I remember the first time I saw a snow-capped mountain. It was four years ago, and I was driving West with my then-boyfriend in my still-shiny red Acura. I had about $800 in my bank account and a job offer at a newspaper in Washington, a state I'd visited a quick 24 hours before saying yes to the job.

Nearly a year ago today, I found myself strolling along an asphalt road near the Pacific Ocean with one of my best friends. We had just emerged from a two-night backpacking trip along the Coastal Trail in California's Redwood National Park. Still in our hiking gear, we felt awkward in our bulky boots, which made more sense when we were trudging up slippery hills among fallen logs and thick shrubs. Walking along the road, we just looked like two tired vagabonds.

Where I grew up, the fall season is defined by crunchy leaves, colorful tree limbs and crisp, cool air. It's about buying gourds at nearby farms and welcoming a reprieve from thick humidity. Back home, fall is my favorite season.