Note to readers: this post was begun in July 2016.  That is how long it takes me to get anything done these days.


I
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I'm working on a new project, which is walking around by myself in unfamiliar places without being scared.  This is not to say that I am a horrible scaredy-cat-- I walk around by myself all the time.  However, all of those readers who are not men probably know how, sometimes consciously and sometimes unconsciously, we non-men select our walking-around locations with some caution.  Our own residential neighborhood, or one that looks kind of like it someplace else?  Fine.  Our local parks and neighborhood trails-- generally okay, as long as we haven't been given specific reason for alarm there-- but the danger antennae are still kinda up, ready for anything.  City neighborhood that is different from ours?  Discomfort grows a little.  Out in the woods somewhere new, alone? Pack me a pocketknife.

Maybe it's just me.

I am 44 years old.  I would like to be brave the way I was when I was 8 or 9, and went wandering the woods alone on many occasions, before (apparently) my mother noticed and decided to belatedly deliver the stranger-danger lecture.  After that I was not brave.  I still went up the hill to pick blueberries, but more often than not would spook and come flying back home at a run, blueberries bouncing out of my bowl as I went.  I still went to the old disused cemetery covered with a carpet of flowering thyme-- not accessible by car--  to write poems in my journal, but after that one time a guy dressed in camo materialized silently behind me, I didn't go as often, and didn't sit in abstraction anymore, but looked nervously over my shoulder.

​I would like to declare myself tired of this.  Don't I-- don't we all-- have a right to be in the world, here and there, where we please, without fearing violence?  ...A loaded question on July 15, 2016, when yesterday a truck loaded with weaponry plowed into a mass of French people celebrating Bastille Day in Nice, and killed them, men, women and babies.  When the U.S. has finally become aware of how many young black men are shot by cops, and others, for no good reason.  When cops in turn were mowed down in Dallas while policing a peaceful protest.  When a homophobic young man with a history of aggression and abuse recently decided to massacre about 50 young clubgoers, mostly Latinx, at a gay club in Orlando.  

Violence is everywhere.  All of the people I have mentioned were killed in public spaces, where they would have had no special reason to feel afraid.  No place is safe, per se.  The last time I ran from a man, I was just trying to go to a morning dental appointment in a familiar, normally well-populated neighborhood; a snowstorm the night before had kept most people off the streets (damn my northern hardiness), and the area proved unexpectedly isolated that day.

Ergo: if no place is safe, isn't that a good reason to treat every place as safe?  As a podcast I was listening to with my kid said, ultimately everything is fatal.  Before something, someday fatally gets me (and it will), I would like to do some stuff.  Hence my new project.  My mother won't like it, I think.  

I started with Adams Morgan (an unknown that turned out fairly un-risky, unless you count heatstroke); the next week, I practiced a little desensitization therapy in Rock Creek Park.  (Yes, I know, that's where Chandra Levy was killed, and I think of it every damn time.  Apparently, I should also be concerned about owl attacks.)  As far as actual trail-following goes, my Rock Creek Park expedition did not go well.  My aim was to walk on part of the Rapids Bridge Trail, which makes a loop from the Horse Center.  However, I could not find the trailhead to save my life, even after asking a passing horseback riding teacher.  When I reviewed my materials later, I realized I'd made a mistake in trying to work from the map, when in fact there were excellent written instructions, underneath the map, which would have helped me a great deal if I had read them.

What actually happened is that I followed some random trail(s) for a little while.  It was another extremely hot and humid day, and I was glad that this time I'd remembered to bring a hat.  I don't know where I was going, but the blazes weren't orange.  I did, however, find some rock cairns placed by hikers, and I added my stone, symbolic of the beginning of a project, if not just now the beginning of a real hike:

II

Two weeks later, having read the directions this time, I went back again to find the Rapids Bridge Trail.  This time I had no trouble.  The trailhead was right behind the horse paddock.  The other horse paddock.  My plan, in the spirit of baby steps, was to walk about a half a mile down the trail to Ross Drive and Rock Creek, then turn around and come back.  I'd forgotten my camera-- a mistake I haven't made in a while.  The weather was very humid, but not too hot yet, at 9:30 am.  

The trail was wide, and dotted with mouldering piles of horse dung; the woods open, without much underbrush, and carpeted with brown leaves.  I only saw two other people the whole way; a young bearded guy, walking a beagle, and a tall, thin, fit man running very, very fast.  The young bearded guy said "good morning" in a wholly non-threatening fashion.  The very fast runner did not appear to notice me.  

If I'd had my camera, images I might have shown you would include: young girls having their riding lessons near the trailhead; crinkly white fungi on fallen trees; the unremarkable sun-lit brown of the path through the open woods; a broken old bench by a rocky creek.  I only saw the most ordinary of animals: squirrels, a chipmunk, robins, cardinals.  I liked the chipmunk, though.

And how did I feel, out "in the woods" by myself?  A little wary; less aware of the modest beauty of my surroundings than I might have been; but basically okay.  It was slightly odd to be there alone, but not scary.  And afterwards, I also felt-- not really victorious, or anything else dramatic-- but just okay.  It was okay.

III

A bunch of time passed before I got out to Rock Creek Park again.  The weather was no longer hot, and the many, many squirrels appeared to be busy with the acorns I could hear falling from the trees.  The day was overcast, sweater-temperature.  

I parked near the police station on Ross Drive, ready to walk a bit more of the Rapids Bridge Trail.  Within about 90 seconds of leaving my car, I'd met three different men: one who was sitting quietly in the car next to mine, who nodded when I emerged, a millenial-bro type on a bicycle who wanted directions to an obscure picnic spot, and a strapping young runner on the trail.  Of the three, I only felt uncomfortable about the cyclist, who'd initiated an interaction and then prolonged it more than seemed absolutely necessary.  Despite this, I still felt he was simply lost, perhaps supposed to meet someone at Picnic Area 24.  There was also an aging jogger that I met out in the middle of the woods, and one woman!-- the woman, however, had a large dog with her.  I would feel better if I saw more women out alone, dogless.

So, it was a busy morning over near Ross Drive at Rock Creek Park.  And I walked along Rock Creek, discovering that it did not get that name for nothing: the stream is full of quite stunning boulders, forming picturesque pools and eddies.  I remembered my camera and took lots of redundant photos, many of which failed to capture the loveliness of the creek.  I was not out there for long-- about 25 minutes-- and did not get very far, due to stopping so often for photography, but just that short time out in the cool woods with the squirrels and the woodpeckers and the river gave me a little burst of well-being.  I need to do this more often.

​A chilly, cloudy, gray and perfect fall day in late October.  Because I had not made it as far along the trail as Rapids Bridge on my last venture, I parked in the same place as before and walked the same path, only farther. The woods were filled with woodland critters: small woodpeckers and nuthatches knocked against the many fallen logs, while chipmunks and squirrels did their own food-gathering.  There were so many woodpeckers.  I have never seen so many woodpeckers in my life. They were good at evading photography, however.  There were few humans, but the animals were a bustle of activity. As can be seen from the photos, the leaves are beginning to turn and brown now, some starting to drop off: a more saturated autumn palette.  

​For quite a while I saw no people at all, but finally a middle-aged woman with a dog-- a smallish one-- met me walking.  She continued to high-step her feet in the air as her dog stopped for a while to sniff a tree, which I could only assume meant she was wearing a fitness band and counting her steps.  The dog did not look fierce, so I almost counted her as a-woman-alone.  There was, a bit later,  a young, very tall, spandex-wearing man running very fast; he literally did not even glance at me or acknowledge me, even though we were meeting on a woodland trail.  There was one older man walking a dog-- rather grim-looking, so this was the moment where I stuck my hands in my pockets.  That's where I keep my pocketknife.  A few moments later, a young woman running:  no dog!  She had a nervous expression and would not have acknowledged me either, had I not made a point of it.  But she wins for being the only other dogless woman out there so far on my four visits.

I made it as far as Rapids Bridge and took in the views from the center of the creek.  All boulders and small eddies, yellowing leaves, and silver sky.

V

It is May now.  I have been distracted, an understatement.  It took me more than 6 months to finish walking the Rapids Bridge Trail (length: approximately 2 miles), longer than it takes some people to hike the Appalachian. But, one Saturday in May, accompanied this time by my husband, I decided it was time to go outside.  

Due to road closures, I could not park where I wanted to, so we ended up in the same spot as usual (by the old broken-down bench), walked along the river again, looked for a moment or two at the view off Rapids Bridge, and then made the turn uphill to continue towards the horse barns.  This was the part of the trail that was new to me. Because I was with my husband, I did not notice all the individual people we met in the way that I do when alone, but it was a lovely spring weekend afternoon, and there were a lot of them, including large groups surprisingly carrying backpacks and maps.  The uphill slope was fairly steep, and the forest again open, with a red-brown carpet of needles.  Errant dogs ran about sniffing and pouncing in ecstasy, and most of the wild things hid quietly from them and all of the people.  My husband, a smoker, got winded going up the ridge.  Because, once we got to the horse barn, the shortest route back was forward, we ended up walking the entire Rapids Bridge loop together. The way felt shorter with another person, but I noticed less and worried more: about my husband maybe feeling tired or out-of-breath or annoyed, about getting home in time to go to work at the restaurant, which I'd agreed to do at the last minute.  

An anti-climax, complicated by all the complications that populate 2017; but I will go to Rock Creek Park again.

Time for what we now consider our yearly backpacking trip.  Kid and I-- and my husband, driving a separate car-- set off for northwestern Maryland to drop off our car at the endpoint of the three-day hike, the McMahon's Mill access near Hagerstown.  As we approached down the narrow lane to the gravel parking lot and turned off the radio, we could suddenly hear that my car was making a new, deep, terrifying noise-- a sort of mechanical whalesong-- every time I braked.  For an assortment of other reasons, it was already quite late in the morning, and also Sunday: no time to go looking for a mechanic.  We left the car in the lot.  It remained in the back of my mind for the next 50 hours.

We piled our packs into my husband's even older car and drove to the start point, a place where the Appalachian Trail intersects the C&O just south of Harper's Ferry.  It was a nice day for a walk: 70s, dry, not too sunny.  There were seemingly hundreds of people on bicycles.  

This was, I learned, because we were so near Harper's Ferry, and Harper's Ferry was crawling with tourists.  We heard many languages as we crossed the picturesque railroad bridge into West Virginia to visit briefly and use the restroom-- so many languages that it reminded me of being a tourist in Italy just a couple of weeks before.  I hadn't realized Harper's Ferry would be such a major attraction.

Did my kid want an ice cream in Harper's Ferry?  No, they did not.  They just wanted to get the hell out of there.  

It took very little walking north along the trail past Harper's Ferry to leave all the people and bicycles behind.  Suddenly we were mostly alone.  

We saw a lot of small critters and some larger animals: a really impressive profusion of caterpillars and millipedes, plenty of deer including fawns, at least two bald eagles, green and blue herons, the usual turtles, frogs and toads.  No owls this year.  Maybe that's a June thing.  None of the deer wanted to have their pictures taken.

This section of the trail was also chock-full of neat caves carved into the hillside on our right.  We were too scared to hang out in any of them.

Our first day of hiking involved a fairly steady push, as we didn't get started until about noon, and had 11.5 miles to go before camping.  At least we had a campsite reserved at the Antietam battlefield campground, which is not technically part of the C&O Canal trail but is right alongside it.  There are 20 campsites lined up all in a row along the riverbank: only two were occupied, plus the campground manager's RV turned out to be right across the road from the site I'd reserved.  All night long a bright, extremely safe streetlight shone directly onto our tent.  I felt quite secure but it was difficult to sleep.  Also, we got cold.  

The next morning, the mist rose from the river and everywhere else.

Eventually it cleared up and became a beautiful, perfect day.  

Our second day of hiking was really laid-back.  We only had 9.5 miles to go and reached our planned camping spot around 3:30.

We'd been hoping, sometime during that second day, to stop in a town-- or in a hiker/biker store that I'd read about-- and buy some cups of non-instant coffee or snacks.  However, the towns were a good mile off the trail-- not worth the extra travel on such a short hike, though I'm sure they would seem like a treat on a longer one-- and the hiker/biker store turned out to be only open on weekends.  Alas.

After we pitched our tent at the Horseshoe Bend hiker/biker campsite (mile 79.2), literally only 3 other people passed by for the entire remainder of the day.  We were completely alone.  Kid was tired and went inside the tent for most of the afternoon, leaving me to read at the picnic table.  When it was dark that night, it was really, really dark.  This time, we knew it would get cold, so we battened down our tent cover right away, and went to sleep wearing fleeces, jackets, and socks.  Much better.

The next morning (the last morning), I had (thankfully) just enough time to boil water for coffee before it started to drizzle.  Kid and I retreated to the tent, drinking coffee, eating a cold breakfast instead of the oatmeal I'd planned, and reading books.  It was nice.  We waited for the rain to stop, but it didn't; instead it got steadier.  Around 9:30 we gave up and went out in the rain to break camp.

Wearing windbreakers, with our rain covers over our packs, we hiked away into the rain.

We learned something about rain: it makes you hike much faster.  Because there is no appeal to stopping: sit on a wet rock?  Get chilled instead of keeping warm by moving?  We hiked the whole 9 miles out to my car by 1:30, stopping just once to use the bathroom, snacking a little out of our pockets.  It was not bad as long as you kept moving.  And, by this third day, we were developing a rhythm.  We could probably have hiked twice as far by nightfall; but we didn't need to.  

The final mile was beautiful, but did not lend itself to photography.  The usual trail-between-trees emerged out onto the cliffside by the river, where a concrete path had been constructed. Wildflowers ranged down the bank towards the water, and I saw a hummingbird coming from that direction.  An eagle was soaring back and forth over the great curve in the river.  All too soon we reached McMahon's Mill:

...at which point we climbed into the dry haven of the car, pushed back the seats, and ate lunch.  There were a bunch of people meeting in the parking lot in the rain, pointing at things up the hillside.  Eventually they all drove away in their separate official vehicles.  It seemed to be a consultation about the environmental impact of some proposed construction.

When we had recovered sufficiently, kid researched the best auto repair shop in Hagerstown and we took our Subaru over to Dave's Corner, where Dave's delightful son Devin fixed my brakes within an hour and a half while we drank coffee and ate cheese puffs and donut holes from the Sheetz across the street.  For some reason, although we were chilly, we continued to sit outside while our car was repaired.  (It had stopped raining.)  Some kind of switch had flipped.  We no longer wanted to be indoors.

​Two weeks later, I've been indoors all day.

Today is my kid's 16th birthday.  We did not go hiking today; that was weeks ago-- I think two-- when, during a particularly temperate spell of weather, kid said "Do you want to go hiking sometime soon?"  We went the next day.  I feel so lucky to have a kid who still wants to hang out sometimes, who still gets excited about bugs, but now also enjoys a really good cup of coffee and knows what's going on with Trump-Russia.  This is the ideal companion.

​It's a pretty long drive by now to the start-point of our hikes.  We started this time in the town of Brunswick, MD, sleepy but picturesque, and boasting this colorful church-turned-coffee-shop full of stained-glass.

We both bought coffees, and kid got a sandwich, because they didn't have a soggy leftover Mediterranean Veggie sandwich from Panera in their backpack the way I did.  We liked this place so much that we seriously discussed taking a weekend vacation to Brunswick sometime, just so we could hang out there.

Upon departing our vehicle, kid decided that they would eat their delicious sandwich immediately, so we sat on a rock just outside the car while kid devoured lunch.  (I saved my soggy sandwich for later, though it turned out not to improve with age.)  It was a perfect day, sunny and with temperatures in the high 70s-- beautifully cool for Maryland in the summer.  I was happy just to sit and soak up my vitamin D.  

​After a bit, we got on the trail.  It looked much as it usually does:

Super-green.  There were some nice details:

Animals we saw besides this toad: 3 beautiful fawns, a green heron, a family of ducks, lots of turtles, colorful goldfinches and cardinals, and a multitude of shimmering dragonflies and shiny green beetles.  I don't know where the fawns' mothers were.

Kid was also delighted with what seemed to us like a truffula tree​, but appears to have many names, including Persian silk tree or mimosa.  It had pretty pink tufts that smelled amazing.  All my life I'd been searching for trees such as these.

At the 58-mile mark, the C&O Canal Towpath intersects with the Appalachian Trail.  This was the point where I sat down on another rock to eat my own sandwich, pulling off large sections of soggy bread and wilted lettuce.  There was far too much feta cheese.  I regretted everything.

It was a shortish walk, without drama, but happy.  Kid and I are planning another 3-day blitz in August.

It has been over 9 months since my teenager and I have been on the C&O Canal trail.  Last summer, we completed a 30+-mile multi-day backpacking trip.  Ever since, we (and by "we," I mostly mean my teenager) have been too busy to fit in even a day hike.  Also, a lot has happened in the past nine months.

This spring day was no exception.  It was Good Friday-- the day, as it happened, between NBC News' report that the U.S. was threatening a preemptive strike on North Korea, and the Day of the Sun, the Saturday when North Korea was expected to display the kind of provocation that could lead to that preemptive strike.  So I was walking with that "this could be our last hike before World War III starts" feeling.

It was a beautiful day.  It was sunny, the temperature in the 60s (the teenager took off their sweater and hat just after the above photo was taken), and spring wildflowers were everywhere.  The trees were leafing out and still that intense yellow-green.  Animals were sort of scarce, with the exception of birds and bugs-- no turtles this time-- but the flowers made up for it.  We talked a lot, about big stuff, but only a little bit about the potential end of the world.  

This stretch of the trail first crossed the restored Catoctin Aqueduct, then took us down 2-3 miles of pleasant, unassuming, flowery woodland path, before arriving unceremoniously at a 200-unit RV-friendly campground.  This campground, where we ate our lunch because we were hungry, also seemed to be undergoing serious construction, with ongoing loud machinery noises, trucks lumbering back and forth, and even a giant crane taking down tree limbs.  There were also Bobcats scooting ponderously about.  It was not even remotely peaceful, and I felt sorry for the people who were staying there anyway.

After lunch, we walked one more mile down a wide gravel road to reach the town of Brunswick.  This was not the nicest part of the walk.  There were cars.  Brunswick looked as though it might be worth exploring, but we did not explore it.​  We just turned around and went back down the gravel road.

I would be remiss at this point if I did not include this photo which my child insisted I take.  This architectural detail is part of a water treatment plant along the road just shy of Brunswick.  My child was greatly amused by the "doors-to-nowhere" effect.  Water treatment plant workers: be careful!  There were also some random wooden barn-door things (not shown) stuck on the sides of the building, again apparently just because they looked rustic, not for any actual purpose.

​So, anyway, back to the pleasant flowery path.  It looked like this and was, in the quiet parts, entirely lovely.

​We saw a pair of wood ducks, which hid
behind a tree after they noticed us noticing them.  As always on the canal towpath, we heard a ton of woodpeckers but could not see them.  And we got some photos of this egret:

There was also this, sticking out of a crevice in a tree, so high up neither of us could have reached it.  A very tall man might have been able to (and indeed must have?).  It was a very long, thin jawbone of something, with teeth, along with some other assorted sticks and stuff.  Very Blair Witch Project.

We weren't scared, though.

​Extra credit participation: what kind of animal is this??

I

Breaking my usual habit of setting out for walks mid-morning, I first had an 11:30 hair appointment, during which I had my hair cut and colored for the first time!  Very exciting.  So I struck forth from my neighborhood at 2 pm, already hungry for lunch.  On the way to the Metro station, I stopped at our new Starbucks (subject of much local controversy) for coffee and a lunch special (sandwich, chips, banana and water bottle for $8.95).  I didn't really want the banana and water bottle, but the staff strongly encouraged me.  Why do businesses offer you lower prices to get more stuff than you need?  Why did I comply?

The Starbucks, far from seeming corporate and sterile, was like everyplace else in my neighborhood: chaotic.  The employees were having far too much fun together.  Nobody seemed to know how to work the register.  Customers were treated as potential friends.  This is the egalitarian, crazy, joyful, infuriating vibe of Takoma Park.

After lunch, I took the red and orange line trains to the Eastern Market station, near Capitol Hill.  There was a pleasant grassy plaza where I emerged from underground.  Directly across D St., there was another Starbucks, and I stopped there as well, for a cup of green tea and the chance to write some notes for an article.  Once again, I realized, I had forgotten my camera.

Afterwards, I walked down 8th St.-- with a brief detour over to 9th-- towards the Washington Navy Yard.  8th St. seemed to be a diverse, active business district, but the residential areas barely off this thoroughfare were sleepy, quiet, with an occasional dad-and-stroller or neighbors chatting on the stoop.  The townhouses here were smaller than in Adams-Morgan, and the gardens less manicured, but the buildings were painted in bright, cheery colors and might have been described as "cute."  I bet these streets are still expensive.  What really set this neighborhood apart from other places in DC, though, was the presence of random military personnel everywhere.  Outside the Marine Barracks, there was a uniformed guy standing as if on guard, but not really on guard, just for show, like the ones at Buckingham Palace.  In fact, standing on the corner with his hips thrust forward, he looked more like a stripper wearing a military uniform than an actual member of our armed forces.  Other similar guys were on other corners, standing around formally.  Meanwhile pairs of uniformed men strolled about chatting, and a neighborhood beer garden was full of naval officers (I think) wearing service khakis.  I felt as though I'd been transported momentarily back to 1942.

So I walked all the way down to the Naval Yard (beautiful buildings here), then reversed course and returned to I St., at which point I zig-zagged northwest through another residential neighborhood, ending up at attractive Marion Park and then heading back east towards the Eastern Market Metro station.  Interestingly, this residential area west of 8th was markedly different than the one on the east side, though they were only blocks apart.  The townhouses were not as brightly colored here-- the buildings favored a kind of 1970s bland taupe, the gardens featured minimalist evergreen shrubberies, and the people on the street appeared somewhat less prosperous.  I'm no real estate expert, but I'm thinking those blocks are more affordable.

The trail took me through an alley (F St. Terrace) which is apparently one of the few DC alleys which still has a significant number of unique residences facing onto it.  The sign there explained that such alley residences used to be much more numerous in the city.  Apart from perhaps safety and lighting concerns, it seemed like an ideal place to live: quiet and private, plenty of vegetation, and facing the grounds of a pretty church.

Today's short walk actually took me through most of the Barracks Row trail, but I will return and visit Eastern Market, at trail's end, another day.

II

Two weeks later, my hair was already noticeably longer; my Metro line was under repair and it took me three trains this time to arrive at the Eastern Market station.  I was determined.  Fueled by an early hour of reading in the cafe down the street, drinking an almond milk cappuccino, I felt enough at peace to calmly navigate the system.  

​Once out of the station, this time turning north up 7th Street, I admired the fall foliage that combined with colorful buildings for a festive, though decidedly upscale, effect in the bright sunshine.  Somehow I managed to be surprised, yet again, by how quickly the character of a DC neighborhood changes from block to block.  Nobody could have questioned for a moment that the neighborhood I was walking through was very wealthy, even though the architecture was not so imposing as in Adams Morgan.  Lovely cafes and bookshops.  Subtle, trendy colors.  Double-wide strollers and people seemingly at leisure.  Even though we're quite near the heart of DC here, it wasn't the fast-paced, suits-and-high-heels world of my husband's office-- all neutrals, wide busy sidewalks and cell phones--  but the world of soft-focus Instagram photos, moms with placid babies and perfect sneakers, autumn picturesque and foodie heaven.  Which brings me to Eastern Market, not the Metro stop, but the actual market.

​I had imagined Eastern Market for years, had heard it was legendary for its seafood and-- I thought-- its international offerings, but had never been there.  Without any real evidence to back up my vision, I had imagined it as a busy, chaotic, smelly, cheap, enormous marketplace with many vendors, selling fish of all kinds, questionable meats, produce, street foods of all ethnicities: basically, unthinkingly, supposing it to have been transplanted from some noisier, more vibrant nation and plunked down in the middle of Capitol Hill.  How likely was that?  Entirely inaccurate, as it turns out.  Perhaps it was once that way.  But now, at any rate, the long brick building houses a small array of butchers, fishmongers, produce-sellers, and bakers whose wares are arranged so neatly and photogenically that they might as well be part of a magazine feature.  Beautiful, appealing, but-- at least at 11:00 on a Thursday-- not very crowded, and certainly neither smelly nor cheap.  I headed first for a restroom, and in a sort of nearby conference hall encountered the largest convention of fancy strollers I have ever seen in my life.  They had toddlers associated with them, and women who appeared to be mostly nannies, but it was the strollers that dominated the room, with people merely filling in the narrow gaps between them.  It was some kind of morning early-childhood enrichment activity, that was plain, but I would have fled from the room in claustrophobic terror, had I been one of those women.

​After the restroom, I browsed Eastern Market's wares.  Certainly the meat selection was excellent, and ranged from pig's ears and feet to the finest steaks.  Even the pig's feet were arranged with a view to attractiveness, though.  I bought two large slices of country ham (the super-salty southern kind, which my husband loves and which is not available everywhere); then, at an artisan pasta counter, I bought some fresh pumpkin fettuccine and a container of mushroom marinara sauce, because my kid was planning to make pasta for dinner.  Finally, from the tempting bakery at the far southern end, I purchased two turnovers for my husband who'd been specifically craving turnovers, a slice of poundcake, and a pineapple-peach muffin.  This poundcake, incidentally, was the best poundcake I have ever tasted.  It was like the frozen Sara Lee poundcakes I loved so much in my youth (which may not sound like a compliment, but it is), except homemade and so, so much better.  And I do not even want to know how much butter there was in it, because it was dense beyond belief.  I think I am now beginning to confound my walking vs. eating posts.  None of my purchases were inexpensive-- although I probably paid less than I might have for products of the same high quality in a different setting.

​So, this was the end of the Barracks Row trail: a trip to a very nice supermarket.  And then back to the series of trains, and home through the unseasonable muggy heat to enjoy my baked goods.  If my portrait of this neighborhood remains indistinct, that is because my impressions were indistinct.  What do the Marines in uniform have to do with the nannies and gourmet foods, or the drab apartment buildings with the picturesque alleyways?  I don't know either.

I

​Cultural Heritage DC has established 17 Neighborhood Heritage Trails throughout Washington, DC: my city for the past five years, although I live a little less than half a mile (about 5 blocks) outside its limits, and spend a surprising proportion of my life neglecting to enter its boundaries at all.  In keeping with my usual completist spirit (or, also here), as soon as I knew these trails existed (and they are, after all, merely a stroll through existing streets, looking at points of interest), I desired to walk them all.  In keeping with the procrastinatory spirit that provides the opposite pole for my mental compass, it took me a year or two to even begin one of them.

Which one to try first?-- Well, the first one listed on the website, of course.  That's how completists do things.  So off I went (a year or two later) to Adams Morgan.

I didn't plan to cover the whole 2-hour walk at once.  For one thing, I thought that training myself to walk in unfamiliar places by myself, without my usual sense of Fearfulness of Men, should be a gradual venture.  For another thing, on Thursday, July 7, it happened to be 94 degrees and very humid.  So my first Adams Morgan walk was short (though my day overall featured enough outdoor time that I was badly overheated by evening).  I took the Metro from Bethesda (where I don't live, but happened to be that morning) to the U Street stop in DC, then walked to the beginning of the "trail" at 16th St. and Florida.  The neighborhood between the metro stop and the "trail" appeared economically diverse-- a lot of demolition and construction projects were going on, so I expect the area is gentrifying, though not yet fully gentrified.  Shabby corner convenience stores mingled with yoga studios; a trash-filled vacant lot adjoined a trendy restaurant.  Judging by the people on the street, it was a majority-black neighborhood.

​However, by the time I'd walked the 6-7 blocks to the start of the "trail," I was in another world.  This was some fancy shit over here.  Big brick townhouses featured elaborate architectural details and well-groomed gardens.  Some of the houses and gardens had high walls around them, enclosing their lovely old trees and benches and cobbled driveways.  As I proceeded, these city-style mansions mixed with a number of minor embassies and such: Polish, Cuban, Lithuanian, the Scottish Rite Temple and the Mexican Cultural Institute.  The people on the streets fell mostly into two categories: well-dressed society women in heels, going out to do whatever society women do at mid-day, and the many laborers required to support these women's lifestyles.  A Hispanic maid walked down the street carrying a vacuum cleaner in one hand and a bucket full of cleaning supplies in the other; garbage men created a hot-weather stench that collided with the refined surroundings; landscapers and construction workers rested on the shady sidewalk, eating lunch.

​Both the society women and the support staff were sweating.  And so was I.  I stopped into a Harris-Teeter (an unfamiliar grocery for me), looking for a cup of coffee; although they seemed fairly upscale, I couldn't find a coffee vendor inside.  I ended up using their restroom without buying anything, although that had not been my intention.  My face in the restroom mirror was bright pink.  I splashed a little water on it to cool myself, but was self-conscious of my sweaty appearance and backpack.  I didn't want to look like I was using the Harris-Teeter bathroom to clean up.  

​Outside, the heat got more and more oppressive as I walked up 16th Street to Columbia Road.  Even after this short walk, I began to dream of being inside, and was happy, just before I got back on the Metro at the Columbia Heights station, to find a Potbelly and sit there for an hour, eating lunch and drinking both a coffee and an Izze soda.

II

July 21: another hot, sunny day over 90 degrees.  And it is always a bit hotter on the city sidewalks than it is in my tree-filled neighborhood.  I walked my half-mile to the Metro, changed trains at Fort Totten, got off at Columbia Heights to resume my journey.  To my surprise, Columbia Heights is really only three stops from my home station, even though it requires a line change.  It is close.  I could probably walk there.

Maybe this project really will serve to familiarize me with my own city, where I have lived for five years now.

When I got back to the Moonie church, I knew I was on track to continue the "trail."  The cityscape changes a lot in the few blocks between the Columbia Heights station and that big intersection of 16th St. and Columbia Rd.  I'm always surprised by the abrupt transitions between neighborhoods here.  On one block, the row houses may appear rundown, in ill-repair, with barren front gardens and an air of desolation.  But on the very next block, you may suddenly realize that the same row houses (buildings that are inherently lovely, even when neglected) are clean and spruced-up with bright paint in trendy colors, with flowering bushes, shiny cars and bicycles in front.  (And in DC, even the modestly-sized ones will be going for at least half a million dollars.)

​Anyway, by the time I reached 16th Street, I was back in the realm of stately row houses and minor embassies.  There were a couple of very nice city parks: Walter Pierce Park, just to the north of Adams-Morgan, and the lovely Kalorama Park and recreation center.  Storefronts included organic dry cleaners and natural foods groceries, and stylish retail businesses with "Design" in their names.  There were nannies walking the streets with strollers, and well-groomed but casually-dressed young people.  I followed the "trail" as far as Kalorama Road, then continued walking down Columbia Road and then Connecticut Ave. towards the Dupont Circle Metro station.  For those that are unfamiliar with DC: even I know that Dupont Circle is one of the wealthiest and trendiest areas of town.  Once I got to Connecticut Ave., I stopped for some lunch at the Soho Cafe, a wildly crowded joint with gorgeous hot and cold buffet bars as well as made-to-order items.  It was hard to maneuver through the well-dressed young professionals and construction guys on their lunch breaks, lugging my backpack and tray through the narrow spaces between buffets and refrigerator cases and bodies.  Nevertheless I ended up with a cup of coffee, a plate full of cold salad and veggies and kim-bob and a little chicken, and a pineapple-coconut water.  Eventually I also scored a table.  It was a perfect meal for someone whose face was bright red from the exertion of walking on a hot day.

​Then, to the Metro-- a longer ride home via the Red Line-- and some more walking to get home, choosing the shady side of the street.

III

Sept 1-- this walk has taken me a while.  On a day that was mercifully cooler-- not only than my past two Adams Morgan walks, but than yesterday and almost every day for the past two months-- I set off again for the Metro.  It was a gray and drizzly morning.   A long ride on the Red Line later, I got off at Dupont Circle and set off up Connecticut Avenue towards Kalorama Road and today's start point at Kalorama and Columbia.  Once again, on the quiet residential streets, the only people coming and going were the staff necessary to maintain these imposing buildings.  A group of men folded a series of dropcloths; another group of men were armed with mops and pails.  This is a neighborhood where people really take pride in their front gardens, which are full of flowering shrubs, exotic trees pruned in artistic shapes, and bright blooms in stone tubs.  But the actual work, no doubt, is done by gardeners.

The walk back down Columbia Road towards Florida Ave. was familiar: I passed the Churchill Hotel again, with George McClellan and his horse, and the Soho Cafe.  I noticed one or two more small embassies I did not see before.  Mostly what grabbed my attention were the architectural details: these buildings, whatever questions of class they may raise, are beautiful.  So are the gardens.

​My formal tour of Adams Morgan ended with a walk up 18th St, which has a completely different vibe.  A long string of clubs, bars, and restaurants, many with vaguely suggestive names, advertise not sleaze but a kind of hip, sex-positive party atmosphere.  Club Heaven & Hell, Tryst, Shenanigans, Libertine.  It reminded me a little of New Orleans, with fewer trinkets and white middle-American tourists; just as this thought crossed my mind, I spotted a "New Orleans Cafe."

​That's kind of it for Adams Morgan.  A strange blend of uber-rich people with paid laborers, trendy-wealthy young people with trendy tastes, a really surprising number of panhandlers and other obviously homeless people for such a wealthy neighborhood, and one street where Starbucks-and-yoga is traded in for PARTY!!!  I get the feeling that the people who party there cannot possibly live there, but I might be wrong.

On my walk back to the Metro (Woodley Park/Zoo this time), I got to cross the Duke Ellington Memorial Bridge, which for some reason I find really beautiful.  It is not a beauty I find easy to capture in photographs.

Oh, yes, my friends, you read that title correctly.  31.3 miles.  We did it!

Even as we speak, three days after our return, Elsie the indoor cat is industriously sniffing all over my foam sleeping pad, which still smells, no doubt, of soil and the subtly different air of the Potomac riverbanks and bug repellent.  I would like the same aura to cling to me as long as possible, too.  Coming home is a shock, even after such a brief time.  My daily life seems like a thing of such infinite and overwhelming complexity compared to the simple, nomadic trudge forwards that is backpacking.  So I look with trepidation on my to-do list, assortment of creative endeavors, and complicated interpersonal relationships, and dream of the neat 3-oz. box that is my camp stove, the perfectly designed object that is my mini-lantern, and putting one foot in front of the other.

Our first day, we traveled 11.2 miles from Pennyfield Lock to the lockhouse at Edwards Ferry, which we had rented for the night.  The weather was lovely-- low 80s, dry-- and walking with our packs, though a little challenging on hips and feet and shoulders, was really not as difficult as I'd feared.  I folded some rags that I'd brought along under my shoulder straps as padding-- next time, I will buy some shoulder pads meant for seat belts.  I have a mean red bruise on one of my collarbones.  My kid got some incipient blisters right away, and treated them with a 2nd Skin blister kit that I'd had the foresight to pack.  There were some mosquitoes, not so many as to be unbearable, but enough to require application of bug dope (kid laughed hysterically whenever I used this term.  "Why do you call it bug dope?"  I dunno, I just do.  Perhaps it's regional?).

​The hardships were minor, just enough to make us feel strong and brave, and for us to be happy to put down our packs periodically, and for the instant coffee I made at lunchtime to taste wonderful.  In other words, perfect.  And we saw lots of animals.  Here is a list I made, just from this first day:

• A lizard, about 8 in. long, reddish-brown, whitish longitudinal stripes (probably broad-headed skink)​
• blue heron
• many turtles
• many cardinals
• a raptor (osprey?) holding prey
• voices of many bullfrogs
• family of ducks
• guy on bike with "Jesus is my lifeguard" shirt (kid insisted I write this on the list)
• 2 barred owls, together (we surmised mother and child)
• egret
• lots of squirrels

In the "before" picture of me, you can see that I am wearing a gray fitness tracker on my wrist, a Garmin Vivofit to be exact.  I was very excited to log what I estimated would be about 30K steps per day on this trip.  In the mid-afternoon on this first day, I checked the Vivofit and saw that I had 25K steps already.  I explained with pleasure to my kid that I was bound to break my previous daily record of 29K steps, set in November of 2014.  Can you see the instant karma coming?  An hour or so later I looked at my wrist again.  The Vivofit was gone.

Not one step of my hike "counted."  My kid explained, with perfect rationality, that this made no difference to the actual amount of exercise we were getting.  Only someone who has not worn a fitness tracker would take this position.

​However, I had to try and move on.  We were, at that point, not far from our first night's rest:

Does that look creepy?  Not from the outside?  Oh, reader, you have no idea.  I wish I had taken some inside photographs (with flash; there was not enough light in that house, even in the morning, for daylight pictures).  Everything on the first story of this 1830 house was covered with a thick layer of dust, as though no one had entered for a hundred years.  No electricity or water, of course-- I expected that-- but I didn't expect the darkness, the dust, the many spiders, and the at-least-one-rat that rustled behind my cot just before bedtime, then proceeded downstairs and ripped into Saturday's breakfast bag of oatmeal and trail mix in my pack.  My kid loved it.  The repetitive, slightly irritating call of fledgling barred owls (which we recognized from our encounters earlier in the day) accompanied our lantern-lit evening card-playing-- until some guys setting off fireworks disturbed the creepy night peace, at least.  I did not get the best sleep on this trip.

We did have our own picnic table and fire pit (at left, beyond photo frame), and we had fun while it was still light, building a fire and toasting marshmallows (something kid desperately wanted to do), then going down to the boat launch to look at the sunset over the river.

Friday was another day.  As always, I felt better in the morning.  I was happy to get up in the early light and use my little camp stove to make coffee at the picnic table, leaving the kid to sleep for another half hour or so while I got things organized.  We were on the trail again by about 9:00.  By 9:30, kid had tried various blister treatments and ultimately decided to abandon their hiking boots in favor of the sneakers they had brought along as back-up (I was wearing sneakers in the first place, with flip-flops to wear "in camp").  The sneakers were better, despite the increased risk of a twisted ankle.  I was impressed with my kid; there was no whining or talk of quitting, only matter-of-fact measures taken to solve the problem and improve comfort.

By noontime, we were in White's Ferry, the only location along our hike that could be said to have "services" (beyond firepits, portapotties, and water pumps, all of which were available every few miles).  We'd planned to have lunch at the small store/restaurant there, and enjoyed a break to sit in the air conditioning and eat a hot, non-"trail" meal.  However, my kid-- who's been a pescatarian for the past several months, but decided to suspend their pescatarianism for the duration of the hike so that they could eat jerky-- ordered a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich on a bagel, as well as what turned out to be a giant basket of cheese fries, and drank a cold bottled Starbucks mocha.  Once we got back on the road, kid was immediately hit by a wave of nausea.  They looked very green, and for a couple of hours we had to stop every so often so kid could sit or lie down, or perhaps stumble off the trail in hopes of throwing up (they found an egret that way that we would not otherwise have noticed).  Poor kid.  I was well-prepared for this trip with many first-aid and pharmaceutical supplies, but it did not occur to me to bring the anti-nausea medication, or the Tums.  

But my kid, as before, kept on going.  It really blew me away.  We took a little extra time, but ultimately kid would stand back up, dust themselves off, and walk a bit more.  Again, there was no talk of quitting, or even quitting-for-the-day, even though it was hot, and humid, and kid felt queasy.

Mid-afternoon, we took a nice long break at a campsite to make peppermint tea and rest.  As luck would have it, the only rainstorm of the whole trip blew in while we were sitting there, and we were able to cover up all our gear with raincovers, sit calmly under a surprisingly-effective sheltering tree, and wait it out, while other hikers reported having gotten soaked.  Beautiful luck.  After the rain, the world was a hot fog, bright green and steaming.  Uncomfortable for humans, but it brought out the animals, especially the turtles and frogs, many of whom migrated from the safety of the canal onto the damp grassy verge of the trail, seizing the opportunity for travel.

Some additional animals we saw on this day:

• purple martin
• some kind of salamader (probably red-spotted newt)
• more barred owls
• a fox
• 2 large snapping turtles wrestling in the water (I took video, but my cheap website plan doesn't allow me to post it here)
• bluebird
• more great blue herons
• zillions more turtles
• many frogs (jumping, difficult to catch sight of)
• deer​

So, that night we camped at the Indian Flats campsite (mile 42.5).  When we arrived, there was a man there with his two sons-- a group we'd run into repeatedly on the trail, as they were hiking a similar hike to ours-- and he strongly advised me not to set up the tent in the spot I was eyeing.  It would heat up in the sun, he said, and then hold onto the heat for hours after sundown.  His voice dripped with amused condescension, as it had when I tried to share the news about our unique snapping turtle sighting and he said, "oh, yeah, we've seen lots of turtles too."  Either he didn't know the difference between types of turtles, or he assumed I didn't.  Kid and I went over to inspect an alternate, more shaded and indeed dank camping location.  The ground there was bare, and muddy from the rain a few hours before.  I did not have a groundcloth for the tent.  The sun was even then being eclipsed by hazy clouds.  Kid and I rested on our packs, trying to politely wait until the man and boys had left before we ignored their counsel and set up the tent in the spot, formerly in the sun, where for this very reason the ground had dried out.  But they took ages filling up their water bottles at the pump, and I do mean ages, as though they were challenging us to openly defy them.  My kid, in an undertone, identified the man's unsolicited advice to me as "mansplaining," indeed not the only time this happened on the trail.  Kid was right.  So I set up the tent exactly where I wanted, with the menfolk watching from the pump.  They didn't say anything.  My kid, on the other hand, was thrilled.

As it turned out, the only thing wrong with the location of the tent was that it was not very far from the picnic table (technically OUR picnic table, since it is a single campsite, but in practice these sites are often shared); and just after dark three young dudes arrived, sat down at the picnic table, and started drinking beer and hanging out.  They had no light sources except for cigarette lighters, so they sat in the dark and continued talking loudly until 2:30 am, at which point I awoke from my intermittent doze, exited the tent, and shouted something passive-aggressive and inarticulate like "Guys!  it's 2:30 am!  Do you think you might be quiet at some point?"  They grumbled into acquiescence and flicked their cigarette lighters for what seemed like half an hour straight while they attempted to arrange themselves for bed, then were finally quiet.  When I awoke again three hours later, ready to get up and make coffee, their beer cans and sweatshirts and lighters were still strewn all over the picnic table, their bodies (encased in sleeping bags) scattered nearby in seemingly random locations, curled pathetically here and there in the grass like slugs.  They'd brought a whole case of beer, I saw, but no tent or flashlights.  Morons.

Using the picnic table for breakfast was out of the question, so I gathered up everything I needed, stepped around one dude who was lying across the path down to the river, and took myself and my stove over to an immense hollow log near the riverbank.  I had already thought, the previous evening, that it would be a perfect spot to perch with my coffee and read in the early morning.  I was conscious of one wakeful but hung-over guy's eyes on me, perhaps envious as he watched me perform my neat morning routine, lighting the tiny stove, filling the pot, finding the instant coffee and oatmeal and trail mix in my food bag, sitting with my book.  I bet he would have liked some coffee.  But I did not offer him any.  My pleasant (now that it was morning) sense of superiority to these hapless young men confirmed my momentary sense of myself as a Backpacking Goddess.  Screw you, muscular and self-assured dad who thinks a woman and a teenager can't possibly choose a tent site for themselves.  He looked at me like I was stupid, I'm not stupid--

The rest of the day proceeded with surprising ease.  We had only left 8.4 miles to go on the final day, knowing we'd need to meet my husband at 5:00 for a ride home.  We were there by 3:00.  Lunch was eaten at Calico Rocks campsite, only 3.3 miles from our endpoint.  We took our time.  Also, after being not-so-hungry the first couple of days, I was by now starving, wanting and seemingly able to methodically consume everything in our pack.  This must have been the beginning of the distance-hiker hunger that is so legendary.

My kid continued to hike with a good will, even though their feet were full of blisters and they had cut their instep the previous evening on a tent stake in the dark, prompting short-term panic and distress.  In the daylight, it didn't matter: they said they had more energy, in fact, than they had on the previous days.  They are a Backpacking God/dess too.  

We saw fewer animals on the last day, perhaps because the weather was drier, or maybe because we were focused on the endgame and not paying as close attention.  We did see a long, slim, mostly-black snake on the path-- though we almost overlooked it in its perfect stillness-- I am not certain of the type, but am guessing it was a ribbon snake.  We also saw a pileated woodpecker, only the second time we have actually seen one along the C&O, though we have often heard their booming hammer.

The best part of the last day?  Kid said they'd like to do this again.

Some last day pics:​

​When we got to Lander's Lock, we felt like we could have hiked much farther; but once we'd flung our packs into the grass and settled down to snack (relentlessly) and read for the next two hours until my husband arrived, we didn't even want to get up and walk  down the boat ramp as far as the outhouse.

Fortunately for us clueless (biological) females, we were not allowed to simply enjoy the successful conclusion of our chosen hike in peace, but were in fact approached by an aggressively fit, spandex-wearing man on an expensive bicycle and enlightened by a short treatise on all the other area hikes which we should surely try and which were implicitly preferable to the one we were actually on.  He had, of course, done these hikes himself, including the 40-something-mile stretch of the Appalachian Trail that passes through Maryland and which, he said, he had "day-hiked."  I hope he meant that he hiked it in day-long sections; but, even if he meant that he hiked the whole thing in one day, I basically do not care.  UNSOLICITED.  Do you understand, mansplainers?  Were we talking to you?  Do you know anything about us?  What gives you such confidence that the women of the world, even perfect strangers, are awaiting your precious information and insights?  I'LL PUT MY TENT WHERE I FUCKING WELL WANT TO, AND I'LL HIKE WHERE I WANT TO, AND IT'S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS.  WE ARE FINE.

Also, I don't want to hike the Maryland section of the Appalachian Trail.  I want to hike the whole thing.

Here is a link to the National Park Service map of the C&O Canal trail.

Nearly three weeks have passed since my last post full of angst and worry, and my kid and I are close to prepared for our backpacking trip.

Which is to say, we have our gear (see gear list below); we have practiced putting up our tent and lighting our miniscule stove; I have made a list of food to bring, though I haven't bought it yet; and we have packed a good bit of our gear into our new packs (not the food, but most of the rest) and hiked a couple of miles with them, just to see how it felt.

It felt good.

Without the food and last-minute items, the packs weigh only about 15 lbs.  I am estimating they will end up being about 25 lbs, give or take.  That is an ideal weight; conventional backpacking wisdom says we could carry up to 40, but I really wanted to keep it under 30 lbs.  I am mainly concerned about volume now.  Are the packs I bought (35 L) too small to fit everything?  We will see.

I learned, from my two-miles-hike, that I need to be careful to wear a shirt with sleeves that come well down my arms, so the backpack straps do not chafe my shoulders and armpits.  Similarly, my socks need to come up past the tops of my new, unbroken-in sneakers.  Basic lessons, but important.  More important was the lesson in which we both realized that hiking with our backpacks was not so terribly hard.  The scene from Cheryl Strayed's Wild in which she, an inexperienced backpacker, packs all of her REI purchases into her new pack (or hangs them off the outside of her pack, because she has bought too much to fit)... right there in her motel room, on the very morning when she plans to leave on her thru-hike of the Pacific Crest Trail... and then goes to pick up the pack and finds she literally cannot lift it... this is the story which is stuck in my head forever.  I expect to be unable to carry my pack, to be stunned by its weight.  But no, having taken Strayed's book to heart, I have considered weight with every single one of my packing decisions, quite ruthlessly.  And the pack is beautifully manageable.

***
Between writing the above, and what is below, I finished the food shopping and we packed our packs.

Here's what, between us, we will be carrying: 

• about 4 liters of water, divided into 5 bottles
•  trail food: instant coffee, tea bags, instant cocoa packets, nuts, dried fruit, and trail mix, baby carrots (for the first 24 hours), 2 Cup-O'-Noodles, jerky, graham crackers, chocolate spread, and marshmallows, Ritz crackers, wasabi peas, Snapeas, and some chocolate snacks.
• a camp stove that is basically a metal box the size of a deck of cards, and fuel tablets for it.
• 2 tin cups
• 2 garbage bags to keep our clothing, etc. dry
• 1 extra pair shoes, 2 extra tshirts, extra socks and underwear, extra shorts, a sweater-- for each of us.
• rain jackets
• sheets and sleeping pads
• 2-person backpacking tent
• books and a deck of cards
• maps and notes
• sunscreen and bug spray, hats
• flashlight for each and extra batteries, plus a battery-operated mini-lantern that looks like a fat candle
• first aid supplies, tiny scissors, blister kit, prescription medication, allergy pills and ibuprofen
• pocketknife
• camera and notebook, 2 pens
• hand sanitizer, little bottle of camp soap, toothbrushes and toothpaste, hairbrush
• $60
• 2 hand towels
• lip balm, bank card, mints, phone (the essentials from my purse)
• tampons and pantiliners (unfortunate timing there)

That sounds like a lot, right?  But we fit everything in, just barely.  And the packs weigh precisely 25 lbs-- well, my kid's is 25.2.  Here they are, standing at the ready.

Tomorrow we go.

This is a post about fantasy becoming reality.  I have long been an avid consumer of the backpacking memoir-- Cheryl Strayed's Wild being the probably unsurpassable pinnacle of achievement in this genre*-- and, for close to twenty years, I have dreamed of doing a long-distance hike myself.  (I had a boyfriend once who promised to hike the Appalachian Trail with me.  He also promised to marry me; I think we broke up about three weeks later.  Somewhere in our couple of months of crazy romance, though, we did manage to take a 39-mile hike together over two days, in 95-degree heat, sleeping on top of a sheltered picnic table in a public park in a wild rainstorm.  The fact that this remains a happy memory, even though the young man in question is a very unhappy memory, should tell you something about my love affair with the idea of distance hikes.)

Anyhow.  While I dream of distance hikes, the reality remains very different.  The longest hikes I take, of late, are a) back and forth across the floor of a very small restaurant-- which can add up to four or five miles during the course of a shift-- or b) a few miles down the perfectly flat C&O Canal towpath, and back to the car.  Even the latter have been occurring only a  few times a year, at best, due to schedule limitations and the limits of my teenager's interest.  Several things are true that I don't want to be true.  I am out of shape.  I am getting older.  I am afraid to hike by myself (not afraid of injury or misfortune or of animals, but of men).  On the other hand, I rarely have anyone to hike with, and I am constitutionally much more suited for doing things on my own-- I hate having to talk all the time, and I like being able to make my own decisions.  I'm not the hiking club type.  So, except in my dreams, very little hiking, let alone backpacking, actually takes place.
    
That is about to change, just a little bit.  And I am suddenly scared out of my wits.

So, sometime when we were still living in fantasy-land, my kid and I agreed that it would be fun to do a multiday hike along the C&O Canal towpath.  We have a fantasy of someday walking the entire trail (184.5 miles), and so far we have accomplished... 20 miles.  In about 2 years.  Of course, we've actually walked twice that, because each time we've parked our car, walked a few miles, and then retraced our steps.  Still.  Progress is slow.  So... wouldn't it be fun if we could get a good chunk done all at once, and NOT have to retrace our steps?  My kid enjoys camping, and we have never camped together (WHAT?? this just illustrates how distorted my self-image is).  So I suggested a backpacking trip.  To my surprise, kid embraced the idea.

So excited!!  I lived with this vague fantasy excitement for months.  And then, it hit me that this venture is actually supposed to happen in just a few weeks.  And I realized that I have absolutely no idea what the fuck I am doing.  Somehow I imagined kid and I walking along in the usual way with our daypacks full of small lunches and water bottles, maybe a book or two for rest stops, but with the luxury of days ahead of us and one night reserved in a real lockhouse!  Um, the lockhouse part is real.  Other than that: I think we might need a few more supplies.  Like enough food for three days and more water (although thankfully there is some water availability along the trail).  Like a tent and sleeping pads and light sources and raingear and ways to deal with inevitable blisters.  Pocketknives and sunscreen.  All the stuff you need to have with you when you are fucking camping.  And, surely, we will need proper packs to carry all this stuff in, which we do not have: either the backpacks, or quite a few of the other items.  And also.  Kid and I are not in great shape, we have not practiced carrying loaded packs, and I have perhaps hugely overestimated how far we can walk given the heavier load.  10 miles a day, give or take, doesn't sound like much under normal circumstances-- but the thing is, every time I have tried to go this far with kid, there has been much complaining, about feet and back and hips and knees.  This is without loaded packs.  Do I really expect the greater romance of a backpacking trip to entirely overcome kid's achy feet and intolerance for pain?  And why am I blaming kid?-- I am the blister queen.  In fact, I have one right now, just from wearing a particular pair of sandals on a walk of about a mile and a half.

What if we only last for 3 miles and then need to call someone to pick us up, and our cell phones don't work out there?  My cell phone doesn't work fucking anywhere.

This could be really, really bad.
​
So, the up side here, for those of you unfamiliar with the towpath, is that we will be quite close to civilization.  The trail, for the most part, runs between the Potomac River and various access roads.  We will probably not die out there of dehydration, and there aren't any cliffs to fall off of.  (Well, there are, but they are not on the trail and we will be careful not to fall off them.)  If we can't cut it, we will probably be able to figure out how to bail.

But I don't want to bail.  And I don't want my kid to bail.  I want to do this.  I want to push through hardship-- and, yes, I know I have set us up for hardship-- and succeed, and meet whatever we encounter, which hopefully will not include men bent on violence, but I digress.  Another reason to bring a pocketknife, though. 

This afternoon I am going to REI to check out their backpack rentals, and maybe take advantage of their equipment expertise in general.  I say "take advantage" because I know I do not want to pay REI prices for most things, and feel vaguely guilty about browsing without much intent to buy.  But maybe I can get a better sense of what I need and want, how much it weighs(!), and whether it makes more sense to rent or to purchase outright.  I'm doing this preliminary scouting without kid, so that I can't be talked into any impulse purchases.

Really, though, the rentals and purchases should probably be made by next week.  That gives us two weeks to do things like practice putting up our tent, and try walking around with the loaded packs, and think of all the small items we need that we almost forgot to bring.  June 30 is the day of reckoning.  In my heart, I know that I am going to love this.
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*But, also, Bill Bryson!  Jennifer Pharr Davis.  Leslie Mass, who somehow managed to irritate and bore me (along with, it seemed, many of her hiking companions), and yet stick in my memory like no one else.

Just for a little bit of good cheer, especially in parts of the world that have not yet rounded the corner into spring, I bring you my neighborhood, right now.  A week ago hardly any flowers were blooming, including on the trees.