For me, there is no better time of year than fall. The best autumn days are those that combine the fading warmth of summer gone, with the cooler nights foreshadowing winter yet to come. They are at once gloriously clear, crisp, invigorating, and yet contemplative.

I’ve experienced autumn in different parts of the country, doing different things at different stages of my life. Growing up in my neighborhood of red brick row homes, concrete sidewalks, and asphalt-covered streets, autumn was about switching sports from baseball or, in our case, half ball, to two-hand touch football.

Autumn brought with it the excitement of Halloween, choosing the right costume and comparing our haul of candy. Then it was on to Thanksgiving and the anticipation of the holidays.

As a teenager, autumn meant throwing on a light jacket to enjoy the dwindling mild weather on weekend nights to hang out on the corner with friends. We would sing along with our favorite songs playing on Arvin, the portable radio that was virtually attached to Joe’s left arm.

Among my fondest autumn memories is a week spent wilderness backpacking with a band of buddies in New York’s Adirondack Mountains. The trails were laid out before us like the road to Oz, except our Yellow Brick Road was a multicolored cushion of leaves dyed by nature into rich golds, rustic reds, and sun-kissed oranges.

As we hiked toward Mount Marcy, the highest peak in New York State, the path cut deep into the forest. Up ahead there was a loud rustling. One of the guys, no more seasoned at backpacking than the rest of us, decided to run ahead to investigate the commotion. When we caught up to him, he was frozen in place, backpack on the ground. Raising his right arm, he pointed a trembling finger at the bushes to the left of the path and mumbled, “Bear.” We immediately backed away, got out our pots and pans, and became a cacophonous tin pan drum line.

One other thing from that trip: No matter what experienced backpackers tell you, a fast stream running over rocks is still not safe to drink from.

Another autumn, fresh out of college, two friends and I were working our way across the country. One month into the trip, we stopped in Evanston, Ill., to replenish our funds.

Home of Northwestern University, Evanston sits on the shores of Lake Michigan just 12 miles from downtown Chicago. It also boasts a house designed by Frank Lloyd Wright.

We couldn’t afford that side of town. No, we found a rent-by-the-week room in an establishment that we came to call The Roach Ranch. The Double R was lousy with roaches.

We each found work. I was hired by a crew that cut lawns and planted trees on properties along Chicago’s Lake Shore Drive. When I wasn’t working, I spent my free autumn afternoons on the beach, which was a few blocks from where we were staying.

Strolling there one October afternoon, I happened upon an old man standing in the elongating sunlight and looking out across the lake. The air carried a hint that winter was fast approaching, and Lake Michigan, like the trees surrounding its shores, seemed to be hunkering down.

Just then a chorus of geese caught the old man’s attention. Clamoring above, the flock swooped around and gathered itself into a V formation. With each strenuous flap of their wings, the birds pushed away from the shore, their complaining fading on the afternoon breeze. Watching them shrink into the distance, the old man shook his head and started walking down the beach. “When the geese fly,” he said to no one in particular, “winter’s not far behind.”

Most of my fall reveries are in Philadelphia. As an underemployed journalist, I had plenty of time to kill. I spent some of it sitting in the softening autumn sun on the banks of the Schuylkill River watching scullers slide silently through the dark water and writing awful poetry in my reporter’s notebook.

Unlike Daryl Hall and John Oates, I like spending the “Fall in Philadelphia.” To me, there is something distinct about it, a feeling of contentment as the days age into a different season. Even with the shortening sunlight and cooler temperatures, the city feels oddly alive and strangely comforting.

Maybe it is just that autumn is the portal to what lies ahead. Fall is, after all, the gateway to the holidays. Come to think of it, the holidays are kind of autumn’s coda.

But now, as I look out my window to the grand ash tree that graces our property, it occurs to me that there is one aspect of autumn that I don’t relish. And I’m going outside right now to rake them into a nice, neat pile.

H.R. Drumond is a Montgomery County writer.