Looking up from the trailhead at Cunningham Falls State Park, I could see the sky between the branches; small, brilliant shards of blue framed by brilliant yellow leaves. Some trees were nearly bare. Others still held full crowns of orange and gold; and when the wind moved through them, sunlight danced across the crunchy fallen leaves around my feet.
I was born and raised in Maryland so this place is familiar. As soon as I graduated high-school, I ran off to be in the wilderness of Alaska. That turned into a 25-years of adventures. But, life brought me back to my roots in Maryland. Now, on my first east-coast hike since moving back, I stood watching a lone yellow leaf fall. It caught briefly on a branch, shook loose, and settled beside my boot.
I had come into the mountains for an overnight trip to see the fall colors. My plans were loose: drive the winding roads, stop at overlooks, walk as many trails as daylight allowed. But I hadn’t expected to spend so much time standing still. The beauty of the forest kept interrupting my progress.
A maple leaf lay in a shallow puddle, its red edges darkened by water. Moss filled the seam between two rocks. Beyond a fallen trunk, a squirrel worked through the leaves with the noisy determination of something much larger. Every few steps brought another small reason to pause.
Underfoot, the trail smelled of damp earth and slowly decaying wood. Where sunlight had dried the leaves, my boots stirred a dusty sweetness that I remembered from childhood. I breathed it in and thought of afternoons spent wandering Maryland woods, coming home with burrs on my clothes and dirt beneath my fingernails.
The sound of Cunningham Falls reached me gradually. Water slid over broad stretches of rock, separating into narrow channels before gathering again below. Wet stone shone almost black beneath the current. Along the edges, fallen leaves clung to little shelves and filled the quiet pockets between rocks.
I arrived early enough to have the waterfall to myself for nearly an hour.
I took countless photographs; adjusting the exposure until the water softened into pale threads. Then I stepped away from the camera. A breeze loosened leaves overhead, and I watched them descend through the clearing, some landing on stone, others disappearing into the flow.
Between hikes, I stopped at overlooks. The valleys were full of color. Yellow trees followed the folds of the hills, while red and bronze crowns crowded the higher slopes. Fields opened between wooded ridges. A barn stood beside a narrow road, small enough at that distance to seem carefully placed. Beyond it, the mountains faded into blue.
By late afternoon, I had stopped keeping track of the stops. At the final overlook, sunlight lingered on the opposite ridge while shadow rose through the valley. I watched the bright trees dim one by one. The air cooled, and somewhere nearby, woodsmoke drifted across the road.
That night, my boots sat by the door of my room, dusted with soil and bits of leaves. I lay awake briefly, feeling the day’s walking in my legs.
In the morning, mist filled the low ground. It was 32 degrees and the silent landscape was blanketed in the season’s first heavy frost. After scraping ice off my truck, I hit the road to my first destination. I wanted to hit one more trail before heading home, following a damp path beneath trees just beginning to catch the sun.
As I hiked, I thought about how well I had come to know the wilderness surrounding Juneau; the familiar bends, the streams, the places where I always paused. 25-years in a place is a lifetime.
Here, I was beginning again. For the first time in forever, everything is new, fresh, and exciting. I take time to soak it all in. I’m home, after all these years.
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