There were patches of frost lingering in the path even though it was 11 o’clock in the morning. When I set out from Bigelow Station I had to leave behind some warmer clothing I brought along. The sun had warmed the air considerably more than the subfreezing temperatures the night before, so gloves, pullovers, and earwarmers sat out this adventure in the car.

I was riding the Woodabogan Trail along the Carrabassett River near Sugarloaf Mountain. The trail is a seven-mile stretch of the old Sandy River/Rangeley Lakes Railroad. According to the book “40 Great Rail Trails in New York and New England”, the trains carried timber and other goods to support the logging industry as well as passengers who flocked to the resort hotels of the Rangeley Lakes Region.

This was the perfect weekend for cycling in the Carrabassett Valley. The crystal blue sky and the midday sun amplified the brilliance of the autumn colors. But all is not visual to me when I’m out on the trail. Mountain biking seems to have cultivated in me a keen sense of smell. When all is quiet around me and my concentration is focused on the terrain ahead of me I’m almost startled at how intensely the aromas of nature waft through.

This day it was “Unmistakable Autumn.” A musty, earthy, decaying-leaf fragrance that always takes me back to childhood. I spent hours in my backyard submerged in a mountain of leaves. One of my favorite photos of my brother shows him and the family dog with only their heads poking out of a pile of poplar leaves. Even walking to school was made tolerable in the fall. Kicking up the bright leaves from sugar maples that lined the sidewalk took my mind off math tests and sugars dancing with Lena Trombley during phys. ed.

Not far into the ride I came to a side trail that branched off toward the river. A wooden bridge arched across the water. The current was slow in this part of the Carrabassett. The oranges and yellows of the tress lining the water’s edge cast a reflection as of they stood alongside a pond. On the opposite bank a carpet of bright red maple leaves stretched as far as I could see. They made no sound at all beneath my tires. More leaves fluttered down around me. The silence was astonishing.

The trail is maintained as part of the network at Sugarloaf’s Ski Touring Center. But when the smooth snow cover is gone, the rugged trail conditions are revealed. I picked my way over 30-foot sections of loose rocks, bounced over drainage pipes, hopped fallen trees, and danced my way around washouts. One area was hand-lined with small branches where overflow from a beaver pond threatened to swallow unsuspecting riders.

It was a struggle for me to tackle some spots. When I met a family, complete with small children, on single-speed bicycles, I felt a combination of sympathy and respect for the young cyclists. I did find it easier traveling south because it was steadily downhill. Coasting over the rough spots beats the continuous exertion of pedaling uphill any day, even the gentle grade of a rail trail. That’s when it it dawned on me why I hadn’t met anyone traveling north. They obviously had prior knowledge of the trail and had no intention of making the return trip.

I’m not one for spending time on a mounatin bike just to have the world go by in a blur. I like a pace that lets me take in the scenery. When the trail offers up a more technical challenge and diverts more of ny attention to the ground in from me, I simply take it down a notch or two. In spite of my slow speed, I still couldn’t take my eyes off the trail for more than a few seconds at a time. I found out quite early the leaf cover was hiding tree roots that delighted in twisting my front tire.

I was a bit disappointed that the trail didn’t offer more views of the majestic mountains. The heavy forest canopy and nearby foothills put a damper on seeing the various peaks of Bigelow Mountain. Since I didn’t see much when I looked up, I looked down at the river which turned out to be the most captivating part of the ride.

Some of the sections of the river uttered little more than a whisper. The current was so slow you had to see the water to know it was there. By contrast, there were other sections nearer the south end of the trail that roared as the water tumbled down a series of short falls.

The rock formations in the river were fascinating to study. They all seemed to be the same dull shade of gray, but varied in shape from large, smooth slabs with water slipping over them to truck-size boulders diverting the water from side to side.

I came across a young couple, arm in arm, sitting on a rock at the trail’s edge. The warmth of the sun, the companionship of their chocolate Labrador retriever and the mesmerizing sound of the river seemed all they needed to escape.

I wasn’t going to argue with that. With no guide book or cyclecomputer to monitor my progress, I continued on to discover what the Woodabogan Trail had to offer me around the next turn.