As New York's travel restrictions have evolved into an ever-changing BINGO board of acceptable states of which to visit...scratch that...in lieu of the marketing genius who just promoted the sale of "Letchworth-opoly"...congratulations, sir or madam, for being the ONLY non-government employee to actually break even or turn a profit during this crisis...scratch my BINGO analogy and replace it for Monopoly.
- Land on a travel-restricted state,
- fill out a privacy-intrusive form,
- get investigated by our "democratic" government,
- and submit to a state-sanctioned 14-day quarantine...
- DO NOT PASS GO...
- Do Not Collect a $600 subsidy check.
"How did you hear about this particular trail?" my husband asked warily, having been burned by my trip-planning prowess in the past. "I researched it," I announced, boldly waltzing past the entrance gate, "I read the trail description!"
Initially, I couldn't have been more pleased. A leaf-lined canopy shielded us from the afternoon sun as we made our way down a processional decorated with vine-ripened
blackberries. As promised by the site description, we quickly made it to the impressive fireplace left over from the CCC Officers barracks from the 1930s. Carefully trying to gauge my level of ambitiousness, Brad cautiously inquired whether our adventure was at its end or were we to proceed. Disgusted, I plowed ahead. An hour later, of course, I would come to regret that decision.
I expertly led my little expedition to the beautiful Gibsonville Falls. Admiring my navigational skills, Brad asked where we were to go when Trails 19, 19a, and 20 converged. Observing my uncertainty, Brad reminded me of my research. "I didn't actually read the ENTIRE trail description," I admitted, "I more or less perused the summary." We continued the now (and for the next ba-zillion miles) uphill journey on the thankfully dry trail. As I pulled myself, hand-over-fist, sneakers scrabbling for purchase against tree roots, up steep inclines, I realized rain would quickly change this scenario into a "Romancing the Stone" situation.
We passed an older couple who paused to encourage me as they scampered about like mountain goats.
Taking a break, I attempted to impress my husband by swinging on a vine only to learn that the "muscles" in my arm refuse to lift anything other than a twenty ounce Pepsi. Tragically...there was not a Pepsi in sight.
There were a delightful number of different varieties of fungi in assorted shapes, sizes, and colors. I exclaimed happily over them and took a picture of EACH and EVERY sighting.
We traipsed over a bridge straight out of a scene from "Game of Thrones" with railings made of cut logs sporting an armor of small branches. A careful bounce to test its safety unearthed a half-grown fawn from beneath us and I felt, for a minute, that we were characters in a fairy tale.
And still, we walked. Up...up...up. Through groves of carefully-planted trees planted by men who also lived in a troubled time, who were fueled by the idea that, in work, there is dignity. The leaves were a legacy to their sacrifice.
We plateaued. And then I walked, leaning backwards, resisting the gravity that would pull me painfully down this never-ending embankment. It was here that I discovered that I didn't like gooseberries.
"How many steps do you think I recorded?" I asked Brad as I collapsed breathlessly onto the passenger seat. He paused...having also been burned by this question many times. He'd learned to shoot low with his prediction. "5,000?" he guessed. I laughed before checking my device. Surely I had surpassed 10,000 steps. The van was dead-quiet except for the thump...thump...thumping of my erractically-beating heart.
4,300.
How could it be?
"I should have turned back at the fireplace," I muttered, "Or skipped this trail altogether."
"You are a credit to Robert Frost," Brad said.
Carol and I walked that trail earlier this year. Its great trail. very few people on it. Alas, we did not see a yearling, but had fun nevertheless.
ReplyDelete"Fun" is such a subjective word.
ReplyDelete