Van Patten Mountain Camp

Remains of an old hotel, Dripping Springs, NM. 

A sometimes-dirt road and a short hike on a windy day led me to 6000 feet above sea level at Dripping Springs Nature Area.  There, you can see the ruins of an old hotel, Van Patten Mountain Camp and, a bit further up the hill, Dr. Boyd's tuberculosis sanatorium.

The spring does still drip when there has been a bit of rain.

Mountains jut up in almost every direction as the area is a volcanic cauldron.

I saw almost no one on the trail. Rumors hold that ghosts haunt the area -- easy to imagine.  The ranger mentioned that some pumas may be living in a cave up that way. I ran into neither.

Rainy Day at the Park

Sandy Point State Park

Misty

Great Falls, Virginia

As I sped along the beltway over the American Legion Bridge on Saturday morning, I drove through layers of fog rolling up from the water. The mist moved in waving columns like smoke, bringing with it a reminder that beneath city concrete, running waters and swirling temperatures create their own languid, chaotic beauty.

The watery fog burned off quickly enough, leaving a blue sky autumn day, perfect. I hiked through Scott's Run Nature Preserve with my friend. While she had appointments to keep with the smallest member of her family, I stretched the day out in the sun. I drove down the windy roads of Great Falls and parked by the Potomac at River Bend Park.  I found my way south on the trails there, wending my way into Great Falls Park.


As I walked by the river, the sun caught the angles of the water, flashed beams of light upwards through leaves turning them a spring-like green.  I relished this deception, the strength of light undermining a view of the true season.

Sunlit leaves

October is an in-between time, a transition. A week of rain can be followed by cloudless skies and skin-warming sun. Chilly, foggy mornings blossom to the blue sky of midday.

But we know what is coming.

Trees lack the bushy overload of leaves as some have already yellowed and fallen, crackle brown underfoot. While the shapes of those trees have not yet deflated to the bald skeletons of later season, the thinning exposes gaps of distance between the branches. We can see deeper into the woods where winter is waiting for us.

Our bodies feel the shift. Having rounded the fall equinox, the light disappears quickly now. We sleep more heavily for longer and eat heartily to prepare for the hibernation. For the last few weeks, I have looked up at my apartment windows in the evening and been surprised to find them already dark. In the mornings, I fire up my blue light box to trick testy circadian rhythms into believing the days haven't shrunk so short, a sleight of hand that gets them, and me, through the dark season. 

As a middle-aged woman walking by the river on a middle-aged day -- healthy, active still, blue sky, sunshine -- the chill and mist of the morning stuck to me. It's hard to know when a course correction is called for and when the seasons are simply changing as they must. It's hard not to wonder if I squandered spring, although pointless given my inability to change what has already passed.

I want to make the most of October, both the perfect days and those of endless drizzle. 

So I go to the river.

I grew up by the Potomac. I played in a creek by my childhood home that probably, through some circuitous route, drains into the same watershed.


Kennedy Center at dusk

In elementary school, I have a distinct memory of bouncing a super ball off the balcony of the Kennedy Center and watching it sail over a wall. I imagine it bobbing and floating down that river and out to sea, inadvertent toy pollution.

In high school, I sat with my legs dangling off walls, chain smoking cigarettes in Georgetown while looking out over that river at a time when the pollution level left it just shy of Cuyahoga levels of flammability.

A decade later, I trained for a marathon running on the C & O Canal towpath.

I've lived in ten other states, but many visits back here led me back to a walk by Riley's Lock. I always circle back to water. 

Why is that important?

I don't know.

Fog, Sugarloaf Mountain

The river feels like useful detail of some unclear larger story, and so I make note of it. 

Ruminations on fog and rivers, water in movement, hint at transforming and yet somehow staying, at core, essentially the same.

The fog still appears if the ingredients mix well, obscuring and illuminating the view with its caprice. Waters flow. Winter is coming, and when it does, I'll still delight in the caress of sunshine warming my skin. 

Melted Cheese, Pumpkins and Sugarloaf in the Rain

My friends and I, standing in relentless rain and increasing cold at our agreed-upon meeting place at the base of Sugarloaf Mountain, decided a hike uphill didn't hold the same appeal as, say, a Gruyère grilled cheese sandwich and ginger squash cream soup at the Comus Inn. With thoughts of waiting out the rain, we relocated to a warmer clime, ate well, and lingered laughing over coffee. 

After lunch, we crossed the street to visit the pumpkin patch. Pumpkin colors included a vibrant reddish-orange and pale blue. Wild. What would Linus and the Great Pumpkin say?  

With rain showing no sign of letting up, we parted ways. Typically, I merrily raced off in the wrong direction despite my GPS; its directions only work if you actually look at the screen.

I found myself back at the base of Sugarloaf Mountain. After some curiosity driving and a promising pause in the weather, I ended up parking my car -- just as the rain started up again.  I sloshed my way up the rest of the mountain, up stone stairs and through reflecting pool puddles, proving once again that I don't have enough sense to come in out of the rain. 

I returned home cold and soaked, but well-fed by good food, great friends, and foggy vistas.

Bear!

Bear!

This weekend, while on a peaceful hike in Shenandoah, I saw another hiker scrambling back up the path, eyes wide. He slowed down when he saw me, and explained in a breathless North Carolina accent, "Bear! There's a bear just around the bend. I'm not kidding!"

Given that I didn't see a large animal streaking after him, it did cross my mind that this was a practical joke, of a how-to-freak-out-hikers variety. But fear poured off him in large waves, a fear I doubted anyone could mimic so well. 

Long ago, an old boyfriend, while we were hiking out west, spent an enormous amount of time pondering where bears might be lurking. He researched the finest bear sprays, worried and wondered and worried some more, and then purchased the top of the line version for no small fee.

On our way to Banff on the Canadian border, his bear spray was confiscated. Apparently the high-powered American version isn't legal in Canada.

From then on, something shifted. Our hiking became less fraught with possible horrors. If we ran into a bear, there was no secret weapon talisman to pull out to ward off angry nature. Having been disarmed, he was able to let go of his defense against the unknown and instead focus on the startling color of glacial lakes. 

When the sweaty North Carolina man stood in front of me, breathing heavy and pushing his glasses back up his face and babbling about bears, one part of me thought: finally. Wouldn't my ex be thrilled and vindicated that my hiking habit had at last up and got me mauled?

But no mauling transpired. And while listening to the hiker continue to ramble, curiosity got the better of me, and I started creeping forward, just to lay eyes on that bear. 

Other hikers arrived on the path behind us, and heard the tale from North Carolina: "I heard this noise, and I was thinking it was a noise too big for a squirrel, and I looked over to the tree, and the bear was there, climbing!" 

I noted he left out the part about hightailing it back up the path at a dead run. He gave me a sidelong glance of, hey, don't mention that unmanly moment, and certainly, I don't disagree with his fear. I'm not sure I would have run quite so quickly, but that's only because it seems like a recipe for becoming Yogi's snack food, running like prey. A real, live, unexpected bear (not just the ominous floating worry of possible bears) would set off an adrenaline cascade for me too.

Emboldened by larger numbers, the crowd of us turned the bend in the path and, lo and behold: a black bear.  Peacefully rooting around in the trees, pulling down a little bark here and there, she seemed not all that concerned by us.  It's a big forest, after all, and we were puny looking, why would she worry? 

One hiker got much, much closer to take a photo, and while he moved slowly all along, he came back with that same wide-eyed look. "I thought she was going to charge me for a minute," he said.

The things we do for a good photo.

We stood there on the path, waiting for the bear to leave, wondering why the normally shy creature didn't move along. Black bears, unlike brown bears (such as grizzlies), are seldom aggressive to humans. 

Barely visible bear cub in tree.

Finally, we looked up. Up in the trees, snoozing in comfort and out of harm's way, were two cubs. 

Mama bear would not be moving along. And we all stepped back a pace or two, all knowing the adage about not coming between a bear and her cubs. 

Still, we stayed. Other hikers came by, and our bear stayed calm even though they got closer than I would have been comfortable with. In bear world, we were gnats, a nuisance, and our job was to stay out of swatting distance.

We didn't want to leave. To be in the presence of a large animal simply going about her day, this is a moment to take a breath and marvel.  

The only other encounter I'd had with a bear was on a camping trip with that same old bear-phobic beau. We were standing by the car, and suddenly, we were both inside the car, piecing together that there had been a loud, loud noise, and so we'd moved fast to seek shelter. I never saw the bear then, and for all I know, it was just a large, clumsy raccoon who smelled the strawberries we had in the tent (large camping faux pas there), and then thought better of it when we turned on the headlights.

My friend may have developed his bear fear then, or maybe he'd had it all along, the fear of Something being out there, the big Badness in the woods. 

I've had my moments too, hiking alone in remote areas.  Once, I worked myself up enough several miles into a long hike that I decided to sing loudly (and off-key) to warn any creatures of my arrival. This made for a blushing moment when other hikers rounded the corner -- it turned out the area was not so remote. The wonderful thing about singing, however, is that it's substantially more difficult to feel fear while singing at the same time, a little lesson I keep in my back pocket when I need to keep imaginary bears at bay.

There in front of me in the woods, a big fear in furry form shuffled about. And it turned out, mostly my thoughts were on awe and gratitude.

Dark Hollow Waterfall

I'm not much of one for signs, usually, but I'd had an interesting morning that day of decisions, so risk and direction were on my mind long before the bear crossed my path.

The bear reminded me that there is no way to know what lies ahead. I can hope I am reading the maps correctly, but who knows when I will encounter the unexpected.  And when the unexpected arrives, maybe it will be far more inspiring than I had imagined. 

Sure, the bear that day could have turned and bitten me, could have chased after North Carolina or another hiker that stepped too close. She is wild and unpredictable. But that isn't what happened, and being up against a real occasion of an imagined fear was, in the end, not really scary. As with most fears, upon close examination, they melt away so as long as I view them clearly and calmly and treat them with respect.

Mostly, Mama Bear didn't much care what we did, so long as we didn't mess with her or her cubs. 

We all walk a line between risk and stagnation. In some ways, it is safest to stay home and hide behind drawn shades.  But then you never see the bear or experience anything else except the four walls of your cage. There is a much bigger risk in failing to risk, the risk of a life squandered to fear.

I don't suggest foolhardy behavior -- don't try giving  a bear a bear hug -- but do go for a walk in the woods. Sing if you need to. 

For me, seeing the bear will always be worth it, even if the next one does maul me. 

Plus, just think how amused my ex would be at the memorial service.

Sunset, Jeremys Run Overlook

 

Husks of History: Seneca Stone Cutting Mill & One Dead Turtle

The red stone for the Smithsonian Castle was cut at the Seneca Stone Cutting Mill, off Riley's Lock of the C&O Canal. Ruins of the mill are still open to the public.

I'd forgotten about the ruins, but when I turned left at the turtle resting in peace on the path, I stumbled into them, one historical remnant leading to another.

Thanks, Mr. Turtle.