The wind had gone from gentle breeze to ominous gale and the sun had been devoured by a black-hearted, slobbering forest beast.Īfter the fourth emergency signpost I thought about turning around to retrace my steps but I’d had to actually crabwalk over some big rocks back there, and my knees sent up a flare: hey numbskull, we’re middle-aged, remember? Anyway, the path had to end somewhere. Sure, the scenery was gorgeous and I was accompanied by early spring butterflies and chickadees and it all smelled much nicer than Highway 41, but I wanted OUT NOW GODDAMMIT. I’d been so focused on leapfrogging from rock to rock to forge more than 67 brackish puddles that I’d missed my turn. I had visions of Burt Reynolds’ sharp, pink protruding femur and listened for the distant strains of banjo-pickin'. I dropped a pin to help a future search team find my decomposing body. I checked Google Maps on my phone-I was somewhere pale green. Clearly, this trail had a history of snappy ankle comebacks. I began to encounter “Dial # for Emergency” signs at regular intervals. I was now on a Ninja Warrior obstacle course I did not sign up for. And now I'm hurdling and ducking fallen trees-whee! The flat trail dropped into a near-vertical descent, and I picked my way down a damp and rocky staircase, dodging gnarly-ass roots, slipping on wet rocks, and grabbing nearby tree trunks and branches to avoid tumbling ass over teakettle down the cliff.ĭown by the water, the trail became an ankle-twisting sequence of slick, jagged rocks and roots and black mud interspersed with rushing streams and vernal pools. ![]() ![]() ![]() The trail narrowed and nearly disappeared. ("I'm flying! Jack!")Īfter 30 minutes I hit a fork in the trail and rather than continue on the “easy” leg back to the parking lot, I decided to take a longer route down to the shoreline, Robert Frosting it all the way.
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