Commentary: We used to call leaf-peeping ‘going for a ride’

I saw something the other day about “leaf-peeping.”

Apparently, this is an activity now. You can plan a trip around it, consult a map, book a room, and purchase clothing suitable for looking at a tree.

We used to call it going for a ride.

Somebody would look out the window after Sunday dinner and say, “Let’s go see if the leaves are turning.”

That was the planning committee’s entire report.

Nobody checked an app. Daddy might have checked the gas gauge, although sometimes that appeared to be more of a suggestion than an instrument.

Then everybody got in the car.

In the mountains, a fall drive didn’t require much navigation. You picked a road that went uphill and stayed on it until somebody said, “I don’t believe we’ve ever been this way.”

This was generally followed by somebody else saying, “Yes, we have.”

A discussion would develop.

The leaves were beautiful, but occasionally they had to compete with a marital hearing about whether that was the same barn we passed coming back from somebody’s funeral.

There was always something to see.

A hillside gone yellow. A red maple standing by itself like it had dressed up for church. A little house with smoke coming out of the chimney and a dog who considered traffic a personal insult.

You slowed down.

Partly for the scenery. Partly because there might be a tractor around the next curve, and its operator had no particular interest in your afternoon schedule.

Sometimes you stopped at a roadside stand.

Apples tasted better when they came out of a wooden basket beside the road. I cannot prove that scientifically, but I am willing to participate in further research.

If there was cider, you bought some.

If there were fried apple pies, the trip had fulfilled its purpose.

What I remember about those rides is how little pressure there was to accomplish anything. We weren’t trying to reach an overlook before a reservation. Nobody needed a photograph proving we had enjoyed ourselves.

We could look at a mountain without immediately turning our backs to it and holding up a telephone.

Sometimes nobody said much for miles.

Then somebody would point out an old homeplace, and a story would start. Who lived there. Who married whom. Who moved to Ohio and eventually came back.

You learned a surprising amount of family history from the back seat of a car, provided you could hear over the argument about the barn.

I understand the appeal of a fall getaway. These mountains deserve the attention.

But I’d hate for us to think enjoying the fall requires a reservation.

Pick a road. Take somebody whose company you enjoy. Leave enough time to stop when something catches your eye.

The leaves won’t stay much longer.

And if you pass a little stand selling fried apple pies, pull over.

You can admire the scenery while you eat. That way, if the colors aren’t quite what you hoped, you still have a perfectly good reason to declare the trip a success.