Last weekend my girlfriend, Jen, asked me to join her for some leaf peeping. "Sure!" I agreed, thinking that "leaf peeping" involved peering into strangers' windows, while wearing only what nature intended. It would be reliving my college days.

And then she explained the phenomenon of leaf peeping.

"Wait, we're going to do what?" I asked, putting my fig leaf back in the closet for another day.

Leaf peeping is when all 14.2 million residents of New England simultaneously flood the White Mountains of New Hampshire. They inch along in bumper to bumper traffic, looking at shedding trees until they go so crazy they're compelled to buy "REAL MAPLE SYRUP" from ramshackle stores that can't afford all the letters in their names, such as "Hole N th' Wall" and "This'n That Shop". Leaf peepers take this pilgrimage very seriously, planning their every move with a precision honed from years of experience and lack of a more productive hobby. Peepers tune into the evening newscast, eagerly awaiting the Fall Foliage Report. They don't worry one whit about the genocide in Darfur, but they're desperately afraid of missing the peak color. Leaf peepers are a frightening lot.

In short, it sounded like fun — not to mention, way too much of a freak show to pass up.

And indeed the New Hampshire fall foliage, especially in the White Mountains, is quite breathtaking. Though schlepping from one scenic overlook to another along a winding highway in thick traffic may not sound very exciting — in all fairness to New Englanders, there's usually little else to do most Octobers when you're a Red Sox fan.

So Jen and I loaded up the car and headed north. Our partner on this leaf peeping adventure was Caesar, our trusty Boston Terrier puppy, who was just happy to be in the car without getting examined afterward by the vet. We assumed Caesar would enjoy leaf peeping because, A) he likes to eat leaves, and B) I don't trust him alone in the house so he had no choice.

The only hitch in our plan — what to do during the two hour drive to the White Mountains? (Or rather, what to do once Jen asked me to stop singing along with The Statler Brothers and to please change the radio station . . . )

"I spy, with my little eye, something that is, um, fall foliage colored."

Nope. And yelling "Moose!" at every "Moose Crossing" sign grew stale after the 8th "Moose Crossing" sign; though I tried, in vain, to resuscitate the game at each and every sign we passed.

Other games, such as "Don't Blame Me, I Swear That Smell Was The Dog", failed just as spectacularly.

Fortunately, we were eventually spared from the need to entertain ourselves. I knew we had arrived not by the brilliant colors in the trees, but by the bright red of brake lights. We had reached the traffic jam, and, patiently, awaited to be absorbed — with only my occasional shouts of "Moose!" to keep us awake.

Driving, stopping, gawking, driving . . . It really was, surprisingly, pretty fun. Especially for the dog, who made it his mission to "mark" every leaf, tree, and slow-moving toddler he came across.

We found some very beautiful scenic vistas, took many pictures, and found also, in ourselves, a lush vocabulary for describing the range of emotions evoked by vast mountainsides swimming with the rush and bubble of colors. They inspired such as soliloquies as:

Me: "Wow!"

Jen: "Gosh! Wow. Um!"

Me: "Oh, and hey, look . . . Neat-o!"

Caesar: "Dogs are colorblind. Why do I care about fall foliage?"

After a few more hours, we joined the traffic caravan and headed back home. In addition to having a calm day in the mountains, we came away with an appreciation for the little things in life.

Such as indoor plumbing. I don't know what was down in the pit of doom beneath the outhouse I used up in the mountains, but that smell nearly burned the hair from the inside of my nose. Even the dog was looking for someone to blame.

Copyright © 2006 Andy Murphy
Please do not remove the copyright from this work.

Send by Email! | Contact Us! | Permanent Link