By Gordon Patterson
A Fallen Leaf
A single leaf lay on the trail head entrance when we pulled in. It wasn’t fully turned yet, still green in the centre, but the edges carried that first rusty hint of change. No colourful Autumn hillsides yet, no sudden shift in the canopy. Just one early leaf letting go, as if the tree had quietly acknowledged Fall would soon be here.
The air had a subtle change too. There was a cool freshness in the morning breeze, a clean scent beneath the usual evergreen and moss aromas. Summer was still here. Fireweed, Bracken, Salal berries were hanging on. But the trail somehow felt different. Something had begun to pull back. The days remain generous, yet the light doesn’t carry the same confidence, and shadows gather sooner along the trail.
Autumn doesn’t arrive on Northern Vancouver Island with sudden riotous applause. It appears slowly, over a period of time through small changes you only notice if you’ve walked the same places many seasons. A leaf curl here and there… aging of salmonberry and huckleberry bushes. Dry grass reacting noisily on boot laces. The forest, warm for so long, cools under a canopy that darkens earlier. Moss and lichen hold a deeper musky scent, mushrooms rise from mycelium. Even the silence of the evening settles differently. Trembling leaves herald summer’s end.
The trail is familiar. Christine, Rosie, and I remember where the ground dips, where roots rise, where the sky opens for a moment before closing again behind a cathedral of maple, alder, and hemlock branches. Our familiarity doesn’t dull a place… it sharpens the enjoyment of it! Nature is presenting a different chapter of forest life. When you know a trail well, you see and feel the smallest seasonal departures. Rosie moves ahead, then falls back, nose low, pausing at a hoof print as Christine crouches to look at a single jelly like orange mushroom tucked into soil mixed with fern, old leaves, twigs, and needle debris.
We walk through the day slowly, pleasantly interrupted by small pleasures. A cheeky Steller’s Jay crosses the path, his blue colouring vivid against a green backdrop. He seemed annoyed and nervous, flittering from branch to branch scolding us. In contrast a gentle soothing sound of water bubbling emanated from somewhere beyond. A startled Ruffed Grouse scampered off into the undergrowth… in its usual hurry. We were not trying to reach anywhere. The trail’s ambiance was enough, and today it offered a wonderful and different version of itself.
In summer, the backcountry feels outward‑facing. Long afternoons, easy light, the sense that the day will stretch as far as you need it to. As autumn approaches, the forest draws you inward. Not from fatigue, but from attention. Details sit closer to the surface. Bird‑nest fungi on a stump tells a story of a remarkable micro world. Dew gathers on spider webs in exciting patterns highlighting skill and perseverance of the arachnoid nature. Leaves loosen their uniform green, some dulling, others turning yellow in uneven patches.
Near the River, the smell of salt and salmon teases the imagination. Calm pools form in the shadows, holding bits of sky and water skitters. Riverside foliage takes on a mature September subtlety… quiet amber tone that feels like age rather than decline. Another single leaf drifts on the river, turning once or twice before the current carries it off. No drama. No loss. Just the continuation of a route older than humanity .
Autumn never arrives all at once. One tree changes before another. Fireweed decides colouring on its own timing. Nature’s paintbrush moves unevenly…. moisture and sunlight influencing the choices plants make. There’s a story of change in every mossy rise and every wildlife sighting. Small things hardly noticeable are waiting to be noted in my journal.
Wildlife senses the season changing long before we do. Bull elk bugle, messaging the herd he is anxious to start a new generation. Ravens become more vocal, their rough calls echo from distant places adding dimension to the forest. Squirrels move with energetic purpose, leaping branch to branch, cheeks full of cone seeds. Rosie watches with curiosity as they disappear into the green thick salal. Their urgency isn’t nervousness or new; it’s the same work they’ve done every autumn for eons. From a distance they look frantic, but it’s simply preparation. The way of the Wild Kingdom.
The first geese pass overhead in a loose V. The lead bird shifts, the line wavers, and their calls reach us before their bodies do. Familiar, yes …but still an amazing call of nature…. Always worth stopping for.
By afternoon, the forest felt more alive than the open road. An owl called from a hollow somewhere unseen. Wings open silently. Eyes watch us hidden by foliage. Woodlands are never empty, even when you can’t see what’s there.
People change with the season too. Fewer hikers. Quieter conversations. Shoulders tucked into jackets. Hands warm in pockets. There is melancholy in the way folks move. Perhaps sadness summer is ending. But warmth lingers in river stones, in the smell of dried grass, in the memory of an elk’s bugle bouncing off hillsides throughout the valley.
Memory deepens a trail. A bend isn’t just a bend, a hilltop is not just a hilltop… they holds recollections of vivid greens, alpine meadows, huckleberries, wet mornings, bright afternoons, and the moments when Rosie stopped to study something only she could sense. A stretch of hemlock recalls a martin sighting, a scolding squirrel, a glimpse of a deer. A pace change reminds you of more youthful days, who you were many years ago. We return to quiet hide-and-ways visited long ago, and find the land has kept more of us than we realized. Our heats quicken recalling fond moments.
The Fall season steadies things. It shows the familiar in a different light. The path is still the path, but its edges shift with annual adjustments. Colours thin, fragrances are crisp and clear. Rosie catches a scent and stops, ears up, alert. Light rests across the trail in long quiet bands. Somewhere above, a Bald Eagle calls, a reminder to turn back. A Red-tailed Hawk answers.
Autumn’s arrival doesn’t shout. It taps you on the shoulder. Another leaf loosens, falls, and settles in the grass. No farewell. No final gesture. Just a silent part of the season returning to itself. A small act of letting go making room for renewal. A selfless act in the grand circle of life. Mother Nature promises that Fall’s meaningful change, although quiet, is followed by a winter slumber and then regrowth.
The trail we walked today will call us back tomorrow God willing. Not to the past, but to another spring, full of hope, memories, and new beginnings.
Safe travels,
Gord
Photos © 2026 Christine Patterson