I smiled to myself and laughed in a short chuckle of contentment. I had spent the last forty minutes wandering over the countryside, making my way to Dansville "for lunch". I looked down at the airport and was almost repulsed at the idea of landing. Why land and sit at McDonald's when I can be flying instead? I had been enjoying the beauty of indian summer's last big rally and I couldn't imagine interrupting such a flight simply to eat.

In the final analysis, I made a slow flight to nowhere, but that is only if you trace it on a map. It was my chance to watch as farmers picked the last of the corn or made one last pass over the alfalfa fields. Others worked their fields one last time, putting them to bed for the winter, hopefully to sleep peacefully under a blanket of snow. The autumn weather has revived the grasses and legumes and turned them to a verdant green, a fitting accompaniment to the dark browns of the freshly worked earth.

It was sunny and warm, and there was a flurry of summer activity, but it was all taking place beneath a sky that said winter for all who cared to see. A cold front had come in with the beginning of the week, bringing clear cold nights and dull gray days, but the sun gradually warmed us up again. Winter lost this skirmish but it taunted us from aloft with swirls and falls of icy cirrus clouds that laced across the blue sky.

Having approached Dansville from the southeast, I departed to the northeast for a circuitous return to Dundee. My route took me past the lonesome lakes, Hemlock and Canadace. No roads come to their waters, and few even pass along their shores, for these lakes have been Rochester's water supply for more than a hundred years. Hemlock was once a bustling lake with five steamboats and a hundred cottages, but today it sleeps quietly in the woods

I wondered if I wasn't flying over a strange sort of museum, a place reserved only for people in small airplanes to visit. There is no other way to fully view and appreciate what our lakes must have looked like before the area was settled. Miles of shoreline stretch along each lake with nothing but driftwood on the wide and gentle beaches. Unbroken woodlands cover the hillsides above the waters.

My return also took me over Prattsburg, where I was given a rare view of their village square. This particular day was one of those moments in time where trees have color but their leaves no longer keep the secrets that lie below them. The quiet frosty nights earlier in the week had caused the leaves to drop straight down, and they laid in an array of colored circles around the trunks.

Like so many other things I have seen, it would have been a beautiful picture. This year I saw it and missed it, but next year will be different. I think that a photo album of village squares would be fascinating... and also make a wonderful excuse to go flying on pretty days. As the countryside goes to sleep for the winter I can dream of capturing all our village squares some glorious day next autumn.