Trying to add a payment method? You can do this on the 
Autumn on the McKenzie River begins like gentle mist. You cannot hear it, but you can feel it at sunrise, when the chill lingers in gathering shadows. The sun sleeps in a little later each morning and turns in early. It’s a good time to sleep.
Raindrops replace birdsong. We slam the snooze button to buy five more minutes in bed thinking about nothing, listening as raindrops splatter and leaves flutter against our bedroom windows. We finish our dreams and give the new day a second chance, rising and making note that we will need another blanket soon.
Winter is soup, spring is salad, summer is entrée, autumn is dessert. There is a sweetness to the season, like a whiff of apple pie and cinnamon. Among the trees near our house, a circus of colors explodes, offering hues that stay but for a while before fading to winter gray.
Snow already has fallen in the north, raising hopes for a healthy snowpack and festive ski season. But for now, we celebrate autumn. There are pumpkins to be picked and witches to be watched, but don’t be afraid. Pumpkins will turn into jack-o’-lanterns with toothy grins, candy will be in abundance, and friendly ghosts will be out to play.
When the river’s water level drops significantly as it did this past summer, big rocks and small islands pop up like ears from a haircut. The river is patient in summer, and it will listen to your thoughts as you stand at its edge or sit upon its banks.
It won’t be long, however, before it thunders down the valley, too fast and wild to stop and chat. So begins my hibernation, when I adjourn to the fireside to sip apple cider, hot cocoa or tea while rereading favorite books: “To Kill a Mockingbird,” “A Prayer for Owen Meany,” and, after that, “One Hundred Years of Solitude.”
I’m already building a list of winter movies: “All the President’s Men,” “Edward Scissorhands,” “A River Runs Through It,” “Good Morning, Vietnam,” “Bird” and, for those deeply melancholy days of February, a Three Stooges marathon. “Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk.”
But, for now, there is still autumn work to be done: putting away the hammock, touching up the trim before the rains come, raking leaves, making sure the generator starts.
“Age-appropriate activities” no longer include climbing ladders, so I leave the gutters and chimney for someone else. I insist, however, on catching a leaf or two as I have always done. It’s harder than one might think, especially beneath tall trees, but a slight cough of wind shifts the odds in your favor.
The World Series overlaps with football season in autumn, as our Ducks chug along without Dante Moore, and the Beavers rise through the ranks out of nowhere. How disappointing that there will be no rivalry game this season. Just as disappointing: the Yankees didn’t make it to the Series.
Last week I was shuffling through fallen leaves, some of them the size of dinner plates, and I noticed one giant maple leaf off to the side that was still a brilliant green. It had fallen before its time. That happens in life. It happened horrifically in Bend, when four children and a teacher were fatally shot at an elementary school. Tragedy knows no seasons.
I looked up and saw other leaves, brown and wrinkled, clinging to the branch refusing to fall. Letting go can be difficult, but staying too long can be lonely. Ultimately, we all lose our grips. All that is born will die, but before that we experience the exhilaration of life and final flight.
At 73, I wonder how many more autumns I will have before becoming the autumn leaf. I wish we were told at birth how long we would live. It would make planning a life so much easier.
By now, woodsheds are near capacity up and down the river. A full woodshed warms the heart as much as a pantry stocked full of canned produce from our gardens and orchards. It’s a measure of emotional comfort, security and tradition.
Autumn on the McKenzie is never dull. If it were a movie, fall would be the climax, when our protagonists overcome whatever obstacles they face. It’s when Tin Man, Cowardly Lion and the Scarecrow reach Oz, or when Cinderella’s chariot turns into a pumpkin. It is a season of pronounced drama.
And so we hope for a fairy-tale ending to 2026. We could certainly use it, and here on the McKenzie, we have the best seats in the house to watch the drama unfold. There is a morning chill in the air, and leaves are dazzling. The circus has come to town.
