A story by Nature Ranger Geneva Martin. An excerpt of this article is also featured in the October 14, 2026 e-newsletter, Now in Nature.

Every trail runner knows that you clock your best times in the fall. You’ve spent the summer battling heat, humidity, and way-too-early mornings to escape the death-ray sun that you seriously contemplate hanging up your shoes for good. You’ve sweated more than you ever thought you could, yet still you laced up and hit the trails. Now that the weather is forgiving, you can finally get some distance and speed without the thousand barriers summer running makes you hurdle.

A break in humidity, comfortable temperatures, crisp breezes, personal records, and pretty trees? Fall is arguably the best time of year, and every trail runner knows it.

That is, every runner but me. In the fall, I fall off the wagon completely.

Any given morning, once the mornings turn cooler and the foliage starts to blaze ochre, I will lace up my shoes, gather my dog, and set out with all my heart’s intention to follow my regular running route along the Redwing Trail at Cincinnati Nature Center. And, then, quickly lose all conviction once I come across a tree fully ablaze in all of fall’s magnificent colors. I start to meander more, take irregular routes, and, if I dare admit it, I stop.

But why?

Honestly, I’m lucky if I even make it to the trailhead before my running goals for the day are out the window. Almost every Nature Center member has a few beloved spots they never miss along the trails, turning each visit into a small pilgrimage. Maybe it’s a favorite bench or bridge, or the warm rocks of the creek banks along Geology Trail. For me, visiting Powel Crosley Lake to take in the fall foliage every morning before I set out is a mandatory stop. Once the trees blaze red, and the fog lifts in the morning rays over the reflection on the still water, it does something for my brain and rewires it to a slower pace.

“It’s worth sitting awhile,” the benches whisper. “Stay here until the sun crowns the trees.”

I can only nod and accept the invitation. “What run?” Let me watch the leaves turn.

Eventually my dog will get bored and drag me down a path, but at this point he’s leading the way, and my gaze is fixed upward. Summer running is enduring and negotiating the brutality of sweltering heat in the shortest possible amount of time so I can flee back to the comfort of air conditioning. Fall running, for me, becomes an hours-long endeavor with no clear objective other than covering each favorite trail or checkpoint at such a slow trot that it's arguable I’m barely even hiking. I need to revisit my favorite spots to see how they have changed since the day before; each week seems to provide a new perspective on the same trails I’ve run a thousand times.

My husband jokes that every weekend in October he’s often unsure whether he’ll need to file a missing-persons report because I can’t even predict when I’ll be home. I always reply that he just needs to open his eyes, and help me pack lunch.

The forest here is an eternal clock that reminds me to recalibrate my priorities each season.

The trees invite me to slow down, so much so that I eagerly count each leaf as they reawaken in spring, revel in the welcome shade of summer, and then gladly bear witness as the canopy blazes into a declaration of extravagant generosity in the fall. It is an annual reminder that some things are just worth stopping for. After all, it’s such a short time compared to the long green of spring and summer; just a few short weeks to count the various shades of yellow, red, brown, purple, and orange. I am obliged to stop and stare before the long, cold nights of winter have me turn toward cozier comforts indoors.

I can spend each season wishing and waiting for the next, but the trails in the fall tell me to slow down and appreciate what I have been given. This is in direct opposition to the squirrels and chipmunks preparing for winter in a state of mania; I am taking a chance to sit and stop, watch the maples and oaks turn shades of sienna, and appreciate how the earth is slowly turning inward toward introspection.

I can pick any ridge line in the old growth, any pond vista, any boardwalk or field, and the season will exhort in the soft shuffle of feet through the fallen leaves: “Won't you rejoice in my glory.”

I will. Who wants to run through the best parts of life?