There's really hiking in West Wyoming?

This past weekend, we decided to go on a very local hike. Believe it or not there are little gems of trails right here literally in people's backyards.

After pulling over on the side of the road near an empty, for-sale greenhouse, the trail began in some prickly high grasses. After dodging and darting out of the thorn-targeted areas, there is another factor that might turn off most hikers or woodsy-types: garbage. I know that typically we reserve the right to bust on "backwoods hicks" for collecting junk in their backyards, mainly useless objects and rubbish including (but not limited to) food wrappers, toilet paper, plastic bottles, beer cans, even the remainders of buck shot, as well as tires and other parts of vehicles.

I suppose what might separate the locals here from the typical dirt-road living country family who enjoys using cars as lawn ornaments is that I couldn't find an entire car in their backyards, but I might've been able to assemble most of one from the parts I'd seen scattered about. I did need a tad bit more work done on my blue beast. Maybe I'd add an old mini fridge to my trunk or replace my rusty runners for new rusted runners. As the saying goes, one man's junk is another man's treasure...

Alright enough bad humor about the choices of eco-decorating... The reason why Aaron and I came here for a quick hike after 5pm in the first place is because in the springtime my best girlfriend got married and the favors at her bridal shower were wildflowers. We'd come up here soon after the happy event and planted them with the intention of checking on their status later in the summer. Unfortunately, now it was a bit too late in the season and the initial pathway/bushwack through the woods was lost in overgrown greenery.

But no matter, now past the smell of rubber and sour water puddles, I inhaled the smell of sunlit dirt. My shoulders loosened in relaxation as the sounds of animal rustling, birds alerting, and the wind lightly clapping the leaves together encouraged movement along the overgrown continuity of the footpath. I could smell wet greens, rough-ridged tree bark, crushed sour red berries, dried leaves, and nutty acorns.

Continuing up the pathway is a gradually ascending trail with loose rocks, fallen trees, even areas of high grasses might convince you that you might never reach the top. However, if I know that if you stick it out, this hike rewards:

The sounds of cars and families and neighborhood dogs barking disappear and it feels miles away from any sign of human life, quite an amazing feat for being so near 8th street, perfect for getting out in the woods after a long day at work.

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Myself in third person

Today after an extended converstion about the Appalachian Trail, a woman with some great hiking plans reminded me that I still have passions. That I am passionate about discussing the details of what it takes to do some tough hiking. She helped me see that even though I am becoming a more responsible version of myself, I can still be all of those exciting things that I've been in my past too. And so it's true that each one of us contain a myriad of facets.

Amongst my parts, people know or have known me as (a condensed list of the past 29 years): a journalist, a poet, a sister, a lover, a coffee drinker, a friend, a former Queens dweller, a Phish tourer, a yearner for "back in the day," a daughter, an employee, a yoga enthusiast, a dungeons and dragons player, a letter writer, a road tripper, a teacher, a tattoo wearer, a vocalist, a foreign culture junkie, an anthropologist, a facebook junkie, a neighbor, an editor, a "dirty hippie," bartender, a literature buff, a tenant, roller skater, a dinner party attender, an old college roommate, a polka dancer, a cousin, a book reviewer, a partier, an educator, foreign language dabbler, a mentor, a traffic dodging driver, a political activist, a late night couch sitter, a shopping buddy, video game challenger, a secret sharer, a marching band nerd, a steak-lover, a world traveler, an ice cream devourer, a pianist, a theater actor, a vegetarian, a buisness casual wearer.... and a hiker.

I think of how each of my life experiences have contributed to creating these labels that contextualize me into a nice neat package for others to understand. While some, I don't even identify with anymore, each has definitely added its shaped who I have become and who I will be.

For example, I wasn't always a hiker. Much of my life, I didn't even like hiking. In fact, throughout high school, I wanted nothing to do with nature, tenting, wildlife, or the outdoors. Instead, I spent hours inside playing piano, singing, reading, writing poetry, and going to hardcore shows in my hippie skirts and birkenstocks. I had a car, why would I walk more than I had to, especially on a dirty trail with nasty bugs?

It was only until I went away to college in the middle of nowhere (kicking and screaming) that I really began to appreciate nature... of course, it wasn't instant attraction. I needed a little help from my friends to truly see the stars and sunsets, to smell the dew, to discuss deep intellectual matters, to marvel at the ordinary, and wade through the woods to hang out at the watertower, the benches near the music building, the park downtown, friends back porches, the old astronomy field on cardiac hill, the unlit dirt road off route six, while listening to some old bootlegs of jambands while drinking a few bottles of wine, alright...you get the idea.

Sure these were nontraditional ways to explore nature but that curiosity combined with my flighty or fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants nature locked me into an agreement to hike the Appalachian Trail with scarcely any hiking experiences in my life (other than walking to/or around each of the places I mentioned above).

The thing is...Eventually, they lead me to a real appreciation of the nature around me.

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Lehigh Gorge (Glen Onoko- to the top of the falls- Part 2)

We walk down the wooden staircase and are face-to-face with the WARNING sign. In the smaller print, the sign read "hikers have been seriously injured and killed as a result of accidental falls from the trail and gorge overlooks."

Strangely enough, I remembered that I'd seen a similar warning before, but much smaller and one that I took much much more seriously in the White Mountains of New Hampshire as I was climbing Mt. Washington (6,288 ft) in the summer of 2006. The sign read, "The area ahead has the worst weather in America. Many have died there from exposure, even in the sumer. Turn back now if the weather is bad."

Nothing like good ole honesty to put the fear of god into you about hiking a trail. But luckily, that day the weather was beautiful as I took the challenge at Mt. Washington, NH and I would definitely accept this challenge from the Glen Onoko Falls Trail at Lehigh Gorge, PA... as soon as I could find the trail....

As we stood in front of the sign there were two ways to go: left toward the river paddlers or right under the wooden bridge. Grafitti covered its belly, water dripped from above plunking into huge puddles that remained stagnant in the heat. It seemed like a dead end. And while I had hiked this trail once before two years ago, I didn't neccessarily recall the direction the trail began. So, I assumed that the trail must obviously be toward the left. Most of the people in the park seemed to be headed in that direction and the trail just seemed a bit cheerier.

As we rounded the trail to the left, we watched people smiling and practicing their inflatable raft paddling techniques in their lifejackets, when a few moments later, we ran into pavement, a parking lot, and some stairs leading up to the bathrooms. This was definitely not leading us to the Glen Onoko Falls Trail.

After hitting up the environmentally friendly pit toilets, we made a full circle around the parking lot and back down the wooden stairs, again to face the warning sign...again.

We peeked around to find a blaze, an arrow, or a cairn, but no such luck. With a shoulder shrug, we headed out for the second time to find the falls trail this time by passing under the wooden bridge. When suddenly and seemingly obvious, the pathway lie right in front of us.

We began our ascent. We hiked up the steep trail about fifty to one hundred feet. When no sooner did we come to a 'V.' There were no signs deciphering the difference between the orange and the red blazes in front of us.

To the left, a true warning of the sign of what was to come of our day: Beyond the orange blazed tree, a family of people were hiking downhill toward us. There was a man yelling "COME ON" at an emaciated black shepard. He yanked on the dog's metal leash while the dog cried out in a horrifying yelp, attempting to get over and off the difficult rocks more quickly. The rage built up inside me and I looked to my boyfriend for recognition. He nodded and after we let the rest of the nonresponsive family pass, we commented on the man's blatant animal abuse.

I couldn't imagine what he'd put his family through. And I couldn't believe that we were both so quiet at such a horrifying moment. We were usually so verbal about these sorts of things. It was almost as if there was some engrained social unease buried inside the both of us. It was as though it would've been improper to air how those people should properly treat their pet. It was like we would've been publically dictating how someone else should properly raise their child, much to the humiliation and anger of the parents.

I mentioned how badly I've wanted a dog (an aussie or boxer) as a hiking companion and family member, but I couldn't even have a dog because of the restrictions on our apartment's lease. I even went as far as to have said that just because someone wanted a dog, it didn't mean they should be allowed to have one. It seemed that in this situation any nutcase could have an animal, even that detestible wretch of a human being. After a few more moments of heated ventilation, I stepped off my soapbox, and I hopped back into my calm hiking mindset.

We looked to the right at a red marked trail with an enormous fallen trunk over the pathway.

Another guessing game. I sat down on a boulder on the orange trail and I pulled my backpack around to my waist. I took out my map again and we both looked closely for a guide to the Falls. No markings or symbols. No other trail names or mileage.

Behind us we noticed a middle aged couple breathing heavily to catch up with us. We moved aside for them and I said: "You happen to know which of these leads to the falls?"

The woman responded: "We don't really know which way the falls trail is. We thought you looked like you knew where you're going. So we've been following you."

At first I thought this was kind of ridiculous considering that we walked in a full circle before we got here. And of course, now that I'm reflecting on that moment, I find it hilarious that this conversation was initiated by the women so that we could figure out what's going on. It seems that even in the wilderness we have to ask for directions!

After we all took a few more breaths and a quick sip of water, I finally made the decision to head up the left trail (oranged blazed), which seemed familiar. After about twenty or thirty yards, I felt confident that I had remembered the rocky trail, the flat faced boulders to our right, and the inevitable sound of rushing water. Once we saw the creek headed downstream, we knew we were on our way to the first fall!

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Lehigh Gorge (part one)

If you asked me two years ago how I felt about Lehigh Gorge, I'd have said that I equate the Lehigh Gorge falls trail to the Ricketts Glen Trail. What's even better than Ricketts is that it's got trains, caves, a river, waterfalls, rock hopping, elevation hiking, rock climbing, and beautiful views. I'd tell you there's nothing more to desire in a good, tough trail.

Today, I had a wake up call. My boyfriend and I headed down to the gorge in the early afternoon, listening to some great road trip songs while passing beautiful mountain views and scores of Tigerlillies on the roadside. Just as we began to see the brown road signs leading us to the park, two empty bright yellow school busses slowed our pace to a crawl. The busses had mint green signs on the back that read, "Whitewater Rafting Adventures," and for the next twenty minutes, we inhaled the very- un green exhaust of the two school buses. As we followed the carbon smell into the state park, we counted six more busses leaving, filled with newly trained rafters.

Pulling around the packed parking lot, we already heard the distant sounds of dozens of voices. We passed the first lot, then the second, the third, and made our way around the boat dock area that had parking designated specifically for the "adventure" busses only. A park ranger's truck was stopped nearby and he was telling a family exiting their car that they couldn't park in the dock area. We defiantly pulled into a space and from the passenger side mirror, I saw him waving us away. I caught a glimpse at the other (6 or so) cars' windshields. Every single one was ticketed.

We backed out of the space, waved kindly at the ranger, and pulled into the second lot. A space opened and we pulled forward, when suddenly a white diesel pick up flew into our claimed spot. Nearby, a group of kids stood around non-commitally chatting and smoking. We watched as they greeted the parking space thief as he got out of his truck. They all appeared to be fresh out of high school in their tight jeans. Each one wearing a tee that bore the name of a 60 or 70 rock musician that they've probably never even heard of. As we drove past, they barely moved out of the way (maybe being a bit defiant themselves) as we tried to scoot by them to find a parking space. I gave them a gypsy curse kind of glare- which I must say matched pretty well with my head wrapped in a gypsy-like bandana.

Finally, we found a spot and parked in the farthest lot from the trailhead. We bitched about those annoying space thieves for a few minutes and then geared up for the hike. It was a very warm day. The heat generated the noon sun. Considering the weather had been pretty rainy around here lately, the extra Vitamin D instantly put us back into good spirits.

First, we walked to the parking lot nearest the trail and let the cool breath of the cave invite us in. The cave was only a few hundred feet long with two old abandoned train tracks, quite possibly for transporting the coal that now surrounded us. The only sound besides our own voices and soft skuff of our boots was the dripping water from above our heads. In the distance, we could hear birds tweeting.

As we neared the end of the cave, we heard human voices again. Up against the grafitti covered wooden barrier, we looked down upon the river. Part of a concrete bridge stood in front of us and to our right were a few dozen rafters in lifejackets being trained by kayakers. The water curled and splashed white in places awaiting the rafters challenge.

Some families and couples hung out on the shore, a few had their dogs on leashes, and one couple skipped rocks into the speeding river. While the mouth of this cave was wide enough for all to see you, from inside of this cave, the darkness made you feel like a spy. We watched for a little longer, commenting on a father and son preparing to take two triangular inner tubes downstream, and then turned back watching cave dwelling birds fly in and out tending their nests in some cubbies. Once back into the light, we crossed the wooden bridge and made our way to the falls approach trail.

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Part 2: Rainclouds are like Sponges

As I crested the mountain, I saw to my left a bright area that appeared to be a nice cliff's edge lookout. I decided to bushwack to the light and take in the beautiful scene. With the orange trail marker to my back, I tromped along in the brush while looking out for the evil bunches of poison ivy. Occasionally, I looked back to make sure I could see the blaze (or at least the general direction of the blaze). Once I got to the forest's edge and the orange blaze was completely out of sight, it was an amazing view of the dark green mountainside. Immediately in front of me, a huge tall-grass field and on my right was a trimmed grass pathway (wide enough to drive a car on). Next to me was a 12 X 30 half-covered stack of tree trunks and chopped wood.

I wondered who could be so lucky as to own this land in a state park. Were people allowed to own a piece of state park land at Francis Slocum or had I stumbled upon private lands with no obnoxious signs nailed into trees telling me to "Beware" of "Private Property." Instead, this solitary moment that this quiet space was my view. Only the birds and other animals making chirps and crackles and scratches imbibed its magic with me. I breathed it in for a few more minutes and then decided to head back through the bushes to the orange trail.

As I swooshed and snapped through the woods, I kept my eyes on the direction of where I had rememebered the blazed tree was standing and I must say that "eyeballing" your way through the woods is not such a smart idea unless you have: (1) traversed it to the point of mental image recall, (2) brought a compass with you or have some orienteering skills, (3) enough time to mess around bushwacking backwoods areas.

I found myself turned around a bit, but luckily I had the open patch of brightly lit forestline guiding me by keeping it at my back. Instead of walking at an angle away from the area, I walked directly away from it. Coming into a much more wooded and rocky area, I stood still and took a look at my surroundings. Nothing seemed familiar.

After being turned around for fifteen minutes, I finally discovered an orange blaze, and turning right to go back where I came from, I hopped back on the Larch Tree Trail.

In retrospect, I'm not saying that I was definitely lost, but now I realize that it is probably easier to get lost than I thought initially. And the feeling in your gut when you begin to panic at the idea of being lost near sundown...There is a general sense of fear and encroaching aloneness creeps up inside you. It permeates and pulses in every muscle and vein in your body. It can force you to panic and make rash decisions (like to keep moving in the wrong direction, or moving anywhere without getting yourself together first). Now, just because I got turned around, I am not suggesting never bushwack and explore, but just as a general rule now that I have decided I will follow is: If the panic of getting lost seems to begin, pause. Take a deep breath. Look at your surroundings. Force logic back into your fight or flight filled mind. Then take a rational step toward the right direction.

Now that I was back on the trail again, I noticed something on the way back down...stormclouds.

As though someone had taken a huge white sponge and dipped it in dirty water, the sun disappeared as I rounded the top of the mountain on Larch Tree Trail. The once barely visible clouds against the blue sky seemed to have suddenly expanded to massive black storm clouds in a matter of moments. Luckily, I was on my way back and for some reason a hike down (or back) always seems faster to me; however, I was definitely out of my element since I had decided to leave my rainjacket in the car because of the beautiful weather earlier. Maybe I was just striking out today (even though the hike was enjoyable).

I needed to feel a bit more of the trail in my muscles and bones since this trail wasn't too difficult to climb anyway, so I ran all the way through the pine forest and back to the trails beginning at a yellow metal gate. Then I caught my breath and quickly trekked down the road and past a second yellow metal gate that lead up to some private residences. I took the Lakeshore red trail to the left and high-tailed it back to my car just in time for the entire sky to turn a deep black and purple and rain began to topple out of the sky onto the remainder of the lakeside fishing park-goers.

Overall, I must say that what I'd seen of the Larch Tree Trail was absolutely gorgeous! I think it was a great trail even though the difficulty wasn't too bad, it definitely gets a thumbs up for being the nicest and most isolated of all the trails in Francis Slocum.

out of 5 Hikers.

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Part1: Lake Shore Trail and Larch Tree Trail

Yesterday, I headed to Francis Slocum State Park (FS), but after picking up the map (which I've never actually followed before), I couldn't decipher one trail from another. Instead, I remembered I had a book called, "Great Hikes in the Poconos and Northeast Pennsylvania" by Boyd and Linda Newman and decided to see if FS had any "great hikes." The Newman's answered with a 7.2 mile hike around the lake on Lake Shore Trail (red blazed) to a loop trail on Larch Tree Trail (orange blazed) and the Deer Trail (yellow blazed) back to the Larch Tree Trail then follow the Nature trail back to the Nature Center Building for the 7.2 miles. Quite a figure 8- trek!
I took my time enjoying the walk on easy trail next to the lake. I even pondered ditching hiking for the day and hopping on one of FS's $10 per hour rentable kayaks, but when I turned the corner and saw the amount of people out fishing, I decided that getting hooked by a plastic worm or knocked off the kayak by invisible string wasn't such a good idea. I kept trekking the barely rocky red trail. Here and there were muddy trail crossings- the kind that tried to steal your boots from your feet. A mother advised her kids walking the path near me, "walk along the side, along the side!" While the chubby-necked little girl in aqua crocs let out a girlish shrill, "eeeeeewwww. AAH!" I picked up the pace to pass them, tromping and splashing my legs.

After about an hour of listening to people talking on their cell phones, whiny children trying to rig up their fishing poles, and about a million "hello, how are you todays," I had reached the end of the red trail and found myself standing on a concrete road at the other end of the park (near the campstore). The wind muted some of the sound and had a bit of a chill, but the sun was still bright overhead and for a moment I stopped on the road. I looked around at an elderly couple fishing together on the shore. They were about twenty feet apart in a small pond off the top of the lake. Both of them had matching zen-like expressions of calm on their crinkly faces.


I looked over at the woman, wondering about my own mortality. Who would I be? Would I make it to her age? Would I be happy? Would I learn to fish? Then, I thought, no matter what: I wouldn't do my hair like that...The old woman's hair was curled, poofed, and teased up on top of her head. I thought about my new dye. Would it be okay in the bright sunlight today? I had forgotten a bandana to protect the color from the elements...and then just as quickly as the thought appeared I shrugged it all off and I walked to the other side of the road.

I quickly checked the Newmans' book. The next part of the hike would be beautifully silent. A walk through an abandoned red pine plantation, blueberry shrubs, and of course (on the Larch Tree Trail) there would be Larches*. But first, I had to pass throught the red pine forest.

The entryway to the pines actually caught my breath. Suddenly perfectly lined rows and rows of pine were in every direction and the ground below my feet was lined in a carpet of firey needles.

More to come about my first June hike at Francis Slocum...

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*The Larch Tree

You might have seen this magnificent tree. While all the pines remain green in fall, this deciduous conifer has pinelike needles that turn yellow in the fall. It is an amazing sight to see and well worth a fall hike to see this change. The first time I'd ever seen the Larch in fall, I was fascinated. I obsessed over finding the rare sight amongst the pines. When I discovered that they were called Larches and turned yellow every fall, I had decided then and there that they were my second favorite tree (to the Sycamore).

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How can hiking Centralia make me nostalgic?

Thunderstorms on Sunday ruined my overnighter this weekend, but instead I got to trek around the ruins of Centralia, something I'd always wanted to see.

The disgusting smell of burning tires mixed with rotten eggs filled the air as we made our way down the road and into the town. At first I thought it was Aaron's car brakes, but later when we walked the mines, the scent was unforgettable. I imagined that it was like what so many miners smelled before their inevitable fates underground, the fate that the tiny canary predicts moments before a disaster.

But I didn't completely feel a forboding darkness about the place as we hiked the broken streets and coal packed walkways. It was more like a curiousity mixed with a childhood reminiscence of the abandoned mines behind my nanas home near the LCCC campus (which are now cleared with a fresh layer of grass trimmed and neatly prepared for homes or campus buildings).

Walking along the strip mines of Centralia, it wasn't the disgusting smell from the steamy sulphuric vapors that made me think of riding bikes, making forts, and shooting bebe guns, but seeing rows of survivor trees (such as the birch) and shrubs covering piles of chunked black rock, broken bottles and cans, and even some abandoned garbage. And while some might see this as something like the remains of some graffically horrific murder partially washed away by time, I just remember being a tomboy pre-teen and searching for lost treasure near my nana's house while collecting bottles and cans, lining them up and shooting bebes through them.

I also remember climbing birches, bending their trunks almost to the ground. And the most memorable was an enormous trunked and termite-eaten tree that my cousins and I would hang out near in deep in the center of the mined area. We took hammers, tarps, and 2X4s determined to make a fort that we could escape to in the summers when we tired of our NES or Sega Genesis games. Occasionally, I'd sneak away to that tree to read about Greek mythological figures or the fantasy world of Dragonlance characters.

Our 'romantic' walk also consisted of putting our hands near the vapor holes and feeling the heated rocks, while pondering the possibilities of travelling underground and seeing the vast expanse of fire, and wondered what anthropologists might conclude of our society hundreds of years after our passing.

Then to bring ourselves back into the current moment, we terrorized gypsy moth nests lopping large charred coal with burnt hues of red, unfortunately, neither of us destroyed a nest. As I looked at each rock, I remembered an archaeological dig I took part in for six weeks near the Don River in Russia back in '99 or 2000. We were bisecting a large mound in the steppe that had rocks similiarly charred. At the time, none of us could figure out how this formation that seemed like a huge chimney of some strange religious ceremony could have existed in the middle of absolutely nowhere. As I threw the last rock, narrowly missing the webbed nest, I imagined that it was possible for those Russian ancestors to be miners as well.

On the return walk, we saw crowds of birds bouncing across the air above and we discussed the possibility of the heat from the mines creating a summer-like appearance to the area even in winter. My mind played with the possibility of an oasis amongst the grime and garbage with greenery and animals living in an endless summer or spring, Much like this town, remaining timeless as the world around it changes seasons from summer to fall to winter and around again.

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