It was one of those golden autumn mornings that practically invites you to wander. The sun was bright, the air crisp, and the promise of color called me north toward the Adirondacks. I set out with a thermos of tea and no particular schedule—just the hope of seeing fall in all its glory.
The drive itself felt like a moving painting. The road wound through forests brushed in every shade of amber, scarlet, and gold. My route took me through Tupper Lake, then on to Saranac Lake, and finally to Lake Placid. Each turn seemed to reveal a new masterpiece—sunlight spilling through maples, lakes catching the color of the sky, and mountain ridges softened by mist.
Somewhere along the way, a small roadside sign caught my eye: Wanakena Church. Something about it whispered, stop here, and so I did. What a treasure that detour turned out to be.
Wanakena was like stepping into another time—a sweet little riverside community with quiet charm and a sense of peace that wrapped around me like a favorite quilt. The church stood about a block off the river, humble and lovely, surrounded by trees just beginning to turn. Nearby, a single building held a store, a library with bookshelves and patio furniture on the porch, a small deli, and even a post office with a large moose waving from the steps. It made me smile.
I spoke with two women sitting by the river’s edge—friendly, open souls who shared stories about their village. They told me about the footbridge that crossed the river to a pond and a labyrinth for walking and contemplating. I crossed it, and for a few moments, I felt that quiet sense of awe that comes when you stumble into something unexpectedly beautiful.
Back on the road, I stopped in Saranac Lake, parking near a small park where the river winds just behind the town. I wandered through streets lined with shops and old brick buildings, then lingered by the water, taking in the reflections of autumn on the surface.
By the time I reached Lake Placid, the afternoon light had softened to a honeyed glow. I didn’t have much time left—just enough for a short drive around the lake, a few quick photos, and a promise to myself to come back. Lake Placid was a gem, shimmering with beauty and charm.
The drive back was quiet, except for the steady whisper of tires on the road and the hum of contentment in my chest. The trees seemed even brighter in the fading light—like the world was saying one last brilliant goodbye before winter’s rest.
