A Short Venture to Appalachia

Six year years blinked since my last trip to the Crites hunting cabin in Homer Township, Ohio. The return did not disappoint, even if a wounded cat meant a late arrival. It delivered a little slice of autumn sorely needed after a long, punishing summer (I count May 1 as summer's start, when the Nashville flooding began).

With Moses snacking on wet food dosed with painkillers, we ventured into rush hour. Crites, Braithwaite and I endure the traffic jams along U.S. 33 and the narrow roads on the moonlit night, finally unloading just after eight. Even in the dark, the cabin was a beacon, Main and Gibby arrived before Crites' got the fire rolling. Following some brats and beers, we just sat around the fire, talking into the wee hours. The Milky Way stretched brightly across the break in the pines. Hours of talk and drink followed as the heat sucked us in. After spending most of the day in a car, I crashed first, a fire going strong across the room.

The next morning, we ventured down to Burr Oak State Park to find the lake enveloped in dense fog. In daylight, the trees revealed the burst of color they would exhibit for a few more weeks before reduced sunlight and cold weather stripped them bare. We wandered the shore for a minute, massive rows of water plans extending into the billowing white obscuring the opposite shore. Aside from a ranger who looped through the parking lot, we had the hike to ourselves.

This trail immediately jumped into the foothills and ravines hugging the lake. I immediately felt the burn in my thighs, hamstrings and calves. Every muscle was alive, every breath was labored.

Up in the hills, we found a thick finger of mist firmly pressed on a clearing. The haze just covered the sun, casting off an end-of-the-world feel. The four of us simply wandered through it for a minute before finding the hash marks where the trail resumed.



The trail took us on a three-mile loop which occasionally dipped near ridges above the lake. Fall colors surrounded us, and giant spiderwebs bridged many lower branches.

By the time we returned, the burn in my legs signaled the original reason for the trip, the Columbus Half Marathon, wouldn't happen for me this year (more on this later). A breakfast stout upon our return telegraphed my intentions or lack thereof.

Friday's late start killed our chances of pumpkin carving. Or so I thought.

We finished cleaning early enough to carve a pumpkin with Gibby's .22 rifle. After my usual hem-and-haw routine, I agreed to take a few shots and of course went through a full clip. Before bullets pounded the pumpkin into a shattered mess, it almost resembled a carved face. Give it a long look, and you might find the vague traces of a pumpkin all five of us took a round in carving before we rumbled back to Columbus.