Playing hooky to pick apples

Every fall, my family breaks routine for a day of apple picking. We play hooky from school to arrive just as the gates open at Ochs Orchard in Warwick, N.Y. More often than not, we have the orchard almost entirely to ourselves.

The first stop isn’t the apples – it’s the wooden train, jeep and painted photo board. My children climb aboard, as if they’re about to leave the station, go off-roading, and then take turns peeking through the painted farmers, their laughter drifting across the orchard.

Beyond them, rows of apple trees stretch across the hillside, branches heavy with Ruby Frost, Snapdragon, McIntosh, Honeycrisp, Golden Delicious, Pixie Crunch and who knows how many more. My children race from tree to tree, reaching for the brightest red apples, the tiniest green ones, and every perfectly imperfect fruit in between.

We never separate the varieties. Every apple goes into one oversized bag, destined for pies, applesauce, school lunches or a snack for the way home. When we need a break, we make our way to the gazebo perched above the orchard. From the hilltop, the rolling countryside stretches into the distance, offering a quiet reminder of why autumn feels so special here.

Depending on availability, we pick fresh vegetables, adding whatever is ready for harvest to our collection. As a fourth-generation family farm, Ochs offers more than apples — it offers a chance to experience a harvest tradition that has been part of the community for generations.

Our region is rich with orchards like this one. New York and Pennsylvania are among the top four apple producing states in the nation.

After apple-picking, we wander through the farm market, filling our basket with local honey, fresh bread, Amish butter, jams, apple cider and warm apple cider donuts, dusted with cinnamon and sugar.

We always end our visit the same way, searching for the perfect pumpkins in the pumpkin patch at the bottom of the hill. There is a quiet kind of magic here, found in familiar traditions repeated year after year, measured not by what we bring home, but by the memories created beneath the trees.