NC Year of the Trail: 365 Days on A Trail
365 days on a trail may be the most ambitious goal I have ever set for myself. And that is saying a lot. I am a goal setter. It drives me. Sometimes it drives me crazy. Great Trails North Carolina designated 2023, the Year of the Trail. I have taken this opportunity to explore the incredible trails not only of our state, but those that I travel to as well. Some of this trail time will be short. Some difficult. Some will be on foot, or bike, or boat, or even simply sitting on my rear end. I am journaling every day (which will turn into blog text at the end of each month) and capturing one image that represents that day’s trail experience. I am sure I will find meaning as I go, but who knows where the trail will lead…
January 2023 Days 1-31 pictures
What January Taught…
January NC Year of the Trail 2023
It made sense to start this journey at Fire Mountain Trails. This is by far my favorite trail system, likely because it is my home trail system and the one that introduced me to mountain biking. The image I captured on the first day of this new year was one of a naturally-formed face on a log. This face would not have been visible when the log was initially cut. It took time, the growing of moss and tanning of bark from rain and rot. It took interaction from both man and wildlife to create what has emerged on the side of the trail. Part of the magic of trails is that they evolve over time. Their treasures need time to emerge. Part of the beauty is that we get to evolve with them.
The following day, my family (husband, Evan and sons Ross and Charlie) hiked a trail I have never been on, Whiteside Mountain. It leads to a beautiful precipice, and allows for choice in either a moderate ascent or more strenuous climb. I was caught by surprise when our two boys (ages 13 and 9) chose to go together on the harder path. I hesitated for a moment, letting them go alone into the woods. But I realized that we have to let go of those we love so they can be themselves in this world. Our children, who often fight over remote controls and last helpings of Mac and Cheese had chosen to go a new path together. To challenge themselves together. To care for each other along the way. This trail provided that rare opportunity.
On the third day, I returned to my bike and hit up Thompson Loop on the Tsali trail system. It was a wet day which yielded an empty parking lot. I usually enjoy the solitude of such days. These days, I ride alone far more than I ride with others. When I first started riding, it wasn’t that way and there are times it saddens me that I have lost community for one reason or another. On this day I was joined by a blue jay, a somewhat rare sight on the trail. I think he was there to remind me that this solitude can be beautiful and unique in its own way. The Blue Jay wasn’t asking or begging the crows or the hawks or the sparrows to join them when they gathered without it. It continued on its own path and would eventually find its band.
One of the reasons I believe this goal is possible is because I have trails literally out my back door at home. On rushed or bad weather days, I can still visit a trail. Day four, I took my youngest son to check the condition of our home trail. We cleared fallen limbs as best we could and walked the trail as equals. He was taking responsibility for caregiving of the trail. He asked questions as if an adult friend learning about our world. Of course, he also asked what a bidet was, so…
On day five I returned to Fire Mountain to assess the condition of Kessel Run. A friend had already scouted the other two main veins of the mountain, noting downed trees and upturned root bulbs. We all take responsibility for this trail system as a community. I ran into Kent Cranford at the overlook. Kent is really a legend to the cycling community in western North Carolina. As owner of Motion Makers, he is partly responsible for growing the sport in our area. Kent recently sold his business and so he and I discussed retirement and the ever-present itch to keep “working.” We also discussed the benefits of “straights vs automatics” in car selection. I can’t help but think that all these things are related. There is no fun in the automatic. No buy-in. The work is part of it.
For days six through eight, I traveled down state to Pinehurst, North Carolina. I was speaking at an event and Evan I took advantage of the downtime to do a little road biking and walking. I am always struck by what money can buy and this community certainly invested in its outdoor recreation amenities. But the real beauty of these spaces lies in the untouched nature. The face emerging from a tree or the way shadows peak through pines. A Pepsi can in a creek seemed almost ironic when I consider that likely Pepsi Co. money helps fund places like this and yet their product now has a hand in spoiling it. What is the balance in protecting what is already there and developing new trails for exploration? When we visited Weymouth Woods, it became even more relevant to witness the evidence of controlled burns–a taming of wilderness for the protection of humans and our properties.
Juney Whank Falls is a short hike from the Deep Creek parking lot, though steep. The sheer power of the water is obviously evident in the cascade, but most notable on this hike was the purposeful placement of machine cut logs to divert water run-off down the trail. It reminded me of my time in eastern Kentucky during devastating flooding and just how fortunate we are here to not have our mountains completely severed by industry, though it does happen. And we all have a hand in the destruction of that community with our consumption of their natural resources. I thought of how we can take simple measures to manage heavy rains, but there will always be a push and pull between humans and water with water always winning out.
My son, Ross, ended his middle school basketball career earlier than expected when he hit his head and had to complete return-to-play concussion protocol. This protocol lasted past the conference tournament. So when I returned to FMT on day ten, I kept in mind to treat it like it could be my last ride. And as I recently heard another writer say, to “go on a wander.” I am competitive by nature and I often find myself upset if I can push hard enough or go faster on rides I am familiar with. But on this day, I purposefully slowed down and enjoyed it as if it was my last ride in my favorite place.
By day eleven, I am paying far more attention to the small things. I am starting to realize that each experience will bring forth a new understanding. It makes sense that this realization first occurs at Kituwah, the Cherokee Mother Town. I pay more attention to the details of the trail and its surroundings because I have promise that there is knowledge there. I have yet to be disappointed. I also came to learn how full of life scavengers are, even though we always connect them to death. Their work is life-giving. It is renewal.
Day twelve, Spearfinger on FMT, was a ride dedicated to giving up—something I struggle deeply with. I had been dealing with so much pain, like too tight of a grip can cause, from wanting to hold on to things that no longer wanted to stay connected. And so the uprooted giant trees, trees that had lived on that mountain for decades at least, found that sometimes the rain was too much. Sometimes the Earth had shifted in an imperceptible manner over and over again and the only thing they could do was unearth themselves, topple, give up. I don’t know why I have such a negative association with giving up. The term itself is almost ridiculous or does it mean to give way to something higher, something unseen above. If that is true, then there is nothing negative about giving up.
Day thirteen brought snow that allowed for such a contrast of color that I began to notice things I never had before, even though I was on my home trail again. The lightness instantly changed my mood. While snow might initially seem to be an obstacle to a trail day, it ended up being one of the best ones yet. Snow returns us to childhood.
Day fourteen was a return to Deep Creek, this time with Evan and our dogs. The dogs were like kites in a brisk wind, crisscrossing and pulling. Yet another reminder of our absurd concern with restrain the natural inclinations of the living world.
FMT was in rough shape by day fifteen from freeze/thaw and the trails were still snow-covered. I ended this ride early in respect of the trail, even though it was beautiful and I wanted desperately to ride. It is a community member that also deserves rest and recovery.
Being in nature is often a struggle with fear management. On day sixteen, I ventured on an overgrown trail behind our family’s cabin. It led to an abandoned structure, one that belongs in a horror novel. And it was this hint of human influence that seemed the scariest. Not the “wild” of the woods. Though the trail was overgrown, I had no fear until I reached a point I knew other humans had been.
Day 17 was a brief moment on the Oconaluftee River trail and a reminder that all trails eventually lead to water. As humans we seek its cleansing powers. It is what we ultimately are always looking for—renewal.
Day 18 began to feel a little less lonely as I rode at Tsali with my friend, Erin. Erin is a bit of a mushroom aficionado and going into the woods with someone who knows different things than you adds such a wonderful layer to discovery and observation. It forces you to change your world view for even just a moment to notice what they might notice. I think this is so telling about the blinders we must always wear in our daily lives.
I was fearful that day 19 would be a difficult day. It was already a bit emotional for me and the morning rain did not help. But by midday the sun broke through and chased away all traces of clouds. So, I chose FMT Disc Golf Sanctuary for a walk. There is a special place, a special bench tucked beneath laurel and near the river that is worthy of pilgrimage across the property. Named for the River Otter, this spot and this day reminded me of how quickly things change on the trail and in life. I watched as the river currents, full from the morning storms, raged like miniatures of ocean waves. And I realized they were practicing for becoming those waves when they reached their final destination at sea.
Kituwah on day twenty and our home trail on twenty-one gave introspection into what we leave behind. The elk that stopped me in my tracks on a previous day, left his print for me to discover upon the next visit. Such an enormous animal leaves very little to alter the natural landscape. And trail workers must do the same. A reminder to myself as I care for our home trail.
The rain at home on day twenty-two darkened the landscape and brought shadows of reflections. This silhouetting showed me foundations I never knew existed as the damp leaves compressed into the earth.
When Ross and I got out of the car at Deep Creek on day twenty-three, a carload of tourists were doing the same. A mother said to her young son, “Now don’t be acting crazy and running around.” I had to laugh as they were at exactly the place he should do this. He should feel freedom here. So I was delighted when my teenager immediately let the worries of his day subside and decided to kick a stick all the way up the trail to our destination. He had made a game of it. He could still be the child he might hide when outside the safety of the natural world. This encouraged me to do the same—to be childlike with my child.
Even the drive to Mingus Mill on day twenty-four was transformational. Elk had overtaken 441, causing all traffic to come to a near standstill. A sweet elk cow walked the yellow line, invoking a feeling of the world's end when nature takes over “civilization.” The mill and its trail was ice-covered and sat in almost a faded blue light. I couldn’t help but smile the whole time I was on the trail, so thankful for the opportunity to explore during a time when tourists were absent and wildlife sleeping. Winter used to be a time I avoided the outdoors, but now I think I love it best. The cold takes all the distractions away.
The following day, I walked FMT again to check trail conditions. I found myself looking at the actual trail as if it was a living organism. I looked so close, I mistaked a twig for a nail, something I would not have even noticed a year ago. The trail feels like a living thing and we are caretakers of something alive and dynamic.
On day 26, Ross and I trekked the mountain behind my father’s house. This was yet another trail I had not been on since I was a child. Since Ross is thirteen, he loves to break and destroy things. It is the age. This hike gave me the opportunity to share with him that you must always understand how things are connected. He may want to break a fallen limb, but he needed to know what else it might pull with it.
Day 27 was a precarious descent on the trail to see Soco Falls. I was on my way to a meeting and this is a roadside attraction. I was dressed for business, not hiking, and the trail is quite eroded. But the beauty of the falls is magnificent and I wonder if we often make the outdoor experience too comfortable, too accessible to meet the expectations of the public.
Day 28 I rose too early for the sun to be up and had to wait on it in order to ride my road bike on the trail around Lake Junaluska (my light was not charged). It was a freezing ride even with the sunrise. The lake was being dredged. It was a juxtaposition between nature’s control and man’s. There was no way to make the sun rise faster even while men simultaneously regulated the water.
Day 29 was like hitting a wall. Coincidentally, I had just seen a post about how a wall can be a place to rest and regain strength. This was a rainy day. I was exhausted and I was filled with an unhealthy mix of anxiety and sadness. Without getting into details, I was hurt by people I cared about and was not coping well. Had it not been for this challenge, I would have crawled into bed and stayed. The night before, Evan and I had watched a documentary on the Barkley Marathons and I was struck by a competitor’s bold comments regarding how we all need more pain in our lives. I spent a lot of viewing time thinking about the saw briars (or wait-a-minutes) they encountered and why they chose to wear shorts over long pants, even though their legs were slashed to pieces on the route. So, as I slowly meandered along our home trail, I noticed the briars more. I noted the pain they cause, even the small ones. The way they make us reroute or pause. Pain always does this, doesn’t it? And if we are traveling with others, we need to be mindful of what we let loose, what will be flung backward to those following us. I was glad I was alone in these moments. I could leave my pain out there. I stopped to “wait a minute” and find a better route forward. Within an hour of finishing this trail experience, my day shifted 180 degrees and I received exciting professional news. What mattered so much, what gave me such pain moments earlier, dried up and left only an imperceptible scar.
Day 30 was still wet and chilly, but warm enough to hit FMT again for a quick loop. The mist hung low the entire ride, invoking the feeling of riding through a lush rainforest. Which is not entirely inaccurate. We do, in fact, live in a rainforest—just as diverse and abundant.
On the final day of the month, I was certain finding inspiration would be impossible. Surely, I had run out of trail magic. But about two minutes into a walk on the Cullowhee greenway, I came across a tree vine that had been padlocked for no reason. I began to notice that some sort of art project had installed birdhouses on trees all along the path. I wonder why we humans believe that nature needs more aesthetics. Why do we believe that our concept of home would serve wildlife better than their own? We have such a need to interact, to be part of it, and unfortunately, often to influence it based on our own world views. As I continue this trail journey, I hope to find ways to walk quietly. Step lightly. To listen more than speak in these spaces.