Perambulating in the Wissahickon

September 23^rd 2011, or the Autumnal equinox in the northern hemisphere, marks the dawn of a new period. One in which darkness triumphs over daylight and the sun dips below the horizon long before the bustling of life is ready for rest. Animals prepare for long periods of torpor and acorns are buried like a pirates treasure. An arctic chill sweeps through the northwest and brings an air of heightened energy to the land, likely due to the impending winter months where foraging and frolicking would be a death wish. It’s during this frenzy that I find myself deep in the woods around the Wissahickon creek. This 23 mile, meandering water-way is largely protected under the umbrella of the Fairmont Park system, and provides the residents of Philadelphia with a brief escape from the harsh city of brotherly love. This small stretch of stream is so mesmerizing, partially due to the juxtaposition of concrete and steel several miles away, that numerous American authors found themselves in awe of the beauty. Even Edgar Allen Poe took a brief sojourn from his macabre writing to pen

"Now the Wissahiccon is of so remarkable a loveliness that, were it flowing in England, it would be the theme of every bard, and the common topic of every tongue, if, indeed, its banks were not parceled off in lots, at an exorbitant price, as building-sites for the villas of the opulent.”

However for me the beauty of the park is best pronounced when the leaves are aflame and fall sinks its talons deep into the landscape. The colors then remind me of an impressionistic painting, like a walk through a surreal landscape. As I tramp through the hiking paths straying from the main trail known as “forbidden drive”, I stumbled across two young bucks practicing their fights and locking antlers with a clash of bones. This fury, eccenuated by the reds, yellows, and oranges canvasing the trees conveyed fully the message of fall, a message that screamed struggle.