The other day, I thought I had this great idea. When I got off work, it was still incredibly sunny and warm out – something that’s becoming increasingly rare the further entrenched we technically become in autumn.
So I thought I’d better go for a run and, with my dad’s “remember to reexamine the mundane” spiel in my head, I decided to bring my camera along. It occurred to me that everyone keeping tabs at home might like to see what I see most days when I finally get out of the bakery and into some wide-open spaces. Plus, making my run into a project was good motivation to get my tired self up and at ‘em after another queues-out-the-door day at work.
Now, here’s the problem: it’s nearly impossible to have a productive run when you feel aesthetically obligated to stop every 20 meters or so to snap a picture. Because – and I’ll admit that I have been overlooking this as commonplace lately –the south island at the turn of the season looks like an overzealous kid with a mammoth box of Crayolas let loose on New England.
My normal loop, which starts just behind the lodge where I live and follows a river whose name I’ve never bothered to find out, usually takes me about half an hour to run. But on the night I got back from taking these pictures, Hayley actually asked me if I’d tried some new, longer, more challenging route – because it was dark out by the time I got home. Instead I had to tell her it had been quite the opposite: I’d never even had time to come up short of breath before stopping to snap a new picture. Eighty-six times.
Oh, and that river? Turns out it’s called the Arrow River. I know because this morning, while buying postcards in town, I noticed they were sold out of a card, complete with back-panel description, that looked exactly like this: