Growing up in Connecticut I was always a bit put off by the droves of city fold that would invariably begin flocking to my favorite outdoors spots when the leaves began to turn. They’d come in with their argyle sweaters, day-old Merrell shoes and generally perplexed demeanor. Cameras would snap, cider and spice donuts would sell and the world without sidewalks would greet its seasonal throng.

These folks can be avoided easily, however, if you know a few simple facts. They rarely leave marked paths and generally won’t be found more than a mile from a restroom. But I always wondered, “Are these folks out here more to pay their yearly tribute to mother nature, or rather to escape from a gaze full of concrete and a nose full of exhaust? But we could sit down and discuss the philosophical ramifications of escapism versus seeking fulfillment for hours…

This year I found myself on the other side. After moving up to the Boston area, this is my first autumn as a subway-riding, taxi-dodging city slicker. Last weekend the autumn chill started to descend and I started to noticed a few choked city maples turning that dirty orange they turn.

“This won’t do,” I thought. “I need a frolic in the foliage.” Thinking back to my high school literature, I thought it may be time to see what made Henry David Thoreau so crazy about Walden Pond.

It was about a 20 minute drive outside the city to Concord, where the great writer once built a one-room house for his two-year stint away from society. Upon arrival, a park official collected a $5 parking fee and handed me a map and brochure.

Adjacent to the parking lot stood a furnished replica of Thoreau’s cabin. Across the street at the pond’s entrance I was greeted by a small sandy beach. Lovers cuddled on the cascaded stone wall and a few toddlers splashed about and dug holes in the sand. A little autumn chill wasn’t going to ruin their fun.

Splotches of red and orange dotted the pond’s perimeter, making for a lovely view. Front and center on the beach front stood a gift shop. Not exactly my favorite fixture of nature, but I suppose it was to be expected with a big name like Thoreau in the equation.

The main trail wound around the pond through pristinely preserved woodlands. Unfortunately the wire fence to either side lent the woods an elusive “look but don’t touch” feel. I doubt many complain, considering the number of busines suits I saw along the path. But the wondering eye might have noticed that the chipmunks were out in greater force - scuttling about to gather their winter provisions.

Eventually I found myself at the original site of Thoreau’s cabin. Now just a pile of stones stands where the great literary figure once secluded himself. But if I must say, they were about as round and gray as one would hope from any stone. Many of these stones were stacked vertically to add some semblance of organization, as is the New England fashion.

There stood a sign with Thoreau’s words:

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”

I pondered on this a while and soon began to see just why it is people in this age of hyper-connectedness are still drawn to the woods once in a while. Nature reminds us that there is a part of being human that sits apart form cell phones, bank accounts, subway cars and Web sites. Something so simple that all you need to appreciate it is a little alone time with the chipmunks.

So, hands in pockets, I slowly walked back to the little beach and watched the sun’s last golden rays fade from the shimmering waters of Walden Pond.