In quick succession, others were ripening. Applesaucy Melrose had about a week of hang time left. Jona Gold was coming on. Old-school Stayman Winesap wasn't far behind.
Some of the apples - a new variety called Topaz, for one - were poking from trees that weren't much more than saplings; skinny things, relying on trellises to give them spine.
Others were more substantial, the fruit hanging from limbs the size of a man's forearm. But everywhere across the 40 acres of apples, the fruit shone round-red, polka-dotting the green.
Beneath most of the trees - the result of weather and over-enthusiastic pick-your-own pickers - were dappled puddles of fruit. A softer, yellow-fleshed variety called Pinata was coming along. But up and down all the rows it seemed like apple pinatas had been whacked.
Two types Smith doesn't grow: No Red Delicious. No McIntosh. He doesn't think the flavor is there, and besides, McIntosh fares better, in his opinion, in the chillier climes of New England. (That's why he stopped with my sentimental favorite, the Macoun, which has the perfect baseball size, crunchy snap and sweet-tartness for eating. But don't get me started.)
By November, with the season fading, the orchard will be picking the Keepsake, its sweetness compared in some accounts to sugar cane, and its keeping qualities renowned.
But it is the red-gold Honeycrisp that lights up Smith's features. Its skin is tight and thin, not elastic like the Delicious'. Each bite pops off smartly, crisp as a water chestnut, wet as watermelon. And as sweet! It is best good and cool, its inner cider squirting at first chew.
Solebury has other things going for it. It has 10 acres of summertime peaches. Five acres of blueberries. And an acre each of blackberries, pears and apricots. But its two fields of apples are its pride and joy - and meal ticket.
