Beyond Words: The Aroma of Autumn

There is no better therapy than a walk in the woods as nature prepares itself for winter. Everything around me is gently drying, decaying, or settling into soil.

Oh, the heady scents of autumn!

My footsteps release a woody, nutty fragrance from the carpet of dried leaves. And there are traces of a slightly sour, herbal aroma. How can I describe it?

Organic, decomposing, primitive, musky, earthy…

How do you describe the smell that cracks open when you step on an acorn? And what about dried leaves damp with chilly morning dew … moss covered rocks … brambles of oak and ivy and twisted grape vines after a hard rain?

If we developed our animal sense of smell, we’d know the unique smell of each tree’s bark, leaves, fruit. It makes me want to drop to my hands and knees and sniff about like a dog or a badger.

Dogs and badgers have no need for words.

As humans, our olfactory lexicon is lacking. We’re stuck with unsatisfying similes. Mossy (like moss), piney (like pine), flowery, loamy, grassy... The English language is designed to describe a new smell by comparing it to the source of a familiar one. There are plenty of precise words to describe colors, tastes, sounds, and textures, but our vocabulary falls short when it comes to smells.

The scents that rise from the mulchy trail are subtle and elusive. Cedar, anise, pungent pine, all swirling together like leaves lifted by a crisp November wind. I breathe in deeply.

Why is there no word for this intoxicating aroma?

Or is that what makes odors so evocative? The fact that we can’t simply slap a word label on them and go about our business.

Walking in the woods reminds us to pause and pay attention to the air we’re breathing. The primal smells of late autumn engage my imagination, calm my soul, and energize my spirit.

“My genius is in my nostrils.”

 Friedrich Nietzsche

“Autumn wins you best by this

its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay.”

Robert Browning