The view from the hostel -- in the heart of the old Buffalo theater district

Western upstate New York was at its colorful best Friday as we arrived for Halloween weekend. Buffalo and Niagra Falls in particular were crisp and clear and so autumn-handsome we lingered an extra day. Found a really nice hostel across the street from the historic Buffalo Theatre, and the next day enjoyed hiking around the Falls — my first glimpse ever at Niagra.

It was 25 miles in the wrong direction (so 50 miles out of the way), but I was finally able to quell that nagging “must-make-better-time” feeling and decided it would be a real shame not to pay respects to America’s very first state park — let alone one of the world’s greatest natural wonders — when it was closer to us than the distance from one side of Anchorage to the other.

Even so, I still thought I’d just be snapping a picture or two and turning around. But I got so fascinated by the falls — as well as the history of the Erie Canal that built Buffalo and opened up the West — that we ended up staying until Sunday. Which turned out to be a blessing wrapped in a blessing.

That’s because, as you’re probably already aware, a very unseasonal snowstorm slammed into the East Coast — from Pennsylvania to Maine — that same day. Where we were was clear; the storm totally missed Buffalo. But to the east, where we had planned to go next, trees still laden with all their autumn leaves were caught red-handed, so to speak.

About a foot of heavy wet snow and ice clung to the leaves and branches and tore down thousands of hardwoods. As limbs fell, power lines did too. Three million people in a half dozen states lost their lights and power. Where my daughter lives, in Northampton, Massachusetts, the city was dark and cold for nearly two days.

I couldn’t help but feel guilty for failing to be there to help her as she battled the elements in the dark. But I also knew that I never would have been able to reach Northampton through ice and snow on a motorcycle.

So we waited until the storm abated and road conditions improved Sunday morning, then Harley and I began edging that way, first by riding east from Buffalo to Albany on Route 20, which rolls through picturesque farms and towns along a course that roughly parallels the old Erie Canal.

It was one of those moments when I was really glad I was on a motorcycle, glad to smell and feel the air, to roll up hills as freely as someone on horseback, weave through turns as rhythmically as a skier.

The sun, the autumn day, the old houses, the children playing, the perfect farms, the open road — everything was so handsome, part of me wanted to take a new picture about every five minutes. But part of me didn’t want to take any pictures at all — and that part won. Just experience it, I finally told myself. Don’t interrupt the movie.

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