There are trips you plan for weeks. And then there are the ones that live in you long before you ever leave. When the alarm went off around four in the morning, Quebec was still asleep under a perfectly clear sky. The streets were deserted, the houses lost in darkness, and above us thousands of stars seemed to be watching over the start of the journey. The Rivian R1S was waiting in the driveway. Silent. Ready.

As the first light appeared, the maples caught fire under the golden rays of the rising sun. Then came Vermont, and Route 105 East — a road that seems to have been drawn for people who like to take their time. In the hushed silence of the Rivian, we could hear more of the world around us. The wind in the trees. The leaves dancing on the shoulder. We weren’t simply driving through the landscape: we were part of it.

A little later, we stopped near the Nulhegan River. It was one of those places you expect nothing in particular from, and that ends up becoming a memory you keep. The water moved gently under the golden morning light, mirroring the red maples and the firs like an immense looking glass. No crowds. No traffic. Only the murmur of the river and the crack of damp wood under our steps. Time seemed suspended.

Every bend revealed a new postcard scene. Valleys drowned in the morning mist. Mountains covered in a blazing forest that seemed to stretch on forever. Then we joined Route 302. And there, we fell in love with New Hampshire. You drive slowly, not because the road demands it, but because you refuse to miss the smallest detail.

And then, at last, Mount Washington appears. Majestic. Almost intimidating. Since 1861, the Auto Road has carried travellers to its summit. Twelve kilometres, no more than that on a map. But twelve kilometres that make for one of the most memorable drives in North America. From the very first bends, the mountain asserts its character. The slope steepens. The views widen.

The higher we go, the more the landscape changes. The tall, colourful maples gradually disappear. The spruces grow smaller. Then come the stunted shrubs. And finally the alpine tundra: a world of rock swept by the wind, where the blazing colours of autumn give way to the greys of the stone. At the summit, the view goes beyond anything photographs can show. Nobody really speaks. Because there is nothing to add. We look. We breathe. And above all, we feel incredibly alive.

After leaving the summit wind behind us, we made our way slowly back down the mountain. As we lost altitude, the landscapes found their colours again. The grey rocks gave way to spruces, then to golden birches and finally to the blazing maples that clothed the flanks of the mountain.

At the foot of Mount Washington, a stop was in order. The Glen House, standing face to face with the mountain, seemed built precisely to stretch this moment out. From the dining room and its wide terrace, the eye settles naturally on the immense silhouette towering over the whole valley. Inside, the pale wood, the stone and the tall windows created a peaceful atmosphere. Hikers were coming back from the trails. Everyone seemed to slow down, as if the mountain naturally imposed its own calm.

We had barely stepped out of the Rivian when the smell of damp forest wrapped around us. A blend of moss, resin, freshly fallen leaves and black earth. The trail slipped gently in under the tall firs. Very quickly, the sound of water reached us. Faint at first. Then more and more present. A few metres further on, Crystal Cascade appeared. We stayed there for a few minutes. Without speaking. Simply listening.

On the way home, magnificent landscapes kept us company all the way to the border. Not least that pond in a tiny village whose name escapes us: the clouds were mirrored in it, making the water almost magical. Then, around a bend, we caught sight of wild turkeys walking calmly along the verge. An unexpected sight, and a reminder that nature always has its surprises.