By Erin Fanning
While we wait for snow to arrive in northern Michigan, my husband and I continue to pedal our mountain bikes across the dirt trails, two-tracks, and forest roads that crisscross rural Michigan. The terrain creates an endless, at least in my imagination, network of intertwined forests, lakes, and rolling hills.
The ground is almost always semi-frozen, and we are bundled up with “helmet” caps poking out from beneath our actual helmets. Wool socks, mittens, jackets, and even the occasional scarf, depending on the temperature, complete the outfits.
Fall colors lighting up the forest
On a recent bike ride, a cold wind also decided to join us as we pedaled through a naked forest of skeleton trees. Their branches splayed wide as if hoping for an embrace or fell across the trail, waiting to jam into our derailleurs. We were utterly alone as we biked through the Huron-Manistee National Forest.
It’s the time of year where nature’s beauty seems lacking, as if it too is waiting for a layer of fresh snow, which will display the muted greens, grays, and browns against sparkling white. But I’ve learned over the years that late autumn’s gray landscape can be deceptive, revealing a raw beauty. Fallen leaves crunch under boots or bike tires, and the sky melts into the earth, making it hard to tell where one begins and the other ends.
The world opens up, no longer hiding behind spring and summer’s foliage or winter’s snowy cloak. It’s a time for details, for examining minutiae. It’s a reminder that even during the bleakest days there is always beauty. A blue jay flits from tree to tree or deer dash across an open field.
So, the other day, as I climbed the final hill before making the long descent back to our truck, I had a sudden rush of gratitude for a chilly day spent in the woods and for the happy memories that often play through my head on long bike rides, when the silence of the forest allows one to really think.
