Past Peak Now

It has been a spectacular month around here, with long stretches of sparkling days, fiery trees lit up by the sun, and full-moon nights. We’ll be sinking into the grays and browns of November just ahead, and we’d better muster a good attitude about the shift.

And I’m not even talking about the election.

This fall, more than most, I got a kick out of all the chatter– on the radio, at the checkout line, in the staff room — about when the New Hampshire foliage would “peak” in various parts of the state, and how to catch it at just the right moment. The topic began to give me the impression that we were chasing butterflies with nets, believing that if we timed our actions just right we’d capture something ephemeral that would brighten our souls for the drabness that lies ahead.

I must admit that, when I ventured to a new place to take a hike a week ago and was rewarded with this blanket of variegated colors and the calm blue water of Winnipesaukee, I was glad that I hadn’t waited any longer to get up there.

And for a stretch of days, the overwhelming orange of my neighbor’s maple caused a sudden shedding of any cloak of dreariness that might have been around my shoulders as I turned into our road each afternoon.

But at the same time, I keep having this persistent feeling that focusing too much on PEAK anything won’t really help us, in the long run. The more we try to attain it, the more we realize how quickly it seeps through our hands like so much clear water, leaving us trying to remember the coolness, the perfection we possessed.

Take this guy for example. He’s enjoying the exact moment that he worked so hard to reach; he’s gotten above the clouds, even, and he couldn’t have a more magnificent view.

Will he be able to bottle up this sense of triumph, of being on the absolute apex? Will the achievement help to fuel all his subsequent striving? Perhaps. No part of me wants to say that he could have used his time more wisely, or that he’s bound to be disappointed soon enough — no, none of that. When I look at a photo like this, I only wonder just how much power these “savoring the top” experiences actually have and how they inform all our other somewhere-in-the-middle-will-I-ever-get-there or on-the-downward slope- don’t-slip kinds of experiences which, let’s face it, claim more of our time.

To be bluntly personal here, did the fact that I made it to the top of Cannon Mountain back in mid-September bring me enough confidence and resilience to better absorb the tumble and scraped shin, along with the wounded pride, I incurred as we descended? There was, I think, some kind of balancing effect, anyway.

OK, maybe I’m guilty of throwing a wet blanket on a whole set of perfectly good aspirations here. After all, everybody knows that we savor the top — the maximum, the utmost, the best — of anything because we know perfectly well that most of life doesn’t take place on that rocky perch, when we get to eat a sandwich and bask in our triumph. Why shouldn’t we savor the heck out of anything that is, in fact, peak?

Yet again, it’s the contrasts between things that make life most rich. The border of this stubbled field wouldn’t look nearly as interesting without the thin white birch trunks and the feathery green pine boughs. And the bright orange stands out because of the more plentiful gold. The overcast afternoon when I took the picture may or may not have been designated a peak foliage day in our particular town; that made no difference to me.

And then sometimes, frequently in fact, an October scene can be compelling even without those classic colors we’ve come to rely on. Here, it’s the age of the stone wall, the leaves both on and off the trees, the sunlight that together tell a simple tale of seasons coming and going, this October being only the most current in a long line of Octobers before it.

I’m not sure I like the term “past peak” for where we are now, because it suggests that the best is behind us, in all kinds of ways. This might help: I’ll take heart that the local ski mountain is called Pats Peak (no apostrophe); over the generously long winter, I’ll make it a priority to take some thrilling runs.

How much of a peak enthusiast are you? Are you accustomed to climbing, reaching higher? Or do you find that plateaus have their own kind of charm?