Peak is now past and all but the last of the leafy hold-outs have fallen. The air is chilled and the skies are sullen and slung low. The days are rapidly growing shorter and the north sun can do little to brighten the gray, lifeless landscape. This is Stick Season, as my mother calls it, and it will be upon us until the first lasting snow ushers in Winter proper.

And it's just in time for All Hallow's Eve, I might add, for there is nothing spookier than the dusky silhouette of an old, bare oak twisting in the chill fall wind.