Why do we chase fall foliage? I have some theories and, after almost half a century in Vermont, am no less susceptible to its seasonal lure. The colored leaves of autumn demand attention — not just for their beauty but also what the short-lived exhibition represents: the last gasp of summer; the inevitability of change, winter, mortality. For me personally, it’s another deadline.
Whatever the reason, the impulse is to immerse ourselves in it. That’s how I found myself among hordes of leaf peepers over the weekend, driving down Route 116 and over the Appalachian Gap in search of something that can’t be preserved, even in photographs. The colors this year are especially vivid and, by some coincidence of weather conditions, were peaking on Saturday from the valleys to the mountaintops at the same time — a rarity. I’m a sucker for a maple in the midst of turning from green to brilliant red, with all the hues in between on display.
I was in search of something that can’t be preserved, even in photographs.
Of course, it’s one thing to behold a hillside lit up in red, gold and orange from the packed parking lot at Mad River Glen — beautiful like an impressionist painting. It’s another to walk through woods on the brilliant leaves the trees are shedding, a carpet of color. In search of the latter, I drove north on Route 100 to Waterbury to meet up with my partner, Tim, in the Shaw’s parking lot. From there, we set out for Mount Hunger. The trailhead is just off the aptly named Sweet Road, which at 1:30 p.m. was lined with cars.
Tim and I have a long history of hiking together, and I’m sorry to say it includes some pretty poor preparation on our part — underestimating time, clothing, food and water requirements, to name a few. Our first outdoor adventure, in July 2002, took a grim turn when a late-day climb up Mount Pisgah took longer than expected. After sunset, the forest got so dark, so fast, that we struggled to stay on the trail, which runs precariously close to the edge of the cliffs above Lake Willoughby. The tiny, dying light from Tim’s flip phone helped us find the way down, which took hours on that moonless night. Navigating the situation, which felt more dangerous than it was, bonded us forever.
I was 24 years younger then, with two good knees. Saturday’s hike would be my first in Vermont since getting a meniscectomy five months ago. I kept a close — Tim would say obsessive — eye on the time as we gained elevation. When did Hunger Mountain get so steep? Focusing intently on the roots and rocks ready to trip and slip me up at every step, I got a close-up view of the leaves that had fallen.
Then, at the top, just the opposite: blushing hills all around, with stands of conifers calling out the color like the greenery in a bouquet. We could see all three mountain ranges: the Greens, Whites and Adirondacks. It was sunny, bug-free and glorious.
We would have stayed longer if I wasn’t worried about getting down. Would I need extra time? The descent confirmed: No fitness routine can prepare a 66-year-old body for hiking in Vermont. But my knee held up. We made it back to the car half an hour before sunset, then sat in leaf-peeper traffic for 45 minutes, waiting on the light at the intersection of Route 100 and Guptil Road.
The next day I woke up sore — but satisfied.
This article appears in October 7 • 2026.
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