It was about 11:00 am on a Sunday in early July when John and I arrived at the trailhead at Zaleski State Forest. It was an unseasonably warm day with a humid haze fogging the air below sparsely scattered cumulus clouds. We got out of my 20 year old F150 and I tinkered with the roof panel weatherstripping that rusted loose and flapped in the wind on Route 33. After trading my flip flops for shoes and shouldering my pack, John walked around the truck ready to get started.
A lady parked next to us inventorying her gear asked if we were starting or finishing. She was perhaps in her late 50s and explained this was her first solo trip. She had hesitancy about the weight of her pack but hoped to make it to Camp 2. She asked where we were camping. We explained that we were hiking on the fly and would likely stop at Camp 2 but had no solid plans. We left her with the offering of advice or essentials if we met at camp 2 later.
The air was virtually stagnant on top of intense sun and rising humidity. A portion of our water supply was being used to keep bandanas consistently wet as a cooling device. Each camp is equipped with a seasonal well and we hoped they were working. The thought of cold water without the need to locate and filter a supply was appealing.
A group of younger hikers passed by with the energy of a Camp 1 out and back. We exchanged greetings and continued onward, foraging for raspberries and avoiding poison ivy. In the past several years I’ve noticed mature trees, more specifically oaks, uprooting at my family’s acreage a couple of counties to the North. I noted a similar phenomenon as we hiked; mature uprooted trees with large canopy openings and understory regenerative growth.
I was always of the Muir opposed to Pinchot ideology but it doesn’t seem to apply in this scenario. Our acreage has been in the family for nearly 90 years. Although it was once farmed and the majority of the trees are secondary growth, it has not since been clear-cut, selective cut, burned, or otherwise. Preservation vs conservation doesn’t seem to matter. Mature trees are uprooting. In my own observation growing up with the forest in Southeastern Ohio, the rate of trees toppling is alarming in comparison to the past 50 years.
We met a pair of hikers looking considerably more exhausted and well-prepared than the prior presumed Camp 1 hikers. We exchanged brief complaints about relentless flies and continued hiking the bare, compacted soil of the trail. The sounds of birds were sparse outside of the occasional eastern wood peewee or red eyed vireo. They too were hot.
The excitement to see a sign for Camp 1 wasn’t due to exhaustion, foul weather, or anything outside of the available cold, refreshing well water. We followed the trail into the camping area and saw the well pump surrounded by wet soil as angels sang hallelujah. We filled our hydration bladders, Nalgene bottles, and soaked our bandanas and faces. And then we drank our Nalgene bottles, refilled them, and re-soaked our bandanas and faces. We wondered about our friend we met at the trailhead. Was she very far behind us? Would the weight of her pack encourage her to stay at Camp 1 or would we see her at Camp 2? But the show must go on.
The weight of the water refill was immediately apparent. Both reassuring and burdening. One of the last campsites had a smoldering fire and no one around. Presumably left by the first group of hikers we passed. I dumped a good portion of my Nalgene on the coals. Camp 2 wasn’t that far, John had extra water, and we had filtration if needed. No sense in hiking back to the well for another refill.
We continued foraging for raspberries in search of a breeze in the heat of the stagnant afternoon air. Hydration hoses conveniently attached to shoulder straps, our precious water supply was keeping bandanas wet and our bodies somewhat hydrated and cool. The flies continued their relentless annoyance and our swamp cooler bandanas began doubling as a tail in which to swat them.
There is always balance in nature. Being surrounded by an incredible deciduous hardwood forest in the Appalachian foothills while being rewarded with wild berries is balanced by swatting flies, avoiding greenbrier, and smearing jewelweed on urushiol exposed skin. The good with the bad. Life in a nutshell on the trail.
A chorus of cicadas crescendoed in the warm, humid air. Pockets of sunlight filtering through openings in the canopy mottled the forest floor, wafting the scent of decaying wood, dry leaves, and fresh understory growth. We heard footsteps in the near distance and turned a corner to meet a guy on a day hike with a golden retriever. He asked how far it was to Camp 1 and if there was water. We told him it was roughly a mile hike and the water is cold.
We heard voices coming down the trail from the distance. They gradually grew closer as we joked about having no need for a bear bell. They walked up to the overlook sign and hesitated. We encouraged them to enjoy the view and the breeze as we shouldered our packs and continued towards what was once Ingham Station, on the intersecting Moonville Rail Trail.
John and I work well together on the trail. We hike at a similar pace, have similar tolerances, and share a similar appreciation for immersing ourselves in nature. We can appreciate a good conversation or simply allow our surroundings to speak to us. And in return, I hope we speak softly to our surroundings.
Drenched in sweat and swatting flies while drawing water from bite valves, we were otherwise feeling good with plenty of daylight left. Camp 2 is roughly halfway around the South Loop. Ideally we would hike farther. Given the heat and humidity however, we chose the shorter South Loop having more access to well water, over the longer North Loop.
A plethora of rural folklore surrounds Moonville including a deceased brakeman to justify the lantern light, as well as a pregnant woman, a tall man, a plague, prior Native Americans, etc., to justify the orbs. While folklore is an entirely different understanding of the world, I’ll insert the law of conservation of energy and still offer no explanation of the lantern light or the orbs.
Climbing back up to the ridgeline from Ingham Station we continued sweating profusely while enjoying a somewhat forgiving section of trail. We encountered a prehistoric ‘ceremonial ring’ believed to be built by the Adena people during the Early Woodland period. It looked more like a fire ring for a raging bonfire perhaps to deter encounters with mastodons or mammoths.
Continuing onward, the trail remained relatively forgiving following the ridgeline. It was probably less than a mile hike when the well at Camp 2 became more of a welcome sight than the well at Camp 1. We refilled our hydration bladders and Nalgene bottles, wet our bandanas, and soaked our faces. And then we drank our Nalgene bottles, refilled them, and re-soaked our bandanas and faces.
With several hours of daylight remaining, we started hiking the side trail to the campsites. The first campsite had a pitched tent. It sounded like our friend from the trailhead was inside the tent talking on the phone. Could it be? We continued hiking past largely empty campsites until we found a nice spot with an opening in the canopy. Deciding to gather firewood first, we dropped our packs by the fire ring and bushwhacked around the surrounding area in search of firewood.
Following dinner the sun was beginning to sink below the horizon. John worked on building a fire as fireflies began a mesmerizing rhythmic display. Diurnal birds dwindled as crickets and a few early season toads filled the void of sound propagation. The air remained stagnant and humid but the gentle glow of a small fire deterred mosquitoes and completed the day.
Whip-poor-wills began their incessant questioning. Whip-poor-will? Whip-poor-will? Whip-poor-will? And a barred owl occasionally responded with one simple question. Who cooks for you? The owl’s response was followed by approximately five minutes of silence before the whip-poor-wills continued their incessant questioning. Whip-poor-will? Whip-poor-will? Whip-poor-will? We responded by consuming a flask of rye whiskey. Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, rye whiskey we cry.
Morning arrived early bringing with it the noticeable intensity of the sun. We made coffee and had a light breakfast before breaking down camp. We opted to pitch tents in an area of grassy undergrowth without much consideration for the size of chiggers vs the size of no-see-um mesh. This however, would not become an immediate consequence.
On the way back to the trail, we stopped by the well head to again refill our hydration bladders, Nalgene bottles, and soak our bandanas and faces. This would be the last seasonal well on the loop back to the trailhead.
For a short distance, the trail followed the ridge nearly parallel to the trail we hiked into Camp 2 the previous day. It made a sharp turn and a steep descent into King Hollow. The air was slightly cooler being sheltered from the morning sun.
We ascended from King Hollow back to the ridgetop. The landscape became astoundingly different with more mature but considerably sparse trees. The selective harvest in the area occurred in 2012. It is stark by satellite imagery. A modern day Muir vs Pinchot. The noticeable similarity however, were uprooted mature trees. Perhaps more so than the prior stretch of trail, at least directly affecting the trail. The result was an overused trail being redirected around fallen trees by hiker progression.
Trail etiquette is unwritten. We’re all crossing paths while enjoying similar experiences. In general, backpackers are cordial despite whatever lactic acid or fly induced dehydration hell they may be tolerating. They’ll help any fellow trailblazer with knowledge, resources, assistance, companionship, or anything their community might need. John and I however, were getting back to allowing our surroundings to speak to us. And our new friend Chatty Cathy continued pushing the boundaries of companionship.
Nearing the bottom of the hollow by Sandy Run, we noticed a small cave. Without the intention of being rude, we suggested that would be a good place to stop for lunch and failed to extend an invitation. We felt a little bad but quite relieved to get back to tranquility. We had peak summer daylight and a relatively short hike back to the trailhead.
After a light lunch in the coolness of the cave opening, we relaxed and listened to American crow fledglings that had Cornell’s Merlin app convinced they were fish crows. A little cannabis helped relieve the annoyance of the flies before we continued putting one foot in front of the other.
Similar to Moonville, Hope Furnace is also surrounded by folklore. The furnace was once operated 24 hours a day requiring a watchman to tend to the furnace at night. While there are multiple versions of the account, they all include a thunderstorm and the watchman falling into the furnace. Purportedly on stormy nights, the watchman can be seen carrying a lantern around Hope Furnace.
The early afternoon sun intensified as we continued the remaining hike towards the trailhead. The air remained stagnant and we were beginning to envision the partially functioning air conditioning in the ‘trail truck’ waiting at the trailhead. And as we began descending from the ridgeline towards the trailhead, we could see the old trail truck glistening in the sun, heat undulating from the hood and surrounding asphalt. Our chatty friend from the trailhead the prior day had already departed.
