September 30, 2023

In a weird way, I’ve been sort of dreading my first hike back in Texas. 

It’s not that it gets to 85 degrees before noon and 100 afterwards. It’s not that everything is further away, or that my tennis shoes are coming apart at the seams, or even that I no longer come home to my beautiful girlfriend after a long journey away. The main reason that I’ve been avoiding going on a hike here is the relative certainty that any I undertook would be very, very disappointing. 

Look, I was spoiled in West Virginia. The rolling hills, the endless greenery, the solitude of those seldom traveled back trails; You don’t really find that as much around Dallas. You're more likely to happen upon a really respectable stretch of highway and a decent taco spot. Regardless, I can tell that Finn has been itching for a bit of excitement in his life and it’s my job to cater to his whims as best I can, so this morning we hustled into the Ford Explorer my uncle kindly loaned me and waited for the Amazon guy to pull out of our driveway before heading off to Cedar Ridge Preserve. 

After a quick forty minute, all highway drive amongst some of the worst drivers in the United States, we approached Cedar Ridge Preserve and I realized two terrible things. Firstly, it is obnoxiously, almost unbelievably, crowded. And secondly, I’ve been here before. 

When I say that it is crowded: There is a single traffic cop standing in the gate of the Preserve, ushering in cars one by one only as another one leaves. The line to make it up to the front of this gate stretches a quarter mile down the road and seems to move about once every three minutes. Finn and I sat at the end of it for a few moments before pulling into the other lane and driving into a neighborhood a mile down the way where we parked the car and began the long walk to the front of the trail. 

Another thing I don’t much like about Cedar Ridge Preserve (Fair warning, in case you cannot already tell, this is going to be a largely negative review) is that the distance from the front of the park to any actual trails is quite long. Not so long as to be unreasonable, and certainly there are specific parking spots you can try to get that are much closer, but I am not the only one with the idea of parking elsewhere and as I and my fellow line-averse crowd into the park, we are forced into a single file march along the lone road for nearly half a mile before we make it to the main trailhead. 

The amount of people within this small area bothers me what I recognize is a silly amount. But truly my heart sank as we arrived at the start of the trail and realized that there were hundreds and hundreds of people traversing these paths this morning. Many were jogging, some with weighted vests on, dripping with sweat and breathing hard. Many more traveled in family packs of four or six or ten. But worst of all, to my innocent mind, were those committing what I would consider a cardinal sin on any sort of hike. Dozens of the people we passed were actually playing music out loud as they walked. 

Now sure, that seems like not a big deal at all when I type it out like that.  In fact, it makes me seem whiny and puerile; That's why I bolded it. But I was already struggling to reach for any of the regular sense of peace that I lean on these walks for due to the masses of people passing by me deep in conversations about how they were double charged for this DirectTV package, or how they used to be a lot heavier, or what they’re going to wear out tonight, and the sudden introduction of fucking Future, of all artists, crooning about how he’s adding these bitches to his collection, did not help to increase the tranquility of the situation.

(There were seriously so many people playing their music out loud. Just…. Wear headphones?)

The best thing that could be said about the trail itself is that it is highly functional. There was a man mowing the grass right at the start, and the sounds of his mower mixed with the noise of cars from the not too distant highway that never left the air. Signs popped up every few minutes, doing more to confuse than to help as one trail melted into the next and suddenly you find yourself on Fossil Valley when you could’ve sworn you’ve been following Escarpment. Fields of drained and dried dandelions pile up on one another, and this dead brush leans into itself as a welcome wind passes through the wide expanse of land, creating a sound like shuffling papers. Sunflowers flown too close to the sun sit brown and somehow alive in the boiling dirt. Everything here seems to blend together, each turn beneath the cloudless sky above revealing a path identical to the one from which we've just emerged.

The main attraction, Cattail Pond, is a little body of water sitting green-brown in the blazing sun. It is here that I am brought back to my previous visit to Cedar Ridge, when Cassidy, Finn and I hiked out to this pond and ate Chick Fil A on its banks while Finn happily covered himself with mud in what was a very ghetto sort of picnic. I stare at the spot with a smile on my face for a moment, until I recall what followed this point in the hike and my smile quickly drops away. 

After reaching the pond, the trail becomes a long series of stairs plugged into the side of the closest thing that this part of Texas has to a mountain- One might even call it an escarpment. Finn is already panting ridiculously, his breaths so constant that it's as though he’s doing one endless, simultaneous inhale and exhale. We start up these steps, created out of wood that has long since been rubbed smooth by the shoe soles of passing hikers, and what seems like half an hour later we reach the top of them. There is a little viewpoint where you can be completely underwhelmed by the elevation gained by your recent efforts. We rest here for a moment, looking out at the expanse, before I open a picture of Coopers Rock on my phone and look at that instead to make myself feel better. 

My real issue with the stairs is that as soon as you finish going up them, you start heading back down. In a way, this is worse, as Finn can now sense that we are on the way back and is pulling me down these steps two at a time. The sole benefit of the crowd lies in the number of compliments that are thrown Finn's way, and this despite the spittle that pours from his mouth and the constant noise pollution coming from his ragged breaths. Thankfully, the trees through most of our journey bend generously over the trail, shading us from the rising morning sun. 

I think the role of Cedar Ridge is perhaps less that of a hiking destination and more that of a community park. Groups of ten to twelve occupy the few gazebos I see built a ways away from the main trails, chatting and laughing. When we first entered the trail, there was a man near the start doing pushups on a log and now as we exit a different man has taken his place, also working on his chest.

I do not want to bash on the preserve too much. I understand that there is only so much you can do with the nature of Dallas. I just wish it felt less like I was wandering onto someone’s property during a family reunion. I prefer the anything but lonely solitude of nature that is a little further removed from the world. I also prefer hearing “Wet Dreamz” by J Cole sung along to by a much fewer number of children. I’m sure, as I go on more hikes around here, I will run into many of the same issues, and I will try to approach them from now on with an open mind, without comparing them to the heights of my past experiences, even though it’s almost criminal how much less I had to worry about parking in West Virginia. 

Door Bluff Headlands and Lynd Point Loop

June 11, 2023

The first of my brushes with the wilderness of Door County came at 8 AM. I was out for a jog- And badly lost- when I spotted a deer gnawing on some leaves. I slowed to stare at it. It turned to stare at me. There was a moment of undeniable tension before I dropped my gaze, thoroughly chastised. After another mile of running along streets I did not recognize, I somehow wandered back to my parents' condo where my dad was sitting on the couch, eagerly awaiting my return- “You ready to get going?”

Door County is the name of the general area in which my parents' new condo sits. As far as I can tell, the main components seem to be wide stretches of orchards and farmland, interspersed with homes sitting on the border of Lake Michigan, which in turn make up the space between a string of small, charming towns. I realize how all this sounds and you’re quite right to be jealous.

We quickly decide on Lynd Point Loop in Newport State Park, and after a cup of joe(joes, for me) we clamber into my dads truck and head for the wilds. The town of Sister Bay is somehow even more delightful than it had seemed at 10:30 last night, freezing cold after a thirteen hour day of travel. We pass through it, disappointed at the lack of goats atop the roof of Al Johnson’s, and my dad informs me he wants us to hit a quick warm up hike first. 

So instead of heading straight for Lynd Point Loop, we veer off through Ellison Bay to the Door Bluff Headlands County Park, following a winding gravel road flanked on either side by purple and white flowers which the podium at the trailhead informs us are known as Dame’s Rockets(later in the local paper I read an advertisement for an organized razing of these beautiful flowers, which are apparently highly invasive). When we arrive only one other car has beaten us to the lot. We pull closely in behind and bundle out into the forest. The air is cool. The trees rise vast and green towards the swirling, eraser smudge sky overhead. 

Hundreds of roots cross the path we take to the main lookout here at Door Bluff, gnarled, complicated things that seem perfectly placed for either of us to take a spill to the ground. The breeze coming in off Lake Michigan filters through the coastline foliage. Far below us, waves collide soft and low with the shore. Seagulls float and drift about. Another couple passes us by and good mornings are exchanged. We cross a sign that tells us that we have now reached the highest point in Door County, which feels almost impossible being that we’ve been going at a marginal incline for slightly less than half a mile. 

The lookout arrives with little fanfare. A small bench sits in the green behind us as we stand on the edge of Deathdoor Bluff and gaze across Green Bay to the forest on the other side. It’s fantastical, cinematic. The water seems to go on uninterrupted for an impossible length and though I know it must be a trick of my brain, I swear I can smell salt on the wind as it brushes the hair from my forehead. We take a series of pictures. We've hardly driven fifteen minutes from the town of Sister Bay, yet the point feels incredibly remote. 

We’ve only completed a half mile of the two mile hike that exists here, but my dad has heard from others that after the lookout things go downhill in more ways than one. Besides, we have other appointments to keep. We trip back through the roots to the car and finally start heading up to Newport State Park. 

Or so I thought. First, my dad makes another pit stop- This time to the winding road 1.5 miles past Gills Rock, where perhaps the most famous photographs of Door County are taken each fall. The road is thought to be designed by Danish man Jens Jensen, who implemented the unnecessary twists and turns that deliberately force drivers to slow down and take in their surroundings. My dad says that on some days you can find the cars lined up nearly ten deep here, all trying for their own snapshot of the serpentine road. Today, however, there is only one man with the same idea. He sits in front of us for a while with his hazards on, blocking the road, before stepping out to take his picture. We wait patiently for him to find his way out of the place before we take our turn, but are disappointed as he gets in his car only to drive about a hundred yards further down the road to get… Another picture. We decide to return later, after the man has presumably left, but as we turn around to leave he veers ahead of us and manages to stop in front of us once more for a final series of pictures from the opposite angle. Finally, he drives off and we rush out of the car to take a few snapshots of our own.

My dad is out of surprises for the moment and now we continue on to Lynd Point Loop. As we turn back onto the main road, we pass that same man pulled over onto the side of the road and leaning out the driver side window of his car for a photo of some large, blue house. It seems likely that this is the man behind Google Earth, 

Newport State Park is one of just 60 dark sky parks in the United States. Supposedly, if you catch it on a good night, you can actually see the Northern Lights. The dreary morning sun is still plentiful as we pull into Lot 3. We start along the path to Lynd Point and my dad points out the white strips on the ground that glow in the dark to keep well-meaning tourists from pulling out their phones in the pitch black night.

First we find our way to Newport State Park Beach, where white sand gives way to a coastline that runs long and jagged along the lapping waters of Lake Michigan. I trundle on down to the water and stick my hand in, leaping back to avoid wet socks, and find that the temperature is not quite as cold as I would’ve guessed given the briskness of the outside air. There’s a tree filled with white lilacs a few yards back from the shoreline.  We stop to smell the flowers and my dad tells me that grandma used to pick these out of their yard to bring in the house for their fresh, springy scent. 

Finally, we begin onto Lynd Point Loop proper. The trails here feel different than those I have grown used to in West Virginia. The woods have a separate purpose. It's as though the ancient forests of Appalachia are somehow younger, though I know this is wrong. Back home, the lively greens and muttering wildlife insist on themselves, thrust themselves forwards like they have something to prove. The stones are enormous and exigent and anything approaching picturesque is hard fought for as thick brush rules the land. The woods of Door County (though again,  my feeling is directly opposite the truth) feel somehow more mature, self-assured. The scenes they provide seem pre-arranged with just us in mind and though the parking lot was crowded when we arrived, we encounter only two others while walking the trail. Here, the lake holds dominion over the forest. Trees- Pines, beech, and birch-  that make their homes too close to the water's edge find themselves uprooted or with their spines cracked from the constant pressure of the lake breeze, splintering inland towards more protected grounds. 

There are dozens of little paths that lead to the water here. We duck into almost all of them, taking in each view with brand new eyes. As we leave the shore and reenter the embrace of the forest, the thunking of the waves against the rock falls away with eerie celerity. Even the birds here seem to hold a reverence for the place; Save for the odd, awkward honking of a seagull, the air is absent their songs. 

Wildflowers line our way, blue and white and yellow. We find the official Lynd Point, a wide little cove only a few short steps from a campsite where the usually fresh air takes on a musty scent, and my dad realizes he’s been here before. A few ducks rest among the rocks. I bother them for a picture until they acquiesce. 

At some point Lynd Point Loop turns into Fern Trail. A rather newborn looking wooden bridge cuts its way sharply through a forest with healthy green ferns on either side, their fronds wider than two man's hands. Collapsed trees are abundant here, fallen trunks overgrown with moss, and we are reassured by a placard that this is healthy for the local ecosystem. We spot some beautiful yellow bulbs that my dad correctly deigns orchids; Later, we learn that they are more specifically known as Yellow Lady Slippers. Eventually, we find our way back to Lot 3 where a sign reminds us that the rocky, 3.1 mile trail we just hiked is intended to be wheelchair friendly. 

We return from this bout with nature with 10,000 steps to our name and rumbling stomachs, but before heading to a well deserved lunch we stop off at my dads friends condo to say hi. Eric and Leanne are wonderfully kind people with an adorable dog named Oscar. They are heading to Milwaukee for the coming week, but offer up their scooters and pickleball set for our use as we see fit. We plan to take them up on both offers in the coming days, but for the moment set out to Fish Creek to see if we can’t get some lunch.

We eat at the Bayside Tavern on Leanne’s recommendation and though she suggested the patty melt, I opt for a reuben just to ensure free will. The tavern certainly fits its namesake- There is a display kayak hanging from the ceiling. The wooden seats and tables are both plagued with a familiar stickiness. The clock has hardly struck noon but there are already a healthy set of customers plugging away at their stations at the bar top, drinking something pink and slushy with a pickle draped across the top. The reuben is delicious. My dad orders chili and doesn’t eat but two bites. 

A great tiredness sets over me but my dad says we have just one more stop to make. We drive fifteen more minutes through Egg Harbor to Horseshoe Bay Farms, where my grandfather worked as a child. He would come across the bay on a ferry that dropped children off for harvest season, where they worked as cherry pickers in the widespread orchards that belonged to Horseshoe Bay at the time. After a long day of manual labor, the farm would feed the kids and host various sporting events for them, behaving more like a camp for young, needy children than just a pure child labor factory. Some of my grandfather's greatest young memories were made here. Now, the orchards have been bought up and the cherries dug out to be replaced by some ground-loving plant that remains well in the dirt this early June. But the barns are still here, lofty and gray. An art installation known as Stickwork, a beautifully intertwined tree sort of structure, stands out in the back lot.  Though it’s likely it's just the story working its way through us, there’s a sense of veneration about the place. We sit in the car for a moment, breathing in the memory, before heading back to the condo for some rest. 

Pebble Beach & The Race to Recovery

June 12, 2023

The first weekday of my stay in Door County was marked with a particularly slow morning. It’s difficult to parse whether it was the several beers we drank or perhaps the monster-truck tire size pizza we split at 10:30 PM, but dad and I are both having a tough time getting going. I laze around while he fields several work calls, chugging water after water and hoping my stomach settles down. Finally, at around noon, we are ready to face the day(or at the very least, willing to try).

First, we head just thirty yards out from the back porch to the condo tennis courts for a rousing session of pickleball. I’m unfamiliar with the sport but I’ve played tennis and ping pong before and my base understanding is that they’re all slight variations on roughly the same game. It’s only 60 degrees but it feels wonderful, even a little warm, as we walk onto the empty court. Dad smokes me the first game, makes a dramatic comeback in the second, and finally I manage an overtime win in the third. Pickleball is surprisingly tiring for a game that is played in the space of a large living room. We take a moment to catch our breath before the long hike back home.

Next, we walk over to Eric and Leanne’s house to steal their scooters. Luckily, dad is an expert at this. He tells me that he’s constantly taking things from their condo without asking and that this should be a cinch. Sure enough, we get by the new lock they installed to keep dad out with little to no trouble. The scooters are mopeds, green and gray, whose top speeds are supposed to be somewhere around 40-45. I struggle mightily to get it over 35, which leads to a few disparaging comments about my weight from a supposedly loving parent. 

The turning is difficult at first. We perform a quick back road test run for me to get my scooter legs and then we head out onto the ‘main road’ of Sister Bay. The main road would be a quiet, small town street in a car but on this brand new vehicle it feels busy and dangerous. I take a wide turn, steadying myself only barely with my legs before following my dad into town. The mopeds are… Surprisingly exciting. They feel much more like riding a slow motorcycle than chugging along on a scooter. I’m the essence of suave as my shorts ride up my legs to expose paper white thighs and I squint through my glasses at my fathers blinker in front of me. 

First, we go visit the Sister Bay recreational center, where we find potential pickleball challengers, if only we had thought to bring the kit. We swing the scooters around, some of us with more difficulty than others, and then head back out and cross the main road into the central Sister Bay beach and marina. Leaving the vehicles behind for a second, we walk down to the water where my dad points out the beachside back-end bar of the Wild Tomato, the large grassy area where there will be concerts or movies every Wednesday starting the second I leave, and the three story boat called the Hat Trick that supposedly belongs to some Blackhawks player. A child whose parents have not heard of hypothermia splashes in the shallows of Lake Michigan. Dad corralls me back to the bikes and we start up the road again.

This time, we pass the turn off for the condo heading south. We turn right and find ourselves at the unfortunately named “Little Sister Cemetery”. I mutter a prayer under my breath for Maddie as we ignore several stop signs and plunge into the woods behind the graveyard. There, a small parking lot sits at the end of the road. It is angled and difficult to set my scooter down properly but dad helps me and we leave them parked, satisfied. 

Pebble Beach is yet another wondrous natural feature of Door County. White, smooth stones have had all the fight taken out of them by the gentle calming of the waves. They rest beneath our feet like clean sand. The water here is glassy and spotless. There’s a woman walking her cat and a family with a german shepherd puppy only a little further down. We sit for a moment on the stones and dad points out a large, modern monstrosity of a house at the end of the bay. “A few years ago”, he tells me, “That used to be a restaurant.” Apparently it closed down and was remodeled into the horror I see before me, but not before dad and his friends managed to have a bonfire on the now private beach. The area is scenic and peaceful to the extreme. We rest with our hands on the stones, picking one up to skip every so often, until we hear a large crash behind us and realize that my scooter has fallen over. 

There’s a large scratch that goes down the otherwise unblemished side of the scooter. It’s quite badly damaged. Thankfully, it doesn’t belong to me- It belongs to Eric and it’s his fault for trusting me to use it. “That’s his problem now”, I tell dad, and he grunts in agreement before we mount up once again on our trusty steeds and head to the gas station to fill up on gas and empty ourselves of pee.

Cleansed and replenished we hit the road once more. This time, the journey is a long one. We find our way up the main street before turning off onto another backroad. Dad motions for me to pull alongside him and asks if I’m scared to go 40 mph. “No”, I whine. "I’m gunning it. It won’t go any faster.”

“Alright”, dad says, smelling weakness. “Let's drag race.” 

I line up beside him and he counts us down. We take off and for a few breathtaking moments are neck and neck until dad starts actually pushing his accelerator and speeds well ahead of me. Supposedly, we are relatively close in weight but one of us must be lying. I ponder this as my rolls of fat spill over the seat of the scooter and drag along the ground, bloody and full of friction. 

The road we are heading down once again has the feel of being perfectly curated. I can imagine the drone overhead, getting the shots of our drive while we peel along the winding path, ushered on on either side by deep and wild forest. The wind while driving these things hits fiercely, slowing and freezing us like a glacial jelly. My ears turn red and burn with cold, my white legs have a temperature to match, and I’m unbelievably grateful for the few halts in the treeline where the sun is allowed to work at baking us back up to a reasonable heat. But the ride is wonderful and somehow thrilling even at this tempered speed; I whoop and holler for no other reason than it seems appropriate. 

We finally arrive in Baileys Harbor after a long, icy drive. The Nature Center parking lot is crowded, but the advantage of riding scooters is finding parking where there is none and after checking and double checking that my moped is steady, we head inside for a grateful reprieve from the chill of the journey. 

The inside of the Nature Center is a small natural history museum of the area. I read the information before me without really taking any of it in- Something about Lake Michigan keeping the summers cool and the winters warm- while all around me people and their families mill about. There is the constant recorded screeching of birds, the chittering of squirrels. Dad and I head out as quickly as we came in, taking a right onto the bridge that leads to the preservation area maintained by this organization. 

The forest is beautiful and the path to it well maintained. We spot the same Yellow Lady’s Slipper we saw yesterday, but the couple inspecting the flower closely gives us a scathing look that encourages us to move on. There are several small marshy areas flush with lily pads. The birds here are absolute chatterboxes. We finally make it down to the Ridges Sanctuary Range Lights:  A pair of lighthouses that boats used in order to ensure their safe arrival at Bailey’s Harbor. We opt for the lower range light as it seems to be less popular. They’re cute, red and white structures that look old but not the least bit shabby. The plaque on the lighthouse reads: “This is the last red lighted lower range light that remains properly aligned in the Door County area”, which seems a bit like saying your favorite basketball player had the first 1/14/2/6/5 game in history and trying to spin it as noteworthy, but I digress. We head back out to the scooters and over to Door County Brewing Co. in the hopes that they might have a fire going.

The fire rages in the patio area but the welcoming indoor air makes a convincing argument for staying inside. Neither of us seems to have warmed up since our ride. The plan is to find our way to the Cana Island Lighthouse after this, but first we have some beers and a massive, delicious, doughy pretzel- A winners breakfast in Wisconsin. Dad whoops me in Scrabble and we reluctantly consider the long journey home in the dwindling sun. There’s a brief discussion and it is decided that the decision of whether or not to go to Cana Island Lighthouse will have to be a gametime one.

Ten minutes later, dad and I agree through chattering teeth that we are homeward bound. Cana Island will have to wait for another day. 

Eagle Trail

June 13, 2023

It’s a rainy Tuesday morning that looks likely to carry over into the afternoon. I finally got some sleep last night and awoke renewed for the day ahead only to look out at the gloomy gray and have my hopes dashed. I’ve just resigned myself to sitting inside and perhaps getting some writing done when my dad emerges from his bedroom and stands a strange distance away from me. I look at him. He looks at me. I remove one of my headphones. He asks: “Do you want to go for a hike in the rain?” Music to my ears; Anything to avoid writing. 

Peninsula State Park is the first item on every “Top 10 Things to do in Door County” list. My dad informs me that this is where we’ll be heading to take on the formidable Eagle Trail. To stave off the waves of anxiety that begin plaguing my body the second anything unexpected happens, I look up Eagle Trail on AllTrails and see it is a moderately difficult 2.5 mile loop that takes us once again along Lake Michigan, with a lookout to Horseshoe Island sitting lush and silent in the middle of the lulling waters. 

We make our way along the bending state park roads to the trailhead, just beside Eagle Panorama, a lookout that I assume was named after the type of pictures intended to be taken there. There’s an older couple canoodling in the dreary weather, and instead of bothering them, we head across the road and into the shelter of the forest that surrounds Eagle Trail. The light rain makes for pleasant white noise on the roof of leaves above us. 

The ground is sodden with rainwater even as we remain almost totally dry. Upended trees litter the ground like fallen soldiers in the great battle between the birches and beeches and pines for supremacy of the sky. The stones are slick and moist. What trees are still standing wear skirts of moss around the lower halves of their trunks. A tiny beige frog skips around our boots. 

My few days in Door County have relieved me of the idea that my tendency to play the same songs over and over again like reruns of a favorite TV show is in any way my fault. A few rides in the car with my father shows this trait is clearly genetic and I have the most recent Jelly Roll song- One foot in the fire and I still can’t tell, am I halfway to heaven or halfway to hell- Stuck in my head as we slip down a series of roots and rocks. I stop to pee and my dad says something about marking my territory, which reminds me of the four legged black and white lump that is missing from beside me. 

The skin of discarded birch trees peels up from their trunks, an offering of paper for poetry or potty, whichever proves more pressing. We emerge suddenly onto one of the heterogenous shores of Green Bay. This one welcomes the waters with jagged yet slippery rocks beneath our feet. Waves arrive in a pillowy whisper. Stormy mists obfuscate the town of Ephraim to our right. A wetsuit clad silhouette fumbles with their skinny sailboat out in the freezing bay. The water is clear and the rain seems to be largely theoretical for the moment. It’s a pleasant sight, but you know what they say about too much of a good thing- We hurriedly turn back into the forest to continue on our way. 

There’s the sense of destination in our two man party. My dad walks with sure-footed purpose and I’m reminded of our foray on the scooters just yesterday- Try as I might to gun it, I can hardly keep up. It seems likely that the blazers responsible for Eagle Trail had a grand vision- Far in the future the many roots beneath our feet will become ever more ubiquitous, until hikers are essentially walking on a natural wooden footpath a few inches above the forest floor proper. For now though, the gaps between the roots remain just present enough to make it amply difficult. Try as we might, we can't help but to slip on these pesky wooden snakes. 

We come to a change in the trail now. The forest to our left does not disappear but is now hidden behind great limestone cliff faces upon whose craggy shoulders grow sideways trees with roots dug impossibly into the rock. These multi-story structures look as though they are the ruins of some lost lakeside civilization. The much better written Door County Mom blog(https://doorcountymom.com/eagle-trail/) informs me that these bluffs are a part of “The Niagara Escarpment” which supposedly stretches from the Niagara Falls to far beyond Door County and contains fossils of the great aunts and uncles of the dinosaurs. This makes it all the more likely to me that the cliffs would choose to collapse at the very moment we are walking beneath them and I eye the thin holds they have on one another warily.

A man and three women who I assume are his sister wives, as each of them carrys a child strapped to their respective backs, say hello to us as we huddle against the cliff face for them to pass. I wave hello to the children and one by one they stare at me as though trying to figure out what species I am. We strut back into the forest and encounter a great pine tree that has been getting terrific Yelp reviews from woodpeckers everywhere. The dozens of holes in the bark make ghostly faces of surprise at us like the tree is begging for an answer: “Why me?”

The trail begins to garner a bit of an incline now. White flowers grow beside us and I identify them as Thimbleberries with only a little help from iNaturalist. Thimbleberries, so named as a compound of my father’s first name and the Monopoly piece he least favors. Finally, we emerge once again from the trail and I realize with dismay that I have forgotten to wear my Fitbit. This whole thing doesn’t count. Drats.

Cave Point and Old Baldy Loop

June 15, 2023

Several days without my better half has me waking up in nervous sweats far too early in the morning. My tired eyes refuse to close again. My subconscious is demanding we get on the road. I persist in the effort for more sleep for a few minutes longer before giving in. Within the hour I’ve hotwired my dads truck and am heading up to Cave Point County Park.

Dad has already been to Cave Point County Park and this, combined with the strange fact that his work seems to be making him work, means I’m on my own this morning. The park is further south on the peninsula, near Sturgeon Bay. It’s surprisingly crowded for a Thursday morning, but I suppose it is a balmy 55 degrees. 

I hop out of the truck and make my way over to the trailhead. The place is absolutely crawling with people- Parents corral their screaming blonde children while angst-filled teenagers lean moodily against the trees. Several couples gaze out over Lake Michigan, holding hands and exchanging knowing smiles. I have the unfounded sense that they’re judging my being here alone.

The trail along the cliff face is a strange mix of manicured and rugged. In parts, it is wide, flat, with the vegetation cut away near the water to allow for an uninterrupted view. In others, there are massive holes in the ground, trees crashed along the path, and of course the roots that grab at your shoes like massive wooden fingers. The waves here seem a bit larger than those I’ve seen elsewhere in Door County. They move across the surface of the lake like wide, rolling hills. I begin to climb down to get a closer look at them crashing against the craggy walls, when I notice a couple down below who look at me as though I’ve just gatecrashed their wedding. The families behind me grow ever closer. I like both people and nature, but prefer not to mix the two. The end of the trail is only a little further on but I turn around and hoof it back to the car. 

Whitefish Dunes State Park is less than 3 minutes away from Cave Point County Park.  I make the short drive to head out onto Old Baldy Loop. I’m hoping the 3 mile length will deter most people from walking it and interrupting my nature.

The Whitefish Dunes are one of several dunescapes that have cropped up on the shores of Lake Michigan. A plaque I read near the entrance of the trail informs me that the path I will be walking is also through dunes, but dunes that have been pushed back from the shore over time. Thanks to the unique ecosystem, plants grow here that struggle anywhere else in Wisconsin. The dunes nearest the shore are called foredunes, while the ones I will be primarily walking through are called backdunes. Creative. 

I find further evidence in the ground beneath my feet, which alternates between hard packed dirt and loose sand. Wind brushes the leaves overhead, ebbing and flowing through the forest with the tide. It is quiet, and a pleasurable kind of lonely. I try to draw on my Zoo Tycoon knowledge to decide if this forest is coniferous or deciduous and come up blank(the internet informs me that it’s a mix). 

I cross a small dirt road that looks as though it’s meant for park rangers and emerge on the other side into an entirely different ecosystem. Here, large swaths of the forest have been trimmed away and in their place grows plants that iNaturalist identifies as “bracken” and “brambles”. They look a little like dried out coral, and seem vaguely Texan. Another plaque informs me that this is intended to be a songbird paradise, and indeed the somber air is filled with their music as I watch a restless tree swallow flit from one plant to another. There are several signs warning against poison ivy, all of which sit within a large batch of poison ivy, which makes them seem more like advertisements than advisories.

I turn the corner and suddenly a great wooden bridge stretches over a shock of sand. I have the feeling that I am arriving at the trails namesake, a dune known as Old Baldy that is the “highest sand dune in Wisconsin”. I follow the path up, a little ashamed at how out of breath it makes me. There are signs warning of a $176 fine for stepping on the sand dune, an absurdly specific fine for an equally silly crime. Finally, I arrive at the lookout. There are two turkey vultures calling to each other across the island in voices that sound like a distressed Marge Simpson. The plaque here tells me to keep an eye out for red foxes and white tailed deer but other than the birds I seem to be alone. Clark Lake glints deep blue in the distance.

I turn around, heading across more wooden steps and back onto the path. There comes to be a small trail leading from the main one out to the beach of Whitefish Dunes and I follow this down. An old couple is just leaving and the woman says, “Beach all to yourself.” For reasons unknown to anyone, I thank her. 

She was telling the truth. There is no one on this vast expanse of sand in either direction. A single orange life preserver is my only direct company. The sand is shifting and difficult to walk on. I make it down to the water and stare out at the curling land to my right. It’s remote and restorative. The water is cool to the touch. 

There is a seagull gathering taking place a couple hundred yards to my left. I walk towards them, eager to bother what must be hundreds of the birds. They don’t let me get too close before squawking and taking for the skies. Some come down in the water but most just float a bit further down the beach. I watch them for a few more moments before turning back and exiting the way I entered.

A few minutes later I make it back to the parking lot. An old couple I encountered near the end of their hike and the beginning of mine looks me up and down, bewildered. The man calls out to me: “Boy do I feel slow!” I get in the truck, smiling. My maps aren’t working, even when I pull out from Whitefish Dunes and hop back on 57. I’m grateful that there is but one road to follow.

I simply can't seem to get the pictures to line up with the reviews on any device so if you see a large empty space here, I apologize. I shouldn't have tried to do anything out of the ordinary. 

June 3, 2023

Recently I have received an overwhelming response from my readership regarding my series “Trail Reviews”. The gist of these comments has been that my reviews are stagnant, boring, humdrum, tedious, uninteresting, repetitive, and lacking in perspective. There were also quite a few slurs slung my way that, although not necessarily accurate, still hurt. Today, in an effort to appease my fickle readers, I will write this trail review from the perspective of my unwilling hiking buddy, Cassidy.

I awake from a languorous sleep to find myself sprawled comfortably over three-quarters of my queen size bed. Though refreshing, my rest was troubled by fits and nightmares which I play back in my mind as I lay with my eyes closed for another moment, not yet ready to face the day. The nightmares were horrific, endless, a house of atrocities unfathomable whose shifting corridors I found myself wandering deeper and deeper within as the night dragged on. One fear specifically has its hooks deep in my brain and as I finally open my eyes, I breathe the word out, expelling it from my body- Ticks. 

One week prior my housemate, who insists on calling himself my boyfriend, took our dog out to a couple of state parks in search of ticks and the pair of them came home having struck gold. I shudder to think of the fifteen minutes Finn was running around our home before I searched his head and found three of the disgusting blood-suckers buried around his mouth and ears. With tweezers that are no longer fit for human use, I dug the pests out of his tri-colored fur and disposed of them in a see-thru tupperware filled with rubbing alcohol. I watched each of them take an impossibly long time to die in the poisonous pool. That very tupperware still sits on our patio to this day. I check it every so often, recounting the ticks to ensure that none has made a break for it. 

With one eye cracked halfway open, I turn my phone sideways and brace myself for its blinding glare. Two messages from my over-eager roommate, asking me to let him know when I’m awake so that we can get an early start out to Ohiopyle. When I agreed to this disaster a few days ago, I was half-asleep already and with one ear mashed into the pillow, misheard the man. When I awoke the next day, I was surprised to see him opening our curtains and smiling his ridiculous, gap-toothed smile at the Morgantown morning.

“I thought we agreed you were going to lie low for a while?” I mumbled through sleepy lips.

“What?” He said. Although he is still passably young, he has the ears and brain of a very feeble old man. 

I repeated myself and he looked at me quizzically for a moment before breaking into one of his tinny bouts of laughter. “No, no- I asked if we could go to Ohiopyle!”

I tried recanting my agreement to the trip but this led to the usual wobbly lip and finally I decided it would be less of an annoyance to just agree to the plan I’d been conned into. Now, as I lay in my bed rereading the words of his texts sandwiched between loaves of emojis, I was beginning to regret not standing my ground. As if he could sense my hesitation, the lout burst into the room and leaned against the doorway. “Up already?”

I did not answer his essentially rhetorical question.

“I’ve got Finn and his stuff ready. We gotta stop to get gas, so we should probably hurry before it gets too hot.” He stared at me with beggar’s eyes. For a moment, I considered rolling over; But again, I acquiesced and rose from the bed to begin my dressing process. 

One thing my bunky never seems to understand is that it takes me a few minutes longer than him to get ready. You would think he would take a page out of my book and perhaps spend some time in the mirror working to look less slovenly, but instead he just paces around downstairs, apologizing over and over to the dog for the wait. I line my arms in sunscreen and put on a smart looking yellow cap. For shoes, I wear hiking boots, with socks up to my mid-calf for base level tick prevention. I shout down the stairs to ensure that the pacing buffoon has packed a lint roller for the dog, which I read is an excellent way to rid an animal of ticks after a hike. 

When I am finally ready to go, I make my way slowly down the stairs, where the pair of them are waiting for me. I can smell the eagerness off of them, as though neither one can wait to be once again covered in those sick little arachnids. “Go get in the car”, I instruct, and they obey just as I have trained them to while I stand in the kitchen. I don’t actually do anything in the kitchen, but I prefer to make them wait just a little longer so as to reinforce who is actually in charge here. 

My driver informs me that the specific hike we are heading to is called Ferncliff Trail. Apparently, he’s been to the park before, and knows that it's a good one. I think he’s doubly apprehensive as the last several hikes he’s tricked me into attending have all been… Uninspiring. We stop at a gas station to fill up on both fuel and caffeine. I select an iced coffee for my beverage, while my associate opts for a comically large can of Monster. I look him up and down, wondering, not for the first time, if his true calling in life was to be a trucker. He certainly has the face for it. 

It takes an hour to get to the park, but it feels like longer as the same ten songs I’ve heard for the past six months cycle through the car speakers from his phone. The hills we drive through are a luxurious green, rich and emerald. In the distance, I can see windmills spinning away the clouds in the insistent morning sun. The homes here are flat and wide, and more often than not have a large shed off to the side half full of expensive looking farming equipment. We whip past garage sales and farmers markets and I’m forced to hold tightly to the Jesus Handle as the savage blockhead behind the steering wheel takes a turn at 32 mph instead of the clearly suggested 30. 

Finally, we enter Ohiopyle and I have to admit, the small town does look rather quaint. It is touristy, and busy this time of year with dozens of people parking along the main road to hike, bike, or white water raft as they see fit. We pass by a bakery and immediately I know we will be stopping there later. When, finally, we pull into the parking lot before the trail, I release my vice-grip from the handle above my head and breathe easy for the first time in an hour. 

Before we head to the trail head, each of us sprays down our legs with tick spray that smells like rat poison. I wrap the top of my socks with inside out duct tape and the flunkey actually has the audacity to giggle at me. We’ll see who’s laughing when a lonestar tick bites the bejesus out of him and he can’t shovel red meat down that oversized gullet of his anymore.

“You’re gonna look like such a goofball”, he snorts, before stalking off into the woods to pee, unaware that about fifteen yards away a couple is busy unloading the bikes from their truck. They clatter the cycles into the metal sides of the bed, and he frantically tucks his member back into his pants, stopping the process short, and waddles back over to me in shame. 

With Finn out of the car and the pair of us ready to go, we start down Ferncliff Trail. The shelter of the trees is welcome and the air is replete with the lively smells of nature. Rushing water in the distance helps to drown out whatever inane chatter the man is still making as he forges on ahead of me, practically dragged forward by the sixty pound aussie he wears like a girdle. Only a few yards into the trail, we cross paths with a pair of deer who stare at us with gentle brown eyes through the cross-stitch of the forest. I stand still, admiring the adorable back and forth motion of their short white tails, until I hear a sudden click- Then another, then another. I look ahead of me and see my roommate, hunched over and scowling into the viewfinder of his camera as he tries to find an unobscured angle of the wildlife. Disgusted, I cajole him forward.

It’s been a long, dry month here in Appalachia and it surprises both of us that the ground is wet and muddy in spots. The coverage of the canopy means that what little rain does make it down to the forest floor stays for quite a while. The blonde bimbo stops for a moment, pointing triumphantly at a birch tree that several people have decided to take a dagger to. “Look!” He says. “Arborglyphs.”

“That’s a pretty word for stabbing a tree”, I quip before brushing past him. Hopefully that will check his ego enough to allow us to move in pleasant silence for a few minutes.

But there is no silence in this part of the forest. Aside from the river, dozens of birds flit about overhead and I pull out my phone to record their calls. There are a few I can recognize myself- Robins and American crows- But for some others I need a little help. As I stand, waiting for my phone to recognize the calls, he takes a picture of me and grins. I wave him off irritably and turn away, checking the bird calls again- Black Blue Throated Warbler and a simple Blue Jay. I relay the information, knowing full well that by the time it has reached one of his ears it will have slid out the other, before continuing on. 

There is one robin in particular who sticks to the path before us. Each time we believe that it has finally had enough of our tromping, it circles around a bush or tree and rests itself only a few yards ahead. It is a pretty thing, and like all pretty things we encounter on the trail, the dog-laden lookie-loo is desperate for a picture but despite his efforts, the bird manages to avoid being captured on film. It is for this reason above all others that I believe that robin was a spirit guide for that short section of forest and when it finally bids us farewell, it is as though a chapter of our hike has closed.

The clod promised me water features and though we can hear the river, we can scarcely see it. I’m about to give him a good cuff about the ears when suddenly the trees to our right begin to dwindle and the Youghiogheny River comes into view. We see the main falls first, white water rushing down to a stillness below that belies its violent origins. Behind this is a series of rocky cascades over which the river winds and flows. This is the only semi-crowded area of the hike. Across the waterway, people are gathered on wooden lookouts to take in the majesty of the rapids while nearest us, groups pick around the blanched and eroded rocks with a plain curiosity most at home in tourists. 

The dolt likes to bolt across this jagged terrain, forcing Finn to try and keep up with him. I move more slowly, taking in the environment with careful consideration. There are small accumulations of water in the depressions of the rocks and something within one catches my eye. I take to one knee and look more closely to find a toy-sized water snake resting in the still pool. It takes the man only a few seconds to realize I have stopped before he comes bounding back. 

“Wassthat?” He asks, without looking. 

“Snake.”

Immediately, he clambers into the tiny space the snake has to itself and tries to snap a picture but the creature slithers away before he can get one. There’s a moment of quiet and he leans back onto the rock behind him and mutters, “Sorry.” 

I can see the beginnings of tears welling in the corners of his eyes and glance around. There are far too many people here, and no corners we can duck into to wait out the inevitable tantrum. Instead, I reach across and pat him on the head. “There, there”, I reassure him. “I got a picture.”

He looks up, sniffling. “You did?”

“Yup.”

The vapid gaze of unearned happiness returns to his eyes. “Will you send it to me?”

“Sure thing.”

And that’s that. He springs up from the rocks, fully rejuvenated, and accidentally steps on Finn’s paw while doing so, causing the terrorized dog to let out a horrific squeal that reverberates around the entire park. “Sorry”, he says to a group of girls who hurry past. Sometimes I wonder if that was his first word. 

We re-enter the embrace of the forest. The area quickly grows recognizable and suddenly we are back at the lot. He pours Finn a bowl of water while I lint roll his fur for ticks. A man drives by and calls out, “That’s a pretty little pup”, and my roommate smiles and waves as though the man has somehow complimented him. We get back in the car and I peel the tape from my legs, tickless.

“Bakery”, I command and he nods assent. Though not as cute as Finn, it is helpful having a dog that knows how to drive. As we roll through the now bustling Main Street of Ohiopyle, plans swiftly begin to take shape in my head. My attendance on this trek has surely been worth at least seven trips to Homegoods, and with any luck I can parley the snake picture into a cute new pair of kitchen towels. I lean back in my seat and smile, the sun slanting sideways through the window to my right. Perhaps hiking isn’t so bad after all. 

May 27, 2023

After two months in which I aged two years, I am once again traversing West Virginia.

Apologies to my many fans- I was held up by pre bachelor parties, post employment celebrations, and being smack dab in the middle of my second CFA exam. But yesterday, I put all of that behind me at 12:30 PM when I returned my ridiculously sized locker key, once more agreed to a sweep of the metal detector, and walked out of the Morgantown testing center back into the real world. 

Less than 24 hours later, Finn and I took to the road for our next adventure- The hastily decided Audra State Park nestled in the corner of Buckhannon, West Virginia. As the circle of trails that I have hiked grows wider and wider, my time on the road to time on the trail(CFA candidates will recognize this as the TORTOT ratio) continues to grow. 

The hour and a half drive was not without its virtues. I stop at the BFS near my house to get my usual hiking gear- The woman behind the counter knows me and she watches me with kind eyes as I collect the usual necessities of Monster and sunflower seeds. A few minutes later we are on the highway. Summer has reinstated itself forcefully. The green of the trees is both uniform and mesmerizing. 

The top AllTrails review of the Alum Creek and Cave Trail within Audra State Park states: 

“I definitely would NOT hike this on a weekend or holiday. It was packed with college kids sunbathing on the rocks, talking loud, playing music & drinking beer... on a Monday afternoon. We were happy to wrap up the 3 miles & get the heck out of there.”

Being that this is coming from Jessica Bergen, I knew better than to doubt it and had brought my own cooler, speaker, and a change of clothes in case one of the college kids forgot their glasses and mistook me for one of their own. Surprisingly though, when we arrived at 8 AM we found that we were one of two cars crowding the many parking lots appearing at irregular intervals throughout the small park. We got out and looked around, unsure exactly where the trail that we were supposed to be following was. 

Instead of consulting the sign denoting the trailheads, we opted to wander along the edge of Middle Fork River for a while, the banks of which were covered with surprisingly clean sand. It was a beautiful body of water, replete with the typical rises and falls over massive rock structures that are so customary in West Virginia. A singular goose watched us go by carefully, making deep rooted judgements and eventually deciding we were a threat, which it announced with loud, repeated honking. We hurried away, unsure if it was a war cry, a call for reinforcements, or both. 

Somehow we found our way from the riverbank past a sad looking playground and onto a gravel path that had some sort of symbol spray painted on the tree in front of us; A good sign. An older couple walked by and said good morning; Another good sign. The man was wearing a smart sun hat, which made me remember I’d forgotten my own. Probably for the best, I thought, being that the time away had made me once again feel self conscious about the touristy camera swinging from my neck and the dog yanking eagerly on my waist. 

The beginning of the trail seemed to be composed of rocks whose sole purpose was to sit unevenly. I tripped and stumbled and stubbed at what I would like to believe was a much higher rate than I had grown accustomed to. It will likely take a few trips for me to regain my trail legs. 

The forest of Audra State Park is dense; Almost jungle-esque. Trees leaned across the trail, yearning for sunlight. Dozens and dozens of snake holes peppered the ground beneath us, but no snakes made themselves known. The trail was well cut but rocky and with very few lookouts that weren’t overgrown with greenery. We came to a large rock at a particularly picturesque point(By this stage, I had let Finn off the leash and his grateful bounding made it apparent he had missed this nearly as much as I) and I asked Finn to stay while I hoisted myself on top of it. I turned towards the river, eager for a great view of the winding water, but was met only with glimpses and shatterings as the flourishing trees and their accoutrement blocked the true glory from my eyes. I dropped back to the ground and picked up a likely looking stick to aid me in our journey before continuing on. 

The trail is called “Alum Creek and Cave Trail” and though we had seen plenty of creek, it seemed to me that it would either have to continue for an awful long while or have a dramatic change in ecosystem to introduce a cave into the mix. We picked along the rocky path with more confidence now that I was armed with my trusty walking stick. Inevitably, rhododendrons crowded us on either side, tall and lush and some finally flowering as I had been promised. There were mushrooms and interesting looking bugs and the birds gossiping above us but no further wildlife before we turned nearly 180 degrees and began heading up a hefty incline. 

We passed a group of hikers, about my age or perhaps a few years older. Two of them were wearing little pouches on their chests, carrying what I assumed to be children until we got closer and I realized they were Chihuahuas, who didn’t care one bit for the energy Finn and I were bringing to the forest. The group allowed us to pass them by but the yips of those tiny, irritable dogs followed us nearly the rest of the way back to the car. 

I wouldn’t have minded the yips as much if I didn’t think it possible they cost us a wildcat sighting. As we turned a corner(The one after the tree, but just before the rock) a four legged silhouette slightly larger than Finn walked across the path fifty yards ahead of us before a yip sent it crashing back into the forest. We made our way towards the site of the crossing and looked through the foliage surrounding us but whatever it was had long since disappeared. I stood there for a while longer before the Chihuahuas started up again and I realized the sound was growing closer than I liked.

We emerged from the end of the trail into one of the aforementioned parking lots, though not the correct one. A biker gang was circled near the dumpsters, chatting about who knows what over the loud idling of six engines. Before we had even gotten back to the car, I decided that we would try and hike another trail before heading home. The Alum Creek and Cave was nice, but only about half as nice as I’d been hoping and after so long cooped up inside I was thirsty for more. 

But first, we were both thirsty for water. We sat in the parking lot, spitting seeds and taking sips at the water I’d brought along while I tried to see whether or not there was anything else worth hiking in the park. Despite being known for its Internet, Buckhannon was experiencing spotty service and so I hoofed it over to the park map posted at the entrance to see what I could see. 

What I could see was very little. The map was badly water damaged, but from what I made out, there might’ve been one other trail deeper within the park. This guess, coupled with the line of cars that was proceeding along the road that ran deeper into the forest, gave me all I needed to get behind the wheel and start driving. 

About thirty seconds later, we passed a sign that read “Now Leaving Audra State Park” and I realized that this might possibly be the smallest state park I had ever had the pleasure of hiking. Never one to despair, I turned around and drove what I believed to be was towards home, remembering a sign along the main highway that had advertised Tygart Lake State Park back the way we came. I had never been to Tygart Lake, and feeling energized as I was I figured now was as good a time as ever. 

But first: The escape from Buckhannon. The town's Google Fiber was still acting up, so I had to rely on my inborn sense of direction to navigate us back home. There is nothing so special in this, and in fact I do it quite often when I am on these more remote hikes, but this time it seemed I had taken a wrong turn or several; I was seeing none of the landmarks I had clocked on our way into town, not the covered railroad crossing, nor the pink barn, nor the house with upwards of a dozen flags hanging over the mailbox. Eventually I came to a sign that told me I was turning on 119 South and, using the only fact I knew about where we were, pulled a U-turn and started driving north towards home. 

Tygart Lake was unfortunately not the short jaunt from the highway that I had been hoping for but was instead its own ordeal in getting to. The first thing I noticed when I arrived was that this was the most crowded I had seen a state park since getting my hiking license. I pulled into the only available spot near the Nature Center and walked inside to ask a ranger what the best hike here was. This prompted a ten minute discussion between the two rangers working, which ended only when I cut in and asked if there were any loops within the park. Turns out, only one of the trails was a loop and so I thanked them and, with a map of the park tucked under my arm, went on my way. 

On our journey to the trailhead we discovered why the park was so crowded: It hosted both a marina and a “waterpark” within its territory. I use the term waterpark as loosely as the signs advertising its existence did liberally; Our drive to the trail revealed to us that it was little more than a small beach brimming with people and a few inflatable toys dotting the shallows of Tygart Lake. Despite this, it seemed incredibly popular.

We finally found the trailhead and a parking spot to go with it and quickly bundled out of the car. I was already feeling a bit regretful about this second hike and the first few minutes of School Bus Loop gave me no impetus to change that. We walked only a few yards separated from the many campsites where families had pulled their trailers along to grill, to relax, to park the car while they went to throw themselves at oversized floaties. Conversation carried through the leaves and followed us until we were well within the forest. 

Here I saw no snake holes but at the very least one snake- Mostly black, with a tan stripe running down the middle of it. I heard it before I saw it, and then it heard us stop and for one very careful moment, no one moved, except for Finn, who was entirely oblivious to anything that was happening and was just happy to be there. I tried to kneel to the ground to get a better picture of the snake, and it took that as its window of opportunity to make a hasty getaway. Camera shy, I suppose. 

The trail was brilliantly lush, a similar sort of jungly to the Audra Park Forest, which made me think that maybe growing up in Texas had set my frame of reference for forests and jungles all wrong. The signs along School Bus Loop assured us that the trail was meant for hikers and bikers alike, but you wouldn’t know it from the narrowness of the pathway. Finn, who under any other circumstances prefers to be as far ahead of me as possible, suddenly refused to leave my side, continually bumping either me or himself off the trail into the tall, itchy brush. 

When we came across the rusted vehicle for which the trail was named I came to two realizations- One, this trail probably wasn’t going to be that great. And two, the sign warning against venomous snakes in the area meant that trying to get a picture of that snake up close had not been one of my brighter ideas. 

It’s a beautiful day out though. The sun warms us in the breaks of the covering and we do seem to be largely alone on the trail despite the park's booming business. One of the things that has amazed me most about living in Appalachia is the different kinds of beauty that each season of the year can offer, and summer appears to be no different. The very air around us feels vibrant, alive, and I breathe it deeply into my lungs before we pack back into the car. 

Unfortunately, it wasn’t until we got home that Cassidy found the three ticks nestled warmly in Finn’s fur.

March 12, 2023

From traveling to New Orleans for the first time to frantically cramming for my CFA to a weekend getaway in the highly romantic location of Davis, West Virginia, the past few weeks have been a whirlwind. But yesterday, after such a tumultuous fortnight behind me, I thought it best to return to normalcy and go for a wet, dirty hike through nearby hunting grounds- Right smack in the middle of beaver season no less. 

We had about two weeks of spring weather here to tease us before a dramatic temperature drop brought us crashing back down to the dreary reality of Appalachian winter. It was sprinkling when Finn and I finally clambered into the car and headed off towards the trail. The roads leading to Quebec Run are made of flat dirt and nothing more, rising, falling, and circling the hill upon which we found ourselves until the light rain very suddenly turned to a snowstorm. To my surprise, my Spotify still worked out in the middle of nowhere but I turned the volume to zero as the frost began to blur road and ravine and I was forced to call upon all my meager brainpower to keep us from slipping off the sides of the street.

We breathed a sigh of relief as the trailhead finally came into view. I took a look at the clock: 11:25. We were about ten minutes late going off of the time Tanner had given us, which meant we probably still had about twenty minutes before he got there. I let Finn and myself out to pee, then hunkered back in the car to wait. At 12:00, Tanner finally rolled up and truth be told I was more than a little relieved; A Volkswagen Passat would not be among my top choices for navigating these frozen waves of earth. 

There are several different trails leading off from where we parked, but Tanner, Finn, and I gravitate towards the main one, a wide open path that looks more like a road than the ones we drove along to get here. Technically, the loop is a formidable eleven miles but with shortcuts and turn offs and the ability to simply reverse direction if it really came down to it, neither Tanner nor I considered this to be an issue. Finn has already wandered 50 yards ahead and is wondering what is taking the two of us so long.

The snow is really coming down now. Fleets of flakes fly past our eyes and paint the ground below us but the many layers each of us has packed over our bodies renders the effect entirely pleasant. The mountain is absolutely silent, with even the soft hush of wind absent from the air. There are no distant highway noises, murmuring voices, humming washing machines- The snow tumbles soundlessly to the forest floor below.

The trees here are immense. The largest of them have branches that breach into the cloud cover above, smothering their tips in opaque white. The sides of the trails are lined with the wild evergreen rhododendrons that surround seemingly every trail I set out to conquer in this area. Rocks jut out periodically from the sides of the trails, a thin snow crust overtop of them and long icicles, too long to have been formed from todays short storm, drooping from their undersides. 

We’ve been walking along this main path for about two miles, perhaps a little less, when we see an opportunity to diverge. Instead of continuing along Quebec Road as we have been, we duck into a tunnel of brush alongside us and step foot into the gelid glade that begins Rankin Trail. 

Low hanging branches of the trees dotting the clearing have been clipped. Some are arranged in a makeshift fire pit, while others have been dragged in a square formation around the would-be flames; The first of the dozens upon dozens of scenic campsites we happen across. The creek, which is creatively known as Quebec Run, bubbles along peacefully. The snow seems to stop the second we pull off the main trail, probably at first owing to the protection of the canopy above and then, to the warmth of the sun that begins peeking out from the previously impenetrable cloud cover. 

The creek water is shallow but clear; We dip our hands in and lap at it, finding to our surprise that it is actually warmer than the air surrounding us. This makes me less worried for Finn’s wellbeing when he throws his entire lower body into the wet, mucking around in the mud on the creek bank before racing back towards the path.

The trail is well kept, though not overly trim. Several bridges criss and cross us over the creek. I love to watch Finn traverse these obstacles, the conflicting feelings of nervousness and excitement propelling him over the wood in an awkward, lumbering manner. We finally spot another person; A lone man in a bright orange hat out for a late Sunday morning hike, and we shuffle off towards the water to let him pass without provoking Finn’s ire. 

We speak of movies, of Tanner’s potential cross-country move, of friends and girlfriends and quality boots. We talk about our pets a little too much like children, about snowboarding and family, of junker cars and the sheer wonder of the area we walk. The beauty truly cannot be overstated. Everything snow-dusted and tranquil and forever; It is as if we stepped into the scene through the back of a wardrobe. 

We reach 5 miles hiked, according to the several different apps I have tracking my movements and transmitting that data to multiple federal agencies at all times, and at about the same time we come to a crossroads in every sense of the word. We can opt to hook back onto the full Quebec Loop, taking the whole eleven mile journey in stride and hopefully ending up somewhere near enough our cars, or we can piece together our own itinerary through the map available to us and try to save some time and energy, which would also allow us to make it home at a reasonable hour for lunch. As ever led by our stomachs, we turn from Rankin Trail onto Mill Run.

In retrospect, we should’ve realized early on that this was a mistake. The trail quickly shifts from an easy gliding along an idyllic glen to a cardio workout at a 45 degree incline that leads to both of us bent over huffing and puffing the second we finally hit flat ground. This first obstacle soon turns into a pattern and we quickly realize that we are going to reach the top of this hill or mountain or knoll before we are allowed to once again walk on level earth. Several uphill battles later we take a well earned rest at the turnoff onto Tebolt Road, which we are hoping will finally link us homeward along Quebec Road. 

Of the three of us, Finn is predictably the only one who still seems full of spirit and energy, which perhaps doesn’t bode well for Tanner and I’s physical fitness. We take breaks, ostensibly for pictures or peeing or both, but mostly to catch our breath. Finn whimpers and whines at these moments, eager as always to get wherever it is we’re going. Birds have been strangely absent from the trees above us and I stare hopefully at the distant landscape that pans out below us for the hint of a deer, but whether due to the swish of our jackets or the chill of the weather, any wildlife that may be present remains well out of sight.

Our overcoats are tied around our waists at this point and both of us are lamenting my bringing a camera bag in place of a more proper backpack to stuff some of our many layers into. As we make our final turn onto Quebec Road we realize that the reason it was so easy at the start of the trail was probably due to the fact that we were traveling at a gentle decline all the while without really noticing it and now it has come time to pay the piper. With overly tired legs and exaggerated panting, we start our climb up the last leg of the trail. 

I begin scooping up snow from the rhododendron plants lining the trail, popping bite size pieces into my mouth and relishing the moisture. We believe with increasing certainty that the cars will appear just around the next corner, then the next corner, then the next, until finally we see them. Bets are placed on the distance walked, though we are both sure that we may as well have continued along the loop entire, for all the good the shortcut did us.

The final verdict comes as the trunk shuts behind Finn while Tanner and I lean against our respective car doors, exhausted- A mere 8.5 miles. I recently read a biography of Julius Caesar, throughout which I scoffed at his army's ability to cover a paltry 20 miles per day. Here we have hiked 8.5 along a pre-made trail and feel about ready to drop dead. When I meet Caesar in the life after, I’ll tell him of this moment and we’ll laugh and laugh before I challenge him to a footrace, which I win, but not by too much, so as to not make him feel self conscious.

February 11, 2023

After yet another morning of lifting a comically impressive amount of weight in the gym, I headed home in the beautiful sunrise to make a protein shake and scream my girlfriend awake, hoping she would indulge me with a little morning hike. Thankfully, it only took a half hour of pleading, crying, and scratching for her to acquiesce.

I’m a little surprised that the Marion Country Trail hasn’t popped up on my radar before and it makes me wonder what other little gems AllTrails has been keeping hidden from me. The 3ish mile out-and-back is only a 25 minute drive from our apartment, stretched to a 35 minute drive when we stop for the coffee I promised Cassidy in return for her company. A new rule has been established banishing Finn to the very back in an effort to keep the car a bit cleaner and he whines and whimpers the whole way there. The pup cup he greedily slurps at does little to ease his mind.

The Marion County Trail is located in Fairmont, West Virginia, home of the National White Collar Crime Center, where they train feds to understand the blockchain. I am a little apprehensive as we pull into the trailhead; On one side lies a massive aluminum manufacturing plant and on the other a junkyard, each fenced in with chain link and barbed wire. It is not exactly an idyllic view, but the air is light and comparatively warm so I maintain an infectious positive attitude that Cassidy seems immune to. 

The highlight of the MCTrail, as it is apparently known, is the Meredith tunnel, an abandoned railway tunnel that was restored in 1914. Huge lights hang from the ceiling of the tunnel every 50 yards or so and interspersed between these are little door-size divots in the tunnel walls for people to duck into should a ghost train ever run through the long-since removed tracks. The youth of Fairmont have spruced up the walls of the tunnel considerably; Spraypainted on either side of us are the names of the artists intermingled with stick figures, cryptic phrases, and a few actually unique illustrations.

 ‘My soul has died in this tunnel but my body roams the streets’ marks the wall; Ten yards further on, someone has spray painted  ‘She was thicker than a bowl of oatmeal’  beside a crude depiction of a huge ass; The duality of man. 

As we emerge from the 1200 foot tunnel, I’m relieved to see that the only sign of the warehouses that had lined the beginning of the trail is the massive pipe that trickles runoff onto either side of the trail. The two animal corpses we see lying in the middle of this mostly still water suggest that maybe it is not the safest to drink. We press on, thirsty and conflicted.

Now that we have made it through the tunnel, the trail has become beautiful. We wander between two steep cliffs on either side of us until one falls away and we are treated to a view of Hickman Run, a creek with water that glides softly over the smooth rocks below until eventually merging, as all bodies of water in this area do, into the Monongahela. Despite the sharp improvement in the weather over the past week, all the foliage is still dead and barren. Moss creeps up onto either side of the path, a thin green line between concrete and copse. All is silent but for the swish of Cassidy’s puffy jacket and Finn’s constant fucking panting.

We get a look at Fairmont proper through the breaks in the trees. Houses and factories sit side by side. The only cars roaming the streets this early on a Saturday morning are huge trucks driven by caffeine-charged men who were unlucky enough to pull the weekend shift. We encounter four others on our journey: A man with a large brown poodle who awaits our exit from the tunnel eagerly, not wanting Finn and his own hound to break into a barking match in the middle of the echo-y chamber, two women jogging in equally bright pants, and another man accompanied by a dog wearing a stylish blue jacket(the dog, not the man).

Other than the dead bodies, the wildlife in the area is sparse. A group of tiny birds that look as though they should be dressing a princess flitter around us for a time. A fat, grey squirrel has emerged from his hovel and is chowing down on what appears to be a blueberry. The sun filters through the thin branches overhead and thaws our faces. Benches appear every couple hundred yards or so, looking less like they were commissioned by the county and more like they were cobbled together by a group of trail-enthusiasts. There’s a small pavilion with a headboard that reads ‘Novelis’- The aluminum manufacturer's way of apologizing for grotesquely poisoning the wildlife along the trail. The trunks of the great trees beginning on the banks of the creek a steep decline below us rise hundreds of feet above eye level, their branches basking in the morning light. I can almost feel the serotonin bubbling in my brain as the high level of rage I maintain at all times subsides, if only for a moment. 

Finn and I stop to pee on the two mile marker to let other travelers know we have been through here before turning around. My Fitbit vibrates rapidly on my wrist, congratulating me on hitting 10,000 steps before noon. The cliffs slowly rise up once again on either side of us as we make our way back, shrouding us in shadow. A soft wind whistles eerily through the tunnel. My coffee, originally given to me at a temperature that can only be described as hazardous, has cooled to an unpleasant lukewarm by the time we make it back to the car.

January 14, 2023

The roads are icy again. 

Even when I follow a familiar path- Left on Jones, left on Grove, right on Afton, left on Stewart and hang tight through the intersection- I proceed with the utmost caution. Most of the streets have already been braved by those with more experience than I; Brown tire tracks make their way through the white covering in an ugly manner, marking a clear path for me to follow. It is only when we hang a left towards the town of Point Marion that I encounter unfamiliar territory. Here we pass a sign welcoming us to Pennsylvania and I think that if even this side street has an indication of the state line, you must never be able to cross between the two without seeing those white letters on the great blue background. 

Friendship Hill is the name of the hill upon which sits the Gallatin house. Albert Gallatin? America’s Swiss founding father who served a thirteen year tenure as Secretary of the Treasury to both Jefferson and Madison? You don’t know who that is? Shameful.

Regardless, Albert Gallatin’s historical significance to our country means that the area is actually a National Historic Site. Once I make my way past the dozens of rusted and frozen tractors, trailers, wagons and car parts that dot the yards of the handsome houses bordering the Monongahela, I round an icy bend. There is a small convenience store advertising drive thru beer and cigarettes; A long ramp that has not been plowed declines dramatically to the river below; A man stands in front of the Point Marion United Methodist Church, shoveling the sidewalk clear of snow. I pass all of this by and take a left into the site. A gentle, paved road slowly unfolds before us with well trimmed trees on either side waving hello. Snow has already been cleared from the road though it doesn’t seem to be highly trafficked; Finn and I spot no more than two cars as we pull into the nearly empty parking lot. 

Walking the Gallatin house is strange. It feels less like touring a historical property and more like trespassing. Albert Gallatin, who we all know as the founder of New York University and financial mastermind behind the War of 1812, built the house at the high point of Friendship Hill in the hopes that the 675 acres and their proximity to the Monongahela would soon make him a titan of agriculture and industry. Over time, the house passed through several owners, most of whom worked to shift the vibe away from industrial powerhouse and towards a center of culture; Apparently this is reflected in their construction of a large gazebo which overlooks the river, among other things. After the house and hill were declared National Landmarks in 1965, the National Park Service stepped in to scoot the gazebo back a few dozen yards, as the original owners had built it just a little too close to the edge for tourists and their curious children to be able to peruse it safely. 

You are allowed to tour within the Gallatin house, and despite the nervous dog strapped to my waist, whose loud howls break the perfect silence of the morning everytime we pass a statue(he thinks they’re alive, and when he finds out they’re not, it only increases his concern) I poke my head in to see if by some miracle the house/museum is dog friendly. An old man with a kind face and long white hair pulled into a ponytail glances up from his desk. He wears the light tan uniform that belongs only to security guards or park rangers.

“Hi”, I say, looking foolish in three layers of clothes, a camera banging against my chest and a dog yanking me back outside. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance I can bring my dog in?”

The man takes a moment before answering. “Well, I don’t mind at all. But if law enforcement happens to swing by, they might take issue with it.”

Hmm. It seems to me that it would probably not be a great idea to take Finn into this historic house, through the windows of which I can see many delicate artifacts encased in glass. Although I think it unlikely that any policemen are going to feel compelled to check out the practically vacant Friendship Hill at 9 in the morning on a Saturday, I also recognize that this was probably the old guard's way of kindly saying no. I thank him and turn back outside, grateful again for my incredible ability to read social cues.

We do go ahead and stick our faces up against the chilly glass windows. It’s difficult to make out much, but I see a wax figure who I presume to be Sophie, Albert’s first wife, posed as to be working with vegetables in the kitchen. A woman in the kitchen? I’ve seen enough! Finn and I turn away from the house, furious at the long struggle women of past and present have had to endure in order to be seen as equal to men. We walk over to the gazebo to clear our heads.

The gazebo is beautiful and large; I’m surprised it has been moved back from the edge because to my eyes it still appears precariously positioned. The river below runs an unfortunate color. Across its waters, a few small warehouses sit, the untouched snow leading to them indicating that they have not yet been opened today. 

We turn away from the overlook now and begin walking down a small hill. To our left, towards the entrance of the site, is a massive open field. All is still before a hawk bursts from one of the trees overhead and swoops down towards the snow; It’s unclear if it managed to catch anything. I take to one knee and unleash Finn, who bounds twenty yards ahead of me to immediately take a shit. 

The area is highly manicured; Even with a healthy coating of snow on the ground, Finn and I are able to find our way along just fine. All vegetation has been cleared from the sides of the path to make way for benches, signs, maps, each of which I am forced to brush the snow from in order to use. There is a big brick structure that looks almost like the chimney atop the house of a giant. There is no signage around to indicate what it might be; I would guess a fire pit, but would also probably be wrong. Finn hops inside and pokes his head over the edge, an adorable pose that I manage to take a dozen pictures of, each horrible in their own way.

As we continue along, a small pond appears. I almost laugh out loud at how comically idyllic it is. Snow dusted logs cross through the center of it where water still resists the freezing temperatures even as ice begins to crust on the edges of the pond. Bare trees surround the whole thing, their branches reaching towards the surface like frostbitten fingers. On the other side of the path, running water emerges from a hillside and spurts into a small stream below, just enough remaining unfrozen to trickle its way downhill.

We traverse a small bridge and emerge into the field we had admired before. I try to entice Finn to run across it but to no avail; He’s not very comfortable being further than 50 yards from me, a trait that I rather prefer overall. We cross the road on the other side of the field and duck back into the forest. There is a map showing the extensive trail system of Friendship Hill; If we wanted to, we could venture down to just along the Monongahela before taking a wide loop back to the point we stand at now, among a dozen other options. Instead, we head along a path titled ‘Ice Pond Run’ that will hopefully help us find our way back to the parking lot. 

There’s another stream here still fighting its way along in the 25 degree weather. The trees are enormous with age. I follow their trunks up to a sky that seems a mirror image of the ground below, white and swirling as though the entire firmament is composed of nothing more than one giant cloud. Glancing around I am overcome with conflicting feelings of gratitude and jealousy: Gratitude for the opportunity to experience the peace and beauty of this area, for the ability to have the whole of it almost to myself this brisk and brilliant morning; And jealousy of fucking Albert, who got to walk this sort of path everyday on his pre-breakfast stroll. 

I had seen on the map of Ice Pond Run that we would pass a maintenance site but figured that this was just denoting the small shed we saw on the other side of the parking lot when we pulled in. As usual, I was wrong. Instead, a handful of buildings and shacks sit alongside one another, fenced in with signs that denote all items inside as property of the United States government. There are tractors, dozens of PVC pipes of different sides, tools for irrigation and snow plowing and hundreds more items that I fail to identify. A single bright red fire hydrant sits at the crossroads of the maintenance buildings and the trail back to the parking lot. For some reason, I find this hilarious.

Whoever works maintenance here, and I am beginning to suspect it is the kind-faced security guard from before, also seems to live on the property. A doublewide trailer rests 30 yards back from the path. A sign reading ‘PRIVATE PROPERTY’ in aggressive black and red lettering warns hikers back, while a basketball hoop covered in snow gathers a wistful air in the small driveway. As Finn and I bundle back into the car, I see the old man standing atop Friendship Hill in front of the old Gallatin house. He waves goodbye while the road behind us lengthens, drawing our first visit to Friendship Hill to a close.

January 7, 2023

Well, Christmas has come and gone and even allowing for a healthy grace period it doesn’t look like I will be getting the 4 bedroom bungalow in Chile that I asked for, so it’s back to the West Virginia hills for now. And what better hill to start with than Snake Hill- One of the first hikes I tackled out here, predating even this very website. I seem to remember that when I first drove up the narrow backroads knotting over themselves across the countryside leading to Snake Hill, I became convinced I was journeying to the boonies, the very outskirts of civilization, an idea I considered validated by the cutting in and out of my music as we pulled alongside the trailhead. This seems silly to me now; It was a mere twenty minute drive to get here and even after we pass the sign denoting the Snake Hill Wildlife Management Area, houses pop up every hundred yards to reassure you that help is never far away. This change in perspective is called growth.

In other ways, however, I remain entirely stagnant. Our first foray into Snake Hill saw us losing our way almost immediately. We missed several of the outlooks, landmarks, even a waterfall that is supposedly hidden near the cliffside through all the dead brush and unfortunately, history seemed destined to repeat itself. Despite maintaining what I thought was hyper vigilance as to our direction, twenty minutes into our hike I take a peek at the map and see that already we have gone wayward. Our current path will lead us to a single measly outlook before immediately turning around and beginning the long trudge back to the car. Now, I did originally plan for a shorter walk than usual but this was pushing it; After all we’d driven to the boonies(Again, 20 minutes) for a taste of real nature! I wasn’t about to let something as simple as the lack of a coherent trail stop us from hitting all the sights there were to see. And so, in a Trail Reviews first, Finn and I broke off from the path and headed into the bush. 

This idea seemed excellent at the time. One of the great features of the AllTrails app(and for once, I mean this without a hint of irony) is that once you begin a hike in a certain area, it populates the map with all of the nearby trails, even the ones you are not technically hiking. So after taking a close look, I see that if we push through a bit of wildlife, ford one small stream, and trudge up a minor hill, we will be spat out onto a side path that reconnects with the main path a mere half a mile down the road. I release Finn from his leash- This is too delicate an operation for me to be tethered to a maniac- And we begin our journey. 

The first couple of minutes are no problem. We are off the trail, yes, but clearly there has been some maintenance done here, some clearing of the underbrush, and we are able to carve our own way through the woods without too much trouble. The most difficulty I encounter is a small stream which I try to cross by balancing on a log, only to find the wood has completely rotted through- I race across with sinking feet before it turns to splinters beneath me. 

And then all of a sudden, the gentle excursion turns violent; Thin trees stack atop one another like a dry, wooden army with thorny vines winding their way through the ranks. More than once, my beanie is snatched from my head by a particularly sharp branch or row of thorns above. My thick coat and pants keep me from being battered but I worry for Finn, who has nothing but his coat to shield him. 

These worries, as most where Finn is concerned, are severely misplaced. They have not yet invented a deterrent for the blue merle bull. Finn barges through the barbs thoughtlessly, his favorite way to do things. Never have I seen him so excited(As most readers have met Finn, they will know the immense gravity this statement carries.) As soon as he clears one way forward, he doubles back and runs headlong into another series of brambles. Not only is he not hurt but he actually seems to enjoy tearing through this forest, snapping branches and dragging thorns along his coat, making such a commotion that if there are any other hikers nearby on some hidden trail they are sure to turn tail toward the parking lot, certain that a black bear has just awoken from hibernation with an empty stomach.

Finally I see it: Our solace. The trail sits a mere ten yards away; Between us is the thickest bunch of thorns yet. Tucking my camera close to my chest and throwing my jacket hood over my beanie, I charge through the overgrowth, desperate to regain some semblance of a path. Branches crack loudly in my ear; Thorns scrape my hood, an awful tearing sound that makes me worry I’ll come out of this in tatters. Finally I emerge. My jacket is intact. Finn is 10 yards ahead of me, smiling and looking back as if to say, “Once more?”

The trail is muddy. Not for the first time, I regret wearing tennis shoes rather than hiking boots, though in my defense they were all the way upstairs. Finn, of course, has no problem with the terrain but I am averse to any sort of moisture in my socks and pick my way around the edges of the trail, preferring the brush of the branches to the squelch of the mud. Finally, we break into a sort of clearing. Here, as everywhere on Snake Hill, a dozen different mini-trails break off from the main one, each beckoning with a separate adventure. But Finn and I are tired and muddy and this was meant to be a short walk. I head directly for the first overlook.

Even before the branches fall away and I see skyline, I notice something. On our first journey here, Finn and I came to this same point. Searching for the overlook, I decided that it must be the large rock jutting from the cliffside and navigated us to it; Trouble was, there’s a sizable gap between the trail and the rock, meaning you must leap across to make it. This led to a particularly scary moment where Finn was scrabbling for a hold on the side of a rock while I put face to boulder to help haul him up. This time around I realize- That’s not the official overlook at all. That’s just some rock I jumped on. 

You come to the official overlook by following a very narrow path with vibrant green plants arching overhead. Here there are no jumps, skips or leaps other than those your heart does when you finally emerge from the tunnel. The view is infinite. In one direction, you can see what I believe is the bridge that traverses Cheat Lake and a few homes dotting the hillside of my hometown. Smoke billows up from a Morgantown power plant like a cloud that’s trying to get back to its own. On the other side, dark hills with an air of silent strength decline to the Monongahela River that twists through their valleys. Sun breaks through the thick overcast ceiling, lending the far reaches of the scene a heavenly aura. After a few moments of taking it in, I decide to fulfill both a lifelong dream and a biological need in one go and begin to piss off the side of a mountain.

There are a number of other overlooks that give a slightly fresh perspective on the same area; We stop in each, feeling as though we have earned it, but we do not linger long. My legs are aching and both of us are hungry. The journey back, impossibly, begins with an incline. Somehow all hill/mountain trails never go down but only higher and higher. We pass an old metal shed(The Snake Hill area seems to be used for Water Quality Assurance and this shed is an old remnant of that industry.) Inside, a dusty beer bottle sits beside some old broken tool hooked up to the rusted pipes that run beneath this ancient forest. On the side of the shed, someone has graffitied the phrase “PROTECT WHAT REMAINS”, which sums it up nicely.

There is one more major stop along our way that evaded us on our prior trip, so despite our fatigue I am determined to hit it. According to AllTrails lore, there is a waterfall that sits about a half mile off the main trail as you make your way back to the parking lot. I keep my eyes glued to the map, glancing up periodically to ensure I am not missing any obvious trail breaks. Fortunately, I never miss any; Unfortunately, none seem to exist. I take a gentle few steps into the thicket where the supposed trail is meant to be but there is nothing; Dense wood stares back at me, the forest daring me to repeat my earlier rampage through its branches. With a sigh, I chicken out and trudge back onto the path. 

That’s not to say that the walk back didn’t hold adventure in itself! Twice, we encountered two off leash dogs(Finn has been re-leashed for a while now) who barrel up to Finn with their owners calling them off half-heartedly fifty yards behind them. The first is a young man out for a jog, who has another dog tied around his waist. “Don’t worry”, he yells. “She’s friendly. This one though-” The dog wrapped around his waist leaps in the air and snaps at Finn for emphasis- “This one’s still learning.” I give him a pleasant smile and the calmer dog a few seconds to say hello before continuing on. A minute and a half later we have our second encounter- A woman this time, who has one dog leashed and two off leash with her. The two off leash are tiny things, more stuffed animal than dog, and they bark loudly as we approach. The dog on the leash is a large, chocolate lab. “Don’t worry”, the woman calls out, as is protocol. “They’re harmless.” As she says this the lab yanks her so hard that he breaks free from the leash and zooms towards us. For a moment, Finn and I both freeze. Then the dogs are greeting one another, nuzzling snouts and sticking their noses in each other's assholes and all is well. “Sorry about that”, the woman says, shuffling over. “I can’t control him.”

“S’alright”, I reply. It’s probably not alright to walk three dogs you can’t control but I can see the car and practically smell the coffee; Besides, I am in no position to begrudge anyone an off-leash walk. A few moments later Finn and I sink into our seats with practically tangible relief, twigs and leaves still dispersed throughout our hair.

An adventure, to be sure.

December 10, 2022

In which I use as many commas as humanly possible.

As it turns out, hiking is a rather decent hangover cure. 

Or, I suppose the two Monsters and gallons of water I guzzled on the way to Ohiopyle State Park might have done the trick. The cozy little tourist town of Ohiopyle was essentially shut down for the winter; I tried to get a coffee to keep my caffeinated high going and was met with a sign that said- “Closed for season- See you in April!” Only the general store could satisfy my needs, run by two likely looking women who watched closely the men invariably draped from head to toe in hunting gear as they clomped loudly throughout the store. 

Tanner arrived a little after I did, as he is wont to do. I’ve been to Ohiopyle before to hike the Great Gorge trail. The Youghiogheny River runs through the center of the park. It’s an impressive body of water, with short waterfalls and rapids intermittently breaking up the otherwise gentle flow of the water downstream. The Cucumber Falls are here, a rather pathetic excuse for a waterfall in my opinion, which, when I visited previously, was completely occupied by women attempting to take scantily clad photos for Instagram while being drizzled by a ‘waterfall’ that pumped out less liquid than a modern shower.

Baughman Trail and Sugarloaf Loop begin in the same place, and indeed, are essentially the same trail for the first half of the hike. We start up the side of either a very large hill or a miniscule mountain; Mud slicks the bottom of our shoes and gives us reason to take extra care as we pick our way along the trail. The difficulty of this hike was labeled as “Moderate” and we soon figure out why- Although there are no particularly difficult obstacles to pick over or treacherous crevasses to traverse, the entirety of the outing seems to be on a slight incline. An hour and a half into this and we, two twenty-somethings at the peak of their physical lives, have had cause to take several breaks.

During these rests, Finn begins to act incredibly strange. As Tanner and I pull off to the side of the trail to catch our breath, Finn, who has been leading the pack, turns around and begins to whimper for a moment before firing off towards Tanner, pumping his little legs as hard as he possibly can, passing by the pair of us and then taking a wide loop to come back around. He shoves his wet snout in Tanner's face and continues to whine. More than once, he jumps up on Tanner with dirty, naughty paws. He seems almost overwhelmed with distress any time we begin to slow down. After a few of these little freak outs, Tanner puts forward the theory that perhaps Finn thinks that Tanner becomes lost on these trails, and that is why he never ends up coming home with us after the end of them. Finn's whimpering and worrying are just his way of expressing concern that if we wander too far off the trail or hesitate to follow the path he blazes for us, Tanner may be swallowed by the woods- And then who would Finn challenge to a footrace?

I choose to believe this theory, mostly because it’s cute and partially because it would seem to absolve me of any failings as a dog owner.

After what seems like the most difficult possible path up the mountain, we emerge victorious at the peak. Our reward comes in the form of a stunning view overlooking the river snaking its way through the sleepy hillsides; The trees around us appear dead but in this macro picture of the world, you miss the trees for the forest and the view is vibrant. Clouds drop from the sky and caress the tops of the mountains across from us, shrouding them in a mysterious looking mist. As we are walking up to this viewpoint, legs already tired, feet sore from treading over rocks with too-thin soles, a hatchback pulls off the road adjacent and a couple gets out. They share the view with us, an experience that I assume is at least almost as gratifying for them, before bundling back into their warm car and heading down the mountain. Tanner and I look at one another and sigh before beginning our long trudge back down.

Sugarloaf Loop bends off from the trail about a half mile back from the peak, and it is by this route that we choose to descend. The decision mostly comes down to the fact that the walk up, although beautiful, was a very plain sort of pretty. Outside of the view from the top, we were mostly subject to the regular brilliance of the forest and we have become far too spoiled to accept that as adequate. Instead, we waltz across an idyllic looking road and emerge onto the other side of the mountain, from which we begin our long journey down. 

Sugarloaf Loop, as it turns out, is only marginally more impressive than the Baughman Trail, with twice as much mud to boot. We do happen across a cute little creek that trickles down to the rushing Youghiogheny below, and there’s a little pond in which Finn makes himself even more wet and dirty, his two favorite adjectives to be. Tanner takes off his new gloves and cups some of the water from the creek into his mouth- "Good, and not as cold as you might think", comes the review. 

Part of the fun of walking with Tanner is listening to how different our brains are. There we are, plodding silently along- For the last thirty seconds, I’ve been thinking about how much I like sunflower seeds- When he says something like, “I guess most quadrupeds don’t really need strong calf muscles.” Or another: “Did you know that we have no muscles in our hands? All this movement”- Squeezing his hand and releasing as though working an imaginary stress ball- “Comes from the forearms.”

(Tanner later issued a correction on this point, texting me hours after we had gone our separate ways to inform me that there are in fact, muscles in the hand, but your FINGER muscles used for closing are all forearm. This correction was necessary because, as he tells me, his is “an esteemed journalism establishment.”)

We’re right near the end of the loop when we happen upon an abandoned water tower. Being the mischievous little fellas that we are, our first thoughts immediately went to the possibility of climbing it, but those hopes were soon dashed when we discovered the solid metal grate that covered the ladder opening. Instead we contented ourselves with admiring it, inspecting it up and down. Tanner flipped over some metal bench looking object for reasons that do not need to be explained. Finn was again very concerned with our deviation from our path and I was beginning to think that his worries had less to do with Tanner and more to do with the thousands of ghosts that apparently haunted this hill. Soon, we turned around and completed our journey.

Back in the car, I was feeling a little guilty about the massive time investment- About a two and a half hour hike, plus the hour to drive here- To impressive view ratio, and so I offered to take Tanner to “my spot”. “My spot” is a pretty clear cut trail that peels off from a main road which leads the hiker onto rocks jutting out into the center of the beautiful Youghiogheny. But first, lunch. 

We went to the only food place still open in town, “Paddler’s Pizza”, where I got the chicken fingers and Tanner the Italian sub. Perhaps it was our fault for straying so far from the namesake with our orders but the food turned out to be aggressively mediocre- In fact, a less hungry version of me might even have called it disgusting. However, this was more than made up for with the beautiful view from the middle of the river, where we chowed down on horrendous french fries prepared by a seventeen year old who probably cared about the quality of food he produced a good bit less than a mother bird cares about the quality of worms she spits up. 

I was already a big fan of the Ohiopyle State Park and this experience did nothing to change that. Sure, there were things we could’ve done better but the view we were rewarded with was breathtaking, and although the hike was long and tiring and at times monotonous that’s also, sorta, the point.

December 2, 2022

I’m calling this entry Rhododendron Trail but in reality, of the three different trails we ended up hiking, none were the Rhododendron. 

Although I would never criticize the AllTrails app and the many benefits that come with purchasing a pro membership, it is worth noting that when you use them for directions to a trailhead, no matter how well known the trailhead, AllTrails will spit you out at ‘Unknown Location’- Sometimes this unknown location is within a few yards of the trailhead, sometimes a few miles. The developers of AllTrails are not concerned with the whinging of those who would see this as an issue; They note it as a clear indication of their lack of an adventurer's spirit and conclude that these are not the sorts of people they want using their app. 

Finn and I(And Cassidy to a…  lesser degree) are proven AllTrails enthusiasts and so when the directions to the trailhead for Rhododendron Trail led us to a sign that said we were now walking Rattlesnake Loop, there was not a word of complaint from any of us. Except a couple at the start, from both Cassidy and I, but then no more. Well, a few more, at intermittent times along the trail, for reasons that will become clear, and then a small exchange of words in the car ride home, but other than that- NONE.

So, Rhododendron Trail which will henceforth be referred to as Rattlesnake Out N Back to confuse the reader, begins near the Coopers Rock State Forest Gift Shop. We wandered along for a while, unsure as to whether or not we were actually on a trail but mildly encouraged by the periodic blue smudgings that appeared on the bark of trees and underside of boulders. The trail that the park rangers had carefully blazed for us was largely conceived of massive gray stones partially covered in light green lichen that we picked over with the utmost caution. The clouds resting in the overcast sky above us noted how slow going our journey was beginning and decided to send down a light smattering of rain every few minutes in order to send us slipping along.

The area was truly beautiful; I am not sure what the origins of the mammoth boulders located in Coopers Rock area are but they are something to behold. As we walked beneath their stone overhangs, sheltered from the rain for a moment, I thought of how ridiculous it was that we trust nature to be so totally static; Why would we feel comfortable beneath this thousand-ton rock, if we did not believe it to be entirely impossible that it would ever move? There is a permanence to these monoliths that is rare in man made structures.

 Finn threw himself at the rocks with such abandon that I wasn’t entirely sure his intentions weren’t masochistic. I love trailing behind him and Cassidy, snapping photos of them like I’m a father on his family’s yearly vacation to Niagara Falls. As we continue along the ‘trail’ at a snails pace, Cassidy laments that she has to get back into Morgantown before 2 PM. It’s only 11 but we have hardly made a dent in the trail; 2 PM is not such a sure thing. Looking at the map, I note that there is a clear crossroads up ahead at which we can turn around by switching trails and directions. 

Before we come to this crossroads, we hear a series of bizarre sounds. An angry cry, a soft chittering, a sound that is nearly a dead ringer for a slide-whistle. Our chins raise and we turn our gaze to the sky, where a group of birds are chasing one after the other with wild freedom. We stand there for a moment, dumbfounded, trying our best to formulate some sort of understanding of the inner workings of this large group. There is a special place of reverence for birds in Cassidy’s heart and in particular crows.; I’m not sure whether or not these birds were crows, but now you know a fun fact about my girlfriend.

The crossroads turns out to be quite clear. There is a small cabin structure with a fire and two picnic tables inside. We shelter there for a moment as I dry my camera off. The map nearby says we’ve crossed paths with Rock City Trail. With a sigh of relief, we head down the relatively flat looking terrain.

We’ve only been walking a few minutes when Cassidy spots two deer off to the side. They must have heard us by now, but if we frighten them they don’t show it. Instead, one grazes absentmindedly while the other rises slowly from its lying position and shakes it’s white-tail back and forth like a puppy. We creep slowly along the trail, not wanting to disturb them. I’ve been afraid for my cameras life this entire hike but now I finally have something truly worth photographing. I fumble for the device in my jacket pocket and quickly take 10, 20, 100 pictures of the beautiful, calm animals. Finn waits paitiently at my feet, wondering why we’re all walking so slow. Two hours later, I load the pictures up on my computer and realize that not a single one of them was good. Here’s one anyways.

Finally, we make our way from Rock City Trail onto Eagle Loop, hopefully our final of the series. Eagle Loop is quick and well kept- Everything seems to be when compared to the Rattlesnake Out N Back. There are huge rocks along the sides of the trail here, spaced thirty yards apart with several picnic tables squeezed between. The rain has mostly let up now but the ground beneath us is polka dotted with puddles. All the structures we pass have green roofs, moss overtaking man in the winter months. 

When we finally arrive back at the gift shop, eager to purchase sweaters to commemorate our hard-fought hike, we find that they've closed for the winter.

November 24, 2022 (Thanksgiving)

A fair portion of the financial quarter has gone by since Finn and I headed up the way of Coopers Rock so today we took steps to remedy that. We got a bit of a later start than usual, but were on our way before the sun crested over the low Morgantown hills. I was bundled in a light coat and my trusty boots. Finn wore his Sunday best. 

Clay Run Trail is yet another in the Coopers Rock State Forest index of trails- It actually begins in a familiar way, near the Reservoir Loop I walked with Tanner. The pond is not nearly so eerie this time but strangely enough about half of it seems to be still frozen over. I toss a light rock onto the surface to confirm my suspicions. Out here, a little ways away from the highly traveled college town, snow is still melting off the shaded sides of the road and little slush piles line the trails. Even in my fancy new boots, I stumble over the icy sheet that covers some of the forest ground and wonder how my ancestors ever managed to get anywhere at all.

Skeleton trees sit patiently side by side, waiting for spring. Leaves whisper wild nothings in the mystery beyond the brambles. The sky is a healthy blue. There was one other car parked at the trailhead but what the heck- It’s Thanksgiving!- So I let Finn off his leash and he bounds ahead happily. 

For the first twenty minutes or so of the trail there’s not much to look at, so most of my time is spent admiring Finn. I watch as he stares in wonder at the landscape that looks so plain to me. A small pile of rocks is worth a 5 minute derailment. More than once he is so enamored with a scent that he nearly slips down the side of the hill, a long slide into the slow moving creek below. 

The path breaks from the loop, fashioning itself into a good old Texas-style hike, a thin trail among high weeds. Finn is lost from view within these tall plants, forcing me to play a high-stakes game of iSpy to ensure that he hasn’t gotten himself into any trouble. The trail then widens again and trees reappear on either side. The decline increases and we find ourselves winding down the deserted path to a world of evergreens, moss, and the idle creek we’d been hearing for the last half hour. 

Down here, there are even more remnants of the snow we had than above. A few stubborn icicles stick upon the outstretched wood that hangs over the water. Finns paws sink slightly into cold and wet leaf piles. There are a few bridges that take us back and forth across the creek, still iced over- Without handrails, I take these with cartoonish caution, hyper aware of the camera slung around my neck. 

We finally meet the owner of the other car parked at the trailhead- A woman walking her own two dogs. Each of us quickly leashes our animals before we cross paths. One of her dogs is a rather vicious looking pit bull that snaps at Finn hungrily and both of our hackles raise. Eventually though, we emerge from the encounter unscathed and find ourselves face to face with Henry Clay Furnace.

I have a sneaking suspicion that Henry Clay Furnace is part of what gave the trail its name. The furnace is a relic reminiscent of the sorts of structures that used to dot the area- Capable of creating up to four tons of iron a day, it burned 24/7/365. The iron industry was so commercially successful that an entire town used to be surrounding this furnace in the area we know as Coopers Rock, until the costs of transporting the iron from the area began to outweigh the money you could make selling it and the people either moved or were carried away. Of course, all of this is assuming that the person who wrote the plaque that sits outside the structure wasn’t a dirty, filthy, stinking liar, which I’m still on the fence about.

It takes me a moment to realize that you can actually duck down and crawl inside the furnace, but once I spot it I need no convincing. Inside feels like you’re in a tower, or maybe a cellar; Finn is too nervous to come in at first and takes some coaxing. His panting has turned from happy to anxious. A small amount of light filters in from the aperture overhead. The air is cool. My legs are tired.

Clay Run Trail is, unfortunately, an out and back trail and Finn and I have just hit the halfway point. We turn around and begin the long slog back to the car. Wonders we passed on the way up now seem trite. Empty. We lap the woman and her dogs; The pit bull gives the air another friendly chomp. 

Sometimes I wonder why I enjoy hiking. I especially wonder what compelled me to go hiking today, a holiday, 28 degrees out and a 30 minute drive away, with my hamstrings aching from leg day and my toes crying out in pain from being jammed in jiu jitsu. The heat of the adolescent sun mixes with the cool air to give me a case of frigid sweats. I shrug off my jacket and tie it around my waist, dropping the cap to my camera in the process, an $8 mistake I don’t realize I’ve made until I’m safely back in the car. The hike feels longer than it is. 

But then I am in the car and Finn sits in the backseat behind me, breathing heavily and happily. I unwrap the jacket from my waist and peel my sweater off before shoveling a few more Cheez-Its into my mouth. I pause a moment to rest and that is all it takes to make me more than happy that we went.

99 times out of 100, the juice is worth the squeeze.

November 19, 2022

It’s 22 degrees out. Yesterday's snowfall sticks to the rooftops of the houses that sit comfortably within the purview of my living room window. Finn gives me a beseeching look and I sigh. It is finally time to break out my winter gear.

   I swaddle myself from head to toe, first with thin black long underwear, then thick pants and a coffee-stained sweatshirt. I complete the ensemble with a heavy coat and brand new pair of boots gifted to me by Cassidy’s parents. With Finns leash strapped around my waist we shuffle to the car, taking minute steps to make sure we don’t slip on the ice that lines the stairs to the garage. It is only after the twenty-five minute drive to the trailhead that I realize I haven’t taken the tag off my boots and for once, I find myself without a knife.

The roads aren’t too slick and luckily Cassidy's car is perfect for navigating them. We pass a billboard advertising a bar called “Smokers Welcome”, the tagline of which is “It’s in the name”; It’s pretty much an exact replica of the Nathan for You sketch of a similar title. As we peel off the main roads, the streets start to glint a little more brightly in the morning sunlight. I slow the car down and engage X-Mode; It’s not clear to me what X-Mode does, but Cassidy puts it on in the ice and a little model of our car pops up on the dash that makes me think of the Hot Wheels movie, so it has to be good.

Cheat Lake was dubbed Lynn Lake in 1927 after the owner of the hydroelectric dam that stops up one end of it, but apparently the locals took issue with this and continued referring to it as Cheat Lake until the name was officially changed in 1976. Personally, I  prefer Lynn Lake but nobody consulted me until it was too late. Cheat Lake played home to a long history of coal mining and iron industry that eventually led to it becoming grossly contaminated. In 1950, most of the surrounding wildlife had been completely killed off and all but 15 species of fish died out. Then, in the 1990s there were two massive mine blow outs that further poisoned the waters feeding the lake, leading Cheat River to be named as one of the top 10 most endangered rivers in America, whatever that means. Prior to recent conservation efforts by the Friends of the Cheat, the water ran a horrific burnt orange through the valley.

There are two different trails that diverge in opposite directions from Cheat Lake Park. The playground equipment is frozen over, the slides sped up, and the benches in the area are covered in a light dusting of snow that hangs on stubbornly in the morning sun. We follow the North Trail, crossing a small bridge coated in white. Signs and regulations dot the area- No fishing, hunting, drinking, smoking, swimming, or breathing. My equipment does well against the cold but my face is still bare and my eyes begin to water. Finns paws make little stars in the slush.

Everything is dead but the snow lends the scene a little dignity; Houses across the lake take on the look of cozy winter cabins. The naked trees look a little warmer with white blankets hung over their branches. The trail reminds me of the Greene River Trail Tanner and I walked a few weeks earlier, a well-kept morning jog style trail that runs along a body of water. A tree has broken from the steep rise on our right side, crashing across the trail and through the fence that lines the lakeside; It looks as though it might have happened in the recent freeze. Finn and I clamber clumsily up the hillside to try and get a better angle. My boots sink deep into the piles of frozen leaves. Slowly, I yank myself upwards with gloved hands and get the coveted picture. As it turns out, the scene actually looks less impressive from above. This bungled foray into the woods leaves my camera dirty and Finn remarkably worried. 

Leaves covered in frost pepper the ground like overgrown snowflakes. A few birds have missed the winter memo and take off lazily across the lake, barely hovering above the water. Trees hang on the wrong side of the fence, desperately stretching towards the sunlight. The total silence is broken only by the crunch of my new boots as we plod along. 

The trail runs for two miles and then ends abruptly as we run headfirst into the hydroelectric power plant. They changed the name in 1976 but here the signs still call it the Lynn Lake power plant; Tall barbed wire fences send a clear message before we can get too close. Finn and I are forced to turn around and I don’t think either of us is too upset about it. The sun is out in full force now, working overtime to lift the snow from the ground. The shine of it hurts my eyes and I make the whole journey back with my head down. Just as we leave the embrace of the forest for the length of the bridge, the wind picks up dramatically, chilling Finn and I to the bone while the trees wave goodbye behind us.

November 5, 2022

The Core Arboretum in Morgantown is a 91 acre expanse of wildlife used for everything from research to dog walking. Being that I hate to learn, I opted for the latter.

I’ve walked the Arboretum before- 91 acres means that there are quite a few different ways to do so- But never from the ‘Proper’ starting point. Just behind the WVU Coliseum where the Mountaineers lose basketball games sits a series of plaques that explain the history of the Arboretum, list a few different kinds of the foliage you can find there, and beg citizens to take up arms against the dreaded spotted lanternfly. We park at the trailhead and step out into the sunlight.

The ‘Guthrie Loop’ is one of many trails leading from the main entrance and it is on this that Finn and I begin our journey. The loop is really little more than a walking path along a wide lawn showcasing the various types of trees flourishing in the forest. Plaques and fun facts are sprinkled throughout. Benches pop up every twenty yards, each one in loving memory of someone who once walked these woods. I like peering at the names of the trees before looking their trunks and leaves up and down as though I will retain even a sliver of this information- It’s a fun little play I can’t help but to act out at every new species I come across. There are birches and beeches, oaks and pines, even bamboo (that one I recognize). The state tree of West Virginia is the sugar maple and I find a huge one here, outstretched branches reaching fruitlessly towards the clouds that slowly meander by overhead. A large slab of rock beside a pavilion area tells me who is responsible for the beauty I walk through.

We end up peeling off Guthrie Loop and heading over to ‘Taylor Trail’, the beginning of which is marked by a short bridge. There are two beech trees along Taylor Trail and both are littered with carvings of initials and hearts and other things scribbled into the bark eight feet up their trunks. Beech trees are a favorite for arborglyphs (The proper name for these carvings, according to Google). Their smooth bark provides a perfect canvas for couples wanting to etch their love into nature forever. The steep decline of the trail has me taking cautious, miniscule steps; Finn waits for me patiently as I proceed over the carpeting of leaves that make up the forest floor.

The Arboretum is split by the Caperton Trail- A concrete road with the trees cut away on either side that runs six miles parallel to the river. It’s very popular for runners and bikers; Finn and I have actually gone out for a few morning runs there before. But this morning as the Taylor Trail spits us out onto the Caperton, we simply cross and allow ourselves to be swallowed by the woods again until we end up at the Monongahela River; The beautiful, interminable, fucking inescapable Monongahela River. 

The river is quiet. It’s still early and boats rest idly in the docks across the way. A sign tells me that the area we are in is called a floodplain forest, known as such due to the frequent flooding of the river which whisks out the dense shrubbery so common in the rest of the forest and leaves the area feeling bare; See-through. I’m not sure if we’re still on the Taylor Trail; There are markers letting us know that the area is well traveled, but they show only the WVU logo and nothing more. I’m about to let Finn off his leash when I spot a research group slowly making their way along the riverbank towards us. It seems today will be a strictly leashed experience.

 A leaf is suspended mid-air (See: Shitty picture to the left).

In this, there’s nothing all that special; I’ve watched and written about the mass shedding of leaves the trees have undergone over and over. I’m actually running out of ways to describe walking through dried leaf piles everywhere we go. But this leaf is special because it is not falling; It’s floating. It sits midway between branch and ground defiantly, daring gravity to say otherwise. Though I cannot see it, I know there is a spider web somewhere, a string of silk sticking to a trunk that has caught the leaf on its way to the forest floor, which in itself is fantastic, but in the moment I choose to see nothing; Nothing but a stubborn little leaf not quite ready to hit the ground. 

October 29, 2022

I didn’t particularly like this trail.

I mean, the drive up was nice. Listening to the same ten songs over and over again while belting them out in my best country twang. Finn seems to love when I sing along; I can tell by the way he switches from nervous panting to happy panting in the backseat(a mother knows). It feels like only a week ago I was commenting on how lush and beautiful the hills alongside the highway were; Now, they are mostly barren things, stripped of their plumage. I imagine them as massive leaf piles built with the collected fallen foliage from the bare barked trees we pass by. Even the few that have managed to hang on to their leaves seem to have had their colors tinted brown. Winter is coming and winter is here, all at once.

Greene River Trail is near the town of Frederickstown. Apple Maps leads you into a peaceful little neighborhood that does sit riverside but isn’t quite near the trailhead. Luckily, my recently acquired AllTrails Pro Membership (#AD) comes in handy. We drive out of the neighborhood and make our way into the adjacent ‘Yacht’ club. I didn’t see any yachts but I did notice a pretty big boat that was apparently called “Sold More”. I can only assume that it is the solar panel salesman of the year's way of making his colleagues feel bad about themselves. 

I have hardly pulled into the trailhead when Tanner calls me; He’s arrived in the neighborhood. I explain to him the superiority of the AllTrails Pro membership, along with perks that come along with purchasing a full years subscription at a reduced monthly price, and he soon sees the error of his ways and manages to find us. As always, Finn is ecstatic to see him.

The trail is simple enough- It's essentially a straight shot down alongside the wide river. Everything seems to be in decline; Trees are grey, the river empty, even the fallen leaves look a little less stunning. It’s a beautiful day out though and Tanner and I soon peel our sweatshirts off as the sun rises higher in the sky. Finn is unleashed and sprints down the trail, though I am careful to keep an eye on him. He recently had a tick scare and even with his new Lyme vaccine, I’d rather not take any chances. 

The trail disappointed me but in fairness, we let the trail down as well. We walked a decent chunk- Two miles, give or take- But not nearly the full length of the trail before turning around. There were no departures towards the river or into the woods, no lookouts, little wildlife. We did see a plaque explaining the different types of barges that used to pull through the Monongahela River we were walking alongside, the same river that runs through the heart of Morgantown, but this didn’t hold our attention for too long. 

It simply felt a little more like a good place for a morning jog, or a casual walk with the family, rather than a weekend hike. I had chosen the place solely because it was located roughly in the middle of our separate domiciles, but somehow this turned into each of us driving an hour rather than one of us driving an hour and a half. Finn at least, seemed satisfied, having been able to get the run of the land while still coming away tick free.

Afterwards, we went to the Tap Factory in Monongahela, Pennsylvania. No matter where I run, it seems I cannot escape Monongahela. It was a nice little restaurant, mostly empty when we walked in, that was embracing the spirit of Halloween wholeheartedly. I was forced to look anywhere but forwards while using the urinal, above which hung a rather horrifying picture of a demon-man. We had a pair of decent burgers before saying our goodbyes and heading our separate ways. It was a fine trail and a good meal- But for a four hour affair, I expect a little more bang for my buck. Needless to say, my review of the trail using one of the many features of the AllTrails Pro membership I recently acquired at a very fair price, was less than five stars.

October 16, 2022

It’s about 40 degrees out. The leaves are yellow and speak softly in the wind. The backseat of the car doesn’t have Finn’s dog mat laid out since we put the seats down to move Tanner’s new couch in yesterday, so I spread a blanket over the seats and beckon Finn inside. 

The drive to White Park from my apartment is short and one I’ve made many times before. White Park is a favorite for before-work walks when we have the extra twenty minutes of drive time. I pull into the roadside parking and let Finn out. He panic shits immediately and I toss it in the garbage before we enter the forest. 

White Park has many different trails leading off from the main one. For the most part, they seem to be mountain biking trails and more than once I’ve thought of bringing my dad here when he comes to visit. It’s also been, in my experience, good for at least one deer sighting and today proves to be no different. The deer don’t like Finn though, no matter how much I tell them that he doesn’t notice anything more than two feet in front of his nose, and so they leap into the thicket before we get too close. 

The trail winds alongside the Cobun Creek Reservoir, a small body of water that early in the morning is always populated with extremely talkative geese. By some unknown signal they all take off into the air, separating out into three perfect V’s as neatly divisioned as the USAF. Finn’s paws push and skitter over the leaves underfoot and more than once I stop and gaze into the underbrush to our right, mistaking Finn’s racket for the noise of a wild animal. 

There’s a small overlook where the reservoir pours out into a creek. To call it a waterfall seems to do other waterfalls an injustice; The water takes a slight stumble, then another, then another, following the declining path down into the woods. A few pebbles have found their way into my shoe and I take the opportunity to dump them out onto the wooden platform below. The names Kayla and Eddie are carved crudely into the bench, encircled with a lumpy heart.

There are many side paths to the trail but for most of our morning walks I stick to the main one. Today though, is a Sunday and we have plenty of time. We divert down a rather steep hill, made doubly so by the bowling-lane-smooth bottoms of my decade old converse. When we make it down, I see we have arrived at the bottom of the ‘waterfall’ we were watching from above. It looks prettier down here somehow; Maybe the overlook sets expectations too high, whereas stumbling upon the scene below is a pleasant surprise. Regardless, I spend ten minutes staring at the flowing water before I turn to head back and notice the homeless encampment for the first time.

Encampment, much like waterfall, may be a bit of a strong word. A few tents sit side by side. There is no movement in them as far as I can see, but there are propane tanks, clothes, and plenty of garbage bags lying around. My guess is that the occupants are still sleeping, and I take one sad look at the too thin tents, the garbage littering the ground just before the creek bank where clear water gathers in lazy whirlpools before struggling my way back up the hill. Welcome to West Virginia. 

As we continue down the trail we pass a point that I recognize from a previous time here. That had been another weekend walk, this time with Cassidy along with us. It was raining and enough water had dripped from the curved leaves of the canopy above to soak the path beneath us. Finn was muddy and grinning. Cassidy was not. We opted to turn around and started to call every Indian restaurant in town only to find to our dismay that all the other residents of Morgantown had the same idea we did- Butter chicken in a rainstorm sounds pretty good.

This time however, Finn and I continue on. We’ve never actually walked the entire trail and I am curious to see where it spits us out. A bunny runs across our path and I realize it’s the first I’ve seen since I lived in Texas. A bird calls out somewhere in the trees, a sound more like a monkeys howl than a typical birdsong. The trail curves back over itself and we end up in the middle of a neighborhood I don’t recognize.

The house at the mouth of the trail smells more like a creek than the creek did; A blue and white striped pinwheel sits in one of the two otherwise empty rock beds that border either side of their front porch. A little outdoor cat eyes Finn warily at the next house over but, as with the deer, Finn remains completely oblivious. Down the street almost 300 yards away, a dog spots us and begins to howl. The old man he’s attached to attempts to shush him but not for very long. The howls grow louder and louder as we continue down the street. 

There is no sidewalk and then there is and then there isn’t. It comes and goes like the tide of a concrete ocean. Houses are decorated for Halloween; There are birds nesting in the gutters of a two story with four different Frankenstein portraits posted within each of the front windows. We pass the howling dog and turn the corner onto a road I recognize. 

The houses are so old, yards so overgrown. The park is a gravel lot with a playground that is caged in by a chain link fence. Despite these things, there are toy cobwebs hanging from the corner of every home; Witches and ghosts haunt the porches and doorways; A house without a pumpkin is an impossibility. These decorations feel like putting Elmer’s Glue on a crumbling foundation, a coat of paint over a smoking crater. A man braves the West Virginia winter in a tent beside a pretty little creek and joggers and college students get their morning exercise on the path above him. There’s a determination, a sadness, a longing in the things I’ve seen this morning but I don’t know enough to put it together and I know for damn sure that there’s no one aching for me to try. 

Finn and I make it back to the car and start on the road. The man with the howling dog is chatting with a neighbor as we pass. Otherwise, the roads are empty. The sun peeks over the horizon as though to ask whether or not the town is ready to wake up yet.

October 14, 2022

For my second foray into the wild world of Maryland, I decided to journey to Deep Creek Lake State Park. With me traveled my trusty superdog Finn and current main squeeze Cassidy. The trip turned out to be unfortunately trying.

The first thirty minutes or so were pleasant. The hills are still gorgeous and driving through them with Cassidy is a joy. Most of our conversations are halted mid sentence by one or the other pointing out a particular tree or color or hillside. We pass through Friendsville, where I hiked the Kendall Trail, and continue up a road that is aggressively labeled as a Scenic Byway(“Take in the views… Or ELSE!”). We pass harvested sunflower fields, school buses hidden by overgrown grass, and store after store selling nothing but corn. All the trash cans up here are covered to keep bears at bay. We cross a bridge that shows us Deep Creek Lake and the water framed by the trees stuns the two of us but by this time the drive is wearing on us. The first fifty minutes and the last ten seem equal in length. Neither of us has eaten lunch and so it’s with some disappointment that we pull into the Deep Creek Lake State Park welcome center and find that they have no food to offer. 

Cassidy goes inside to pee, and then I do, the two of us taking turns holding Finn. On my way out, I ask the ranger inside where the trailheads are. I’m handed a map and shooed outside, with the sole instruction of ‘Find the Overflow Parking Lot’. 

Cassidy and Finn are waiting by where the lot gives way to the trees. There’s a sign advertising the State Parks Aviary and as Cassidy is a bit of a bird expert herself, she’s excited to go. The strict no dogs allowed rule for this area of the park means Finn and I stay behind before once again Cassidy and I switch places. The birds are amazing, cartoonish creatures. They hardly seem real but my camera fails to appreciate their beauty, instead focusing on the thick wire mesh that is put into place to keep over eager tourists from losing a finger. I walk back to Finn and Cassidy and we bundle back into the car to Find the Overflow Parking Lot, much to Finn’s dismay. 

We see a boat ramp and a boat parking lot; Through the trees we get glimpses of parked cars but have no notion of how they got there. When we start hitting houses again, a sinking feeling sets into my stomach, and we pull off the road to turn around. I show Cassidy the map and we drive back through. The overflow parking, wherever it is, continues to evade us. With a time limit of a few hours here before Cassidy needs to be rushed back to her late Friday evening class, we decide to pull off the road and make our own path by the lakeside. 

Gratefully, the area here is so uniformly beautiful that the views do not need to be curated. A few boats have set out on the water but for the most part it remains calm. Small waves roll into the sandy shore; Finn wets his bottom half before throwing himself onto the dry sand, caking himself. Large rocks push out further into the lake, too smooth to be easily traversed with a nervous dog tied to my waist. 

The park is beautiful and very well put together. There are countless picnic tables, a playground, multiple basketball courts, places to cookout… It appears to be very well funded. Cassidy’s personal mandate anytime she finds herself beachside is to search for the coolest rock available, but the rocks here prove too boring; Too uniform. There are life preservers dotted along the shore line to be tossed out to struggling swimmers, though it is difficult to imagine anyone swimming just now in the 50 degree weather. 

We wander a little more but can’t find a trailhead. Time is slipping away from us and the lack of any food in our bellies highlights this. We cross parking lots, push our way up hills and drag our feet along the forest floor but eventually, it becomes clear we have failed our mission. Rather defeated, we turn back to the car. 

Our journey to Deep Creek Lake was an unfortunate failure, user-error in a park that seemed as though it would be idiot proof. I will be back eventually, to more properly take in the area but for now our short journey along the lakeside will have to do. As we drive out of the park back the way we came, I note a sign that says ‘Trailhead Parking’. We’ve finally found the Overflow Parking Lot.

October 8, 2022

Today, against my better judgment, Finn and I went on another hike. 

Hike is maybe a strong word- We walked a trail- But it was a forty minute drive to get there and I made the last minute decision to strap on my real hiking boots so it felt like a hike anyways. 

The drive might have been forty minutes but time seemed to melt away effortlessly as we made our way up, down, and around the rolling hills. Fall is in full swing here and the trees are turning all sorts of colors- red, yellow, green and everything in between. The colors swirl in inimitable patterns up and down the countryside to the tune of whatever Tyler Childers song I have playing as we glide down the highway. I was so entranced with the roadside beauty that I failed to note that at some point we passed from West Virginia into Maryland- My first time in Maryland and it happened without my knowledge. 

The trail is located in the hilariously named Friendsville, Maryland: A town with a population of a little under five hundred which looks like a wonderful place to live provided you don’t mind cooking for yourself; In place of restaurants, acres and acres of forest stretch in every direction. I pull off the highway and clumsily navigate the town roads to our destination.

Kendall Trail runs alongside the easily pronounced Youghiogheny River. I’ve actually hiked along this river before- In Pennsylvania, where it runs through Ohiopyle State Park. There Finn and I got lost and managed to turn a 5 mile trail into a 22 mile hike using nothing other than good ole' stupidity. The river is just as beautiful today as it was then and we see no one else in the parking spaces before the trail. I step out and breathe in the fresh air. The water is clear, calm; Not for the first time, I’m grateful I opted to bring along my proper camera rather than rely on my phone. 

We are hardly twenty yards along the trail when we see a sign left by someone who wanted to keep the beauty of the trail all to themselves. Although we do disregard it and move on, my girlfriend has forced me to watch too many horror movies for me to not know that a goofy guy with too much trail gear and a camera hanging from his hand should typically adhere to any warning signs given to him, especially if he is at all fond of his spleen. But as nice as the drive up was, it still seems a bit early to turn back. 

We pass under one more bridge and then a sign alerting any fisherman that this area has a strictly enforced two trout limit- The last sign of civilization- And then we are surrounded by nature. Well, almost; The deep clicks reverberating off the underside of the bridge as cars pass over it follow us for a mile or two into the foliage before finally fading away. 

The trail is well kept and easy to walk. There are plenty of little divots or side paths that allow us to get closer to the river or further into the woods. We still haven’t seen anyone and so I feel confident enough to let Finn off the leash, at which point he shoots off like a rocket. After corralling him back to me we step off to the side of the trail so I can, as they say, make water.

While returning precious minerals to the earth, I see that there’s a little trail between some tall, dark green leaves that leads even closer to the riverside. Some part of me- Maybe from adventure stories I’ve read, films I’ve watched, or maybe some deep, innate instinct that all humans have- Wants to get as close to the water as possible. So Finn and I trudge through the greenery and come out the other side.

Needless to say, I’m very glad we did. The view is breathtaking; It’s hard to say what about it is so impressive. It’s all beautiful but in isolation, no one element seems all that stunning- But take it as a whole and it is something out of a painting. I look down at the ground and notice the muck I’m standing in, that Finn is standing in. How strange to think that underneath all of this, underneath the flowing of the river, the beauty of the trees, the strength of the rocks- It’s all just mud.

Finn, who acted incredibly nervous every time we deviated from the trail, leads our way back. For the rest of our journey, whenever I follow a side path to get closer to the river, Finn refuses to follow me. I think he’s confused and even leash him once or twice to force him to follow but he whines and hesitates and it takes a few rounds of this goofy charade before I realize- As scared as Finn is of the pool back home, he is absolutely petrified by this rushing river. From that point on, I journey down to the riverside myself while Finn keeps an eye on the main trail. It’s better for both of us that way.

As I said, I brought my real camera with me- Some species of the genus Canon EOS- But even with this upgraded equipment, I am far from a good photographer. I have two eyes, but neither of them seem to be THE eye; In fact, I suspect THE eye is a photographer speak for taking a shit ton of pictures until something sticks. So that’s what I do. And out of the close to 200 I take, maybe four or five are actually good, with anything ‘artsy’ I attempted to take coming out as either amateurish or thankfully blurry.

To our right is the river but to our left is pure woods- Mossy rocks, fallen tree trunks, and shallow puddles line the underbrush as leaves fall lazily from the canopy overhead to be crunched underfoot. As I peer into the thicket, I can’t help but think of the bear bells and bear spray I recently purchased, safely nestled in my front closet a forty minute drive away.

We have been walking for close to an hour now. The trail beneath us is beginning to lose the look of a trail that has been recently traveled- Brush is leaning threateningly in from the trailside and the ground below us is turned from packed mud to something else- Brown goop that sticks to my shoes nearly as well as it does to Finn’s fur. At one point it becomes comical to watch Finn try to traverse through this mess. He puts very little effort into pretending that being surrounded by this much mud is anything less than a dream come true.

There is no service out here and I don’t have a trail map but I thought that I had read that the trail was only meant to go for four miles and we’ve been walking for about an hour and a half. With the side quests, photo ops, and Finn's curiosities who is to say how long that hour and a half translates to distance wise but even so I begin to wish that I had packed a lunch for us, or at least brought along my trusty Manuka honey. Finn will hopefully be able to tide himself over with the handful of treats I keep in my pocket. 

Suddenly, a switch is flipped. Leaves start falling in droves, trees shedding their hair. The air is thick with them and watching their paths to the ground is a joy. I try and fail several times to take a worthy picture of one in motion, much to the annoyance of Finn who apparently has a very urgent appointment with the end of this trail. They litter the air as we continue along.

At nearly the same time, the sun wins its battle against the clouds- Rays of light begin to fall on the river, casting the whole scene in a different mold. My stomach rumbles. The last two times I’ve come up from going down to the riverside, Finn has begun to run back to the car. Even more worryingly he’s started letting me take the lead, opting instead to pad along behind me… Doggedly. 

The final straw comes when we happen upon a large creek. There have been a few smaller versions of these tributaries, running down the forest hillside and into the river below but this one is different; Wider. The usual rocks or logs that would allow us safe passage across are notably absent. I weigh the camera in my hand and look down at Finn, who tilts his head at me. I can see that across the creek, the path does indeed pick up again. The sun, still bloodthirsty after its victory over the clouds, begins to battle with the trees overhead. A beam hits me and I unzip my heavy jacket. A bead of sweat forms on my forehead; Reluctantly, we turn around.

The walk back on a non-looped trail is almost always worse than the walk there. Same sights as before, same walk. There’s a mental aspect to it too; As soon as you’ve reached the turning point, your mind switches from hiking to wanting to be in bed. Today though, as overcast gives way to sunshine we are treated with an entirely new view of the forest we just walked through. Colors that were previously muted seem suddenly vibrant. A couple passes us by- the first people we have seen on the trail- and my previous worries about bears seem even more ridiculous. We find our way back to the car. I towel Finn's muddy paws off and give him some water. There’s an old man fly fishing in the middle of the river in front of where we parked; Idly, I wonder if he’s aware of the two trout limit. 

October 1, 2022

My older brother Tanner recently moved to Pittsburgh and he generously offered to drive on down to Morgantown, firstly to walk some trails and secondly to judge our apartment.

We decided on hemlock trail, the first trail I’ve walked that comes up only in lowercase on Apple Maps. It’s located across the highway from the relatively famous Coopers Rock, down a backroad. Parking is a little shoulder off the 55 mph speed limit Old Rte 73, with enough space for about four cars. I pull in behind the only other car there and wait, covering my legs in tick and bug spray and propping open the trunk to sit inside in what I hope is a cool manner. 

Tanner arrives a little after I do, with a hamburger for my dog Finn, who nearly undid years of training and pissed himself with excitement upon seeing that my entire family is not dead(which is what I can only assume he assumes post-move). Tanner sprayed some tick protection on himself and we set off onto the trail, which begins right where a creek meets a sewer. 

At the start, the ‘trail’ seems to be little more than clambering over, under, and between massive rocks, rocks so big that we begin to discuss what the cutoff points between rock, boulder, and mountain are. The back road is only just behind us and yet already the sounds of civilization have disappeared, replaced by the calming unquiet of the forest. After a short walk we come to a series of steps, wood planks whose gaps have been filled in with packed mud, which lead to a wooden bridge and a beautiful creek running below. It’s not quite a rainy day, but not quite dry either and Tanner comments on how to get here he ‘drove through a cloud’.

My dog Finn is wearing new bright orange saddlebags that sit too large on his haunches. After we pass the bridge, I undo his leash and he sets off on a gallop which causes the saddlebags to become unbalanced and drag on the ground. And to think I could’ve wasted those $50 on a good meal. 

The trail is wide and well kept, probably due to being a part of the WVU research forest. We see mushrooms, squirrels, and yellow birch trees that stretch so high you might climb them and arrive at the home of a giant. I crunch on sunflower seeds; Tanner sips his coffee. The trail takes little less than an hour and at the end of it we still want more. I suggest we go to Coopers Rock. 

I’ve been to Coopers Rock before, but the state forest offers dozens of trails and lookouts and it won’t be too hard to find one I haven’t done. First though, I take Tanner to the Coopers Rock, a gorgeous lookout and the forest's namesake. Unfortunately, the cloud Tanner drove through to get here seems to have migrated to the forest and we can hardly see further than six yards out before the view is completely obfuscated in the mist. However, when we were walking up to the lookout an elderly woman told me I had “nice legs”. So it was very much a worthwhile trip. 

After this, we decided to head down and find Underlook Trail. After a few moments of trying and failing to locate Underlook, we instead opted to follow a likely looking group of teen boys down a path until the trail diverged and we ended up alone on Reservoir Loop.

Reservoir Loop provided us with the eeriest looking lake either of us had ever seen; Doubly so due to the fog and isolation. The water looked completely pure, untouched, though beneath its surface we saw hundreds of fish(and above it, a sign that made it very clear these fish were FRIENDS, not food). We walked to the lone cabin that sat on the edge of the lake, where a metal grate served as a dock walkout to a concrete slab. Finn, the poor thing, gets very nervous when the ground beneath him has any sort of holes in it. He made it out to the slab with us, but Tanner very kindly offered to carry him back.

The trees around Coopers Rock Reservoir(as the pond was so lazily named) had begun to change color, vibrant reds and oranges that Tanner and I swore were not native to our homeland back in Texas. The loop around was short and sweet, highlighted mostly by the large rock seat situated about halfway through and the unshakeable feeling that at any moment a woman of bones and ragged garments would wander up out of the lake and, with a fleshy smile hanging off the remnants of her face, invite the two of us to take a swim.

The trails were fun. The meal after was absolutely atrocious- No one should ever be subjected to Primanti Bros, which I can only assume stays in business solely due to beer sales. Our apartment seemed to pass inspection, though just barely(don’t worry though Tanner; We have since replaced the toilet). The only disappointment of the day was the complete failure of Finn's saddlebags. I’ll have to find a different way to make that rat pull his weight.