It was weather that couldn’t be argued with. By 10 am, we were out the door and on the way to whatever adventure we could scare up.
There were a couple of necessarily-firm discussions about boundaries and veering from the well-marked path and how doing so without caution could lead to death. So slow down, Witchard. I may have shaved off a year of my own life before the advice was taken to heart by my over-zealous climber.
Discoveries were made, notes taken. It was, after all, school time.
Isadora found herself a throne and graciously welcomed us in.
This was the best shot I could muster to capture the smell. Oh, the sweet, musty scent of Fall. Mmmmn.
And then, because the lake was not yet frozen, swimming was not ruled out.
But this Momma was content to slowly roll a hank of yarn into a ball, mindfully infusing as much of the day as possible into the wool so that its essence can be meted out as necessary in days to come.