Fall on the McKenzie River arrives with a gentle mist that you feel more than hear. At sunrise the lingering chill and early shadows signal a season that invites slower mornings and extra blankets.
Rain replaces birdsong, and the temptation to hit the snooze button grows. Yet the sound of raindrops on windows becomes a backdrop for quiet reflection, prompting a second chance to rise and greet the day.
Each season brings its own metaphor: winter is soup, spring a salad, summer an entrée, and autumn a dessert. The trees near our home burst into a circus of colors, offering a fleeting sweetness reminiscent of apple pie and cinnamon before fading to winter gray.
While snow already blankets the northern slopes, promising a healthy snowpack for the ski season, we are still celebrating autumn. Pumpkins are ready for picking, jack‑o‑lanterns will soon grin, and candy will be abundant. Friendly ghosts may appear, but there is no cause for fear.
When the river’s level drops, as it did this past summer, exposed rocks and small islands emerge like ears from a haircut. The river listens patiently, inviting contemplation from its banks before it thunders down the valley in its autumn rush.
As the days grow shorter, I retreat to the fireside with hot drinks—apple cider, cocoa, or tea—and revisit favorite books such as To Kill a Mockingbird, A Prayer for Owen Meany, and One Hundred Years of Solitude. My winter movie list is shaping up, featuring titles like All the President’s Men, Edward Scissorhands, A River Runs Through It, Good Morning, Vietnam, and the classic Bird. For particularly melancholy February days, a Three Stooges marathon offers a needed laugh.
Autumn chores remain: storing the hammock, touching up trim before the rains, raking leaves, and ensuring the generator starts. “Age‑appropriate activities” no longer include climbing ladders, so I leave gutter and chimney work to others, though I still enjoy catching a leaf or two—a task harder than it seems beneath tall trees.
Sports season overlaps with the season’s colors. The Ducks continue without Dante Moore, and the Beavers have risen unexpectedly, though the lack of a rivalry game this year is disappointing, as is the Yankees’ absence from the World Series.
Walking among fallen leaves, I noticed a large maple leaf that remained a vivid green—an early fall that reminded me of the tragic shooting in Bend that claimed four children and a teacher. Tragedy, like the changing seasons, knows no calendar.
Leaves clinging to branches resist letting go, yet staying too long can be lonely. All living things eventually release their grip, experiencing both the exhilaration of life and the inevitability of final flight.
At 73, I wonder how many more autumns I will enjoy before becoming another leaf. A full woodshed, stocked with canned produce from our garden, offers emotional comfort, security, and a sense of tradition.
If autumn were a movie, it would be the climax where protagonists overcome obstacles—think Tin Man, Cowardly Lion, and Scarecrow reaching Oz, or Cinderella’s carriage turning into a pumpkin. It is a season of pronounced drama, and we hope for a fairy‑tale ending to 2026 as we watch the drama unfold from the best seats along the McKenzie.
Original reporting: Homepage – Lookout Eugene-Springfield — read the source article.
