Forget the PSL. The true harbinger of fall is the wild blueberry crop on Mt. Seymour.
We go every year, several times, in late August and September. See previous posts here and here. Pete thinks I shouldn't advertise this activity quite so freely - why jeopardize the solitude and loaded bushes? - but our last visit there was no one there but us, save a security guard watching over bundles of film cables snaking off into the bush.
The berries are small and tart. They're fantastic in pancakes with maple syrup, and that's where they all end up, if they're not consumed by the fistful on the mountaintop.
It wasn't all dappled light and organic snacks. There were indignant screams by the three-year-old when her older sister had the gall to head down the path first. It's not an unfamiliar scene these days, so let's mark that for posterity, too:
No bugs, no bears, but the crop was about done. That's it, until next year.