels.
Crickets, hoppers, and their singing kin trilled by the dozens. Once, a rusty-green preying mantis reared at me from a mullein stalk.
I came to an old fenceline—a narrow, open border of long grass, scrubby mulberries, and a near-impenetrable hedge of close-growing Osage orange. There I paused long enough to do a preliminary body check for transient stowaways. A more thorough check exam would come later, at home. This intermediate search tallied two ticks and several small bugs, identities unknown—but blessedly, no arachnids!
Plunging back into the goldenrod jungle, a startled cottontail squirted from practically underfoot, almost causing me to levitate. The rabbit disappeared in two hops and a quick zig-zag; my heart rate required somewhat longer to slow back down.
In spite of the dust, bugs, and smothery air, the long traverse through the goldenrod field was not unpleasant—in fact, it was a pleasure! What made it fun were the countless goldfinches I encountered along the way. Waves of brilliant yellow birds came winging up at my approach—ten, twenty, even thirty per flock, arising in whirring flurries from the dense goldenrod thicket.
As each successive squadron took wing, I repeatedly stood transfixed—delightfully captivated as I admired their bright yellow bodies and the jaunty black trimming on their wings, tails, and caps. They were like handful after handful of bright yellow coins tossed into the sky—sprays of goldfinches that arose and flew up practically in my face—a miracle of sound and color, set in motion against the vast blue canopy of September sky stretched overhead.
You can’t put a value on such days and moments; they’re both rare and priceless.
I eventually made my way across the field, returning to the creek and recollected pawpaw patch. Alas, those trees, too, and the ground underneath, were as devoid of my coveted fruit as all the other patches I’d checked.
I’m trying to not be too anguished. Life happens—and sometimes our hopes and desires go unfulfilled. And maybe I could still manage to stumble across a few pawpaws somewhere.
Years and seasons are unique. Time advances relentlessly. All are well beyond the grasp of human meddling and our petty power struggles—and for that, I’m profoundly grateful.
We can only change what we do with the hours and days ahead—how we choose to use them, to spend and savor them.
Autumn is a gift to unwrap, to explore and enjoy. I intend to do exactly that—as fully and often as possible, grateful for all the treasures and experiences this distinctively singular and forever unrepeated 2024 autumn has in store…even if that doesn’t include a few tasty pawpaws.
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