I've just had one of the prettiest mail walks I can remember, with good company. I had stepped out for some air and a stretcher and to check on chanterelles by the driveway. But the late sun was so bright on the maples and oaks that I knew an end-of-October full mail walk was absolutely necessary! (Especially as I won't be here for my usual midnight walk to the bridge to check on Old Greenface on Halloween night). It was nippy, but the sun shone all the way.
The Mail Path was in beautiful condition, thanks to the kind ministrations of the Faery Gardeners. The valley below, mowed by Stan Sorenson months ago, was brilliant emerald after the rains, and the verges, riverbank, and hills beyond bright-gilded with the maples. The creek ran fullish again after the Indian Summer dry spell. The constant sound track was the converse of the jays, and one Douglas squirrel.
There was even some mail: the Eagle and the AARP.
I (luckily) continued a ways beyond, to see the old beaver workings on the creek above where it enters the river. Looking down, I heard a rustling on the hillside above me, and turned to look—and there was the bear, about thirty feet up!
It sat and watched me for a while, and I got the binos on its big teddy head. It wasn't the bear of the book cover, neither rainbow nor big, but a little black job; not a cub, but no more than a yearling. Then it bestirred itself and scrambled on up into the brush. Likely the chap who busted the bee-porch and gobbled the extra-hive combs I was looking forward to harvesting.
Well, I have plenty of hunny, and a warm cave; better it than me.
On the way back, looking across at the yellow lindens and larches and the silvered bridge, I thought the valley looked about as pretty as it ever has. The sun was just dipping down as I reached the drive. And yes, the chanterelles were there beside it, a nice little catch to go with my pork chop (thank you Florence)..