Leaf peeper feels sapped

There’s nothing wrong with peepers. Our leaves are spectacular, and they certainly beat eyeballing your sixth Romanesque church in 10 days somewhere in Europe. So the army of the foliage-deprived show up in waves. Who can blame them?

Besides, we’re nothing to write home about on tour either. Consider what locals near the Grand Canyon must call us as we swarm around its edges like deranged lemmings, sullen families falling out of minivans after bloated meals at Taco Bell. So let’s put the leaf snobbery to bed once and for all.

The Observer had never taken a peeper trip until last week because I grew up in the foliage north of Boston. We took it for granted. The sugar maple was as much a part of our lives as black pond ice. I’d often end up in leaf country, mind you, but for some other purpose.

I was long overdue for some reconnaissance, in short, so I motored north to monitor the peeper herd and catch the display for myself. New Hampshire’s White Mountains seemed perfect for drama.

The Live Free or Die tribe has this right. I noticed more New Hampshire license plates than any others at leaf stops. Massachusetts was second, followed by the usual spread from Arizona to South Carolina and busloads of Japanese.

What this tells me is that New Hampshire natives appreciate the aesthetics of their foliage more than we do ours, some more than the ka-ching of tourist dollars. Many revisit their favorite areas annually. We could learn something from them.

Take Gail Troseth, a foliage recidivist from down in Chocorua. “Every year,’’ she said at a stop on the Kancamagus Highway, the Interstate 95 for peepers. “There’s always a different view. I love the green that makes the orange and yellow stand out.’’ Spoken like a connoisseur.

The weather was beautiful when I left Boston, less so up in the Whites, where it can change five times a day. It did: sun, clouds, rain, clouds, sun. Never mind. My mission was to locate the foliage line.

The short of it is, I went insane trying to find it. I kept noticing richer color as I plunged farther north on Interstate 93, but I needed more, much more. I started the run on the Kancamagus expecting explosive splendor only to find a sedate palette.

There was much beauty on either side of the road, but not ravishing beauty. It was B+ beauty, not the A+ beauty the Observer had pledged to find - the perfect vista, the perfect tree, the perfect leaf. I was doomed.

I was chasing a Kodak moment of blinding reds and yellows towering above Robert Frost as he chats with neighbors over a picket fence, his white mane ruffled in the breeze, his tweed coat gently flapping. Behind his soft, laconic voice is the steady swish of children’s feet shuffling through the quilt of color on the ground as they amble home from school in the soft, thin afternoon light, green book bags over their shoulders.

Earth to Observer: Get help. That ended with Eisenhower.

So this was my curse. It got worse. I was crestfallen to learn from Arthur Beauchesne, an 85-year-old expert on foliage from the sovereign New Hampshire community of Nottingham, that despite predictions of bombshell color, this year seems a bit off. “It’s not as good this year,’’ he maintained at a leaf stop. “And it’s early.’’

Early? The horror.

The blood drained from my face as I listened to him. I simply had to find peak foliage. I could not hold my head up back in Boston if I didn’t. My manhood was on the line. Distance didn’t matter. I’d drive to the Canadian border if necessary that afternoon. We’re talking obsession.

So I shoot down the Kanc and bang a left onto Bear Notch Road, a great drive, to avoid the chaos of Conway. Nothing going on there, so I, along with my heart, race up to Pinkham Notch, the mountain home of the Appalachian Mountain Club at the foot of Mount Washington.

Better, but not good enough by my standards. What I’m not having by now is a rollicking good time.

I continued north to Gorham, where I joined Route 2, home to some of the most beautiful vistas in the Whites. The grandeur of King Ravine was lost in fog, but it lifted to present spectacular color farther on. I breathed easier. I had proved my grit. I was a foliage warrior.

Then the existential monster appeared. After wallowing in the color, I got sick of it. It’s like candy. Too much of it and you swear off it. I began to focus on the road and daydream. But my inner foliage police barked at me to stay with the leaves, so I grudgingly kept glancing at them. At that point, I actively resented the stuff.

The colors kept improving as I passed Randolph and went onto Route 115, which took me above the A+ foliage in the huge, open vista called Jefferson Meadows. I pulled over to admire it: waves of red and yellow, orange and purple, offset by ribbons of green, along with all those shades we have no name for.

Proud but spent, I limped back to Boston. Foliage, schmoliage. Embrace the B+ and have a nice day. Embrace the B+ and have a nice life. Besides, I’m betting the color will be fabulous around Jamaica Pond in a couple of weeks.

Sam Allis can be reached at allis@globe.com.