I’ve got a favorite trail. Actually, I’ve got a favorite section of my favorite trail. It’s long, and many of the entrances are in random neighborhoods and are barely marked. That generally means you can wander for hours without meeting anyone else out there. I love this. I started hiking it last winter, and have been there through the spring, summer, and fall. And there’s one section that never ceases to amaze me with how it changes. It’s a little turn at the top of a small hill with a big boulder and tall, deciduous trees around it. I’ve decided to start taking pictures.
Every year I start to get an urge to write about how much I love autumn. Frankly, I feel stupider for it… Of course I love autumn. I live in New England. I like sweaters and boots and crunchy leaves under my feet. I love walking in the woods without being swarmed by bugs, or having to balance my need to be cool with my need to protect my body parts from things that bite. I love apples and I loooooooove cinnamon… I even kind of like raking. (mostly because my yard isn’t that big, and I don’t have to bag my leaves because the town comes and picks them up).
I don’t always love the garden cleanup — it’s a little depressing and messy — but that’s OK…because this:
I started reading Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail earlier this week, and it’s got me thinking about what it really means to be a “hiker.” It seems to me that lately everyone thinks they’re one, including me — but most of us are not.
Earlier this spring I hit the internet and started researching hiking shoes after I slipped on a few rocks in the woods, and anytime I purchase an accessory for an activity it means I’m truly invested. So I started looking into more local trails. There are tons of options, but as you might imagine, wilderness in Connecticut is not always easy to come by and I have a new rule: if you see a stroller or a child under the age of 8 on a trail, it’s not hiking, it’s just a walk. Continue reading