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On an extremely gray afternoon in October, I decided to begin the Boulder Bridge Hike (3.5 miles, pink blazes), which begins in the same way as the Rapids Bridge Hike (see Moseys through Rock Creek Park: Vol. 1).  I thought I'd walk down the hill from the horse barn, along the by-now-familiar creek, across Rapids Bridge, cross Beach Dr. and walk a little further... then turn and retrace my steps to the car, all while meeting the usual occasional dog walkers and joggers.  I felt I was getting over my nervousness at walking in Rock Creek Park alone.

This is not what happened.

What happened is that I was (almost) utterly alone.  The horse barn seemed deserted, no students nor horses either.  Instead there were about a million birds and squirrels gathering delights from the paddock.  That was nice.  There were some wildflowers too.  I took some pictures and headed onto the forest path.  

People I ran into on the trails today: 0.

However, only a couple of minutes in, there was a guy off to the left in the woods, a little ways away.  We gazed at each other like two startled deer, made eye contact.  He was moving, utterly silently, like the kid at the beginning of The Trumpet of the Swan, not a stick cracking or leaf rustling.  Not away from me nor towards, but on an angle that would put him some yards behind me on the trail, silently, silently.  This was unsettling.  There was nowhere to go but onwards or backwards, and backwards seemed both more humiliating and more dangerous.  So I went onwards, looking back over my shoulder every few seconds, to see if he was following, was still on his odd cross-country trajectory, or had in fact joined the trail and was traveling away in the opposite direction.  I couldn't tell.  I didn't see him.  It was ten minutes or so before the trail I was on joined with Beach Drive for a moment, and I could feel safe.  What to do?  I couldn't go back the way I'd come.  Bail on the walk and go around to my car by the highway?  I wasn't even sure there was a sidewalk.  Do the whole 3.5-mile circle?  Maybe take a shortcut down Beach Drive and then rejoin the trail at a later point, after Rapids Bridge, just do the new stuff?  I decided to do that.  But the relevant section of Beach Drive was closed to all traffic, auto and pedestrian.  Stymied.  Never mind, I guessed I'd continue on the trail by the river, man-in-the-woods or no man-in-the-woods.  If he'd gone cross-country, he could easily intercept me... but why would he?  

​It occurred to me at that point that, if I got murdered in Rock Creek Park, it would be one less thing to worry about.  A lot less things, actually.  I'd never have to do anything for the PTA ever again, or mediate complicated family problems, or clean my closet, or advocate for responsible climate policy.  This made me laugh and, strangely, relax a bit.  If I get murdered in Rock Creek Park, oh well, it'll be a hell of a lot easier. 

I got to Rapids Bridge, still seeing no one, and the other end of the bridge was blocked off.  No crossing Beach Drive.  Beach Drive entirely closed in every way.  

​Can't go back, might as well go on.  I continued on the same side of the river, noting the silver water, the eddies, but mostly alert to who might be standing on the ridge above me.  Nobody.  Eventually, up the hill onto the ridge itself, where I noticed I felt instantly safer.  What a primitive, unconscious effect that I'd never noticed before.  This must be for the same reasons many ancient peoples built their paths on cliffsides: harder to attack.  Still no one around at all.

The trail now intersected and crossed Glover Road, turning back towards the horse paddocks.  I debated.  Stay on the trail and do the whole thing?  Or just walk back on Glover Road, and come back and walk the last bit later on?  I decided I had earned Glover Road.  After a couple of minutes, though, it dawned on me that the isolation wasn't any less.  No cars.  No pedestrians.  Just squirrels.  Where was everyone?  This is a major city.  Finally one young dude zipped in on a bicycle, paused (like last time) to ask me for directions to someplace I was unfamiliar with.  I was terse, I had no idea, moved on.  As I got close to my destination, orange barriers made it clear why this road was also so deserted: closed to traffic.

​A gray day, silent, lonely, but if I wanted to be alone with my thoughts, I was in the wrong place.  My thoughts were focused almost entirely on monitoring my surroundings.

II

Forewarned this time about potential road closures, I checked Rock Creek Park's website to see whether I might be able to finish the last bit of the Boulder Bridge hike.  Beach Drive is still closed, but it didn't say anything about Glover Road, so I went, on a bright, gusty November day.  I walked down the road a little ways from the horse paddocks and promptly saw this: 

The signage was confusing: "Danger, danger, keep out!  And also, bike and pedestrian detour this way."  I decided to err on the side of safety.  Turned around and just made a small circle by road.  And that was it.  

The light was beautiful today.

I

It has been approximately 11 months since my last DC Heritage Trail walk.  I see you, date on that last post.  11/4/2016.  Those were happier, more oblivious times.

Being out of practice, I forgot my camera.  Never mind.  I'll return to this trail next time and take a few photos.  For now, some impressions and the joy of seeing one's own city with fresh eyes.

I walked from my home to the bus stop on the corner of 4th and Butternut, where someone had hospitably set out a couple of cheap chairs.  Another man came and waited in one of them, so I sat down too and we chatted about the weather until his bus arrived.  When mine came a few minutes later, it was cool, shiny new inside, and 100% empty.  Quite different from the bus route I used to take regularly to work a few years ago.  The driver was nice.  The other riders, once some joined me, were also nice.  Thanks, DC bus system.  A lighted board alerted me when it was time to pull the bell for 14th and Jefferson.

My main impressions of the Brightwood neighborhood were of its quietness.  There were few cars on the streets; few pedestrians, either, but those that there were appeared relaxed and friendly.  The houses seemed down-to-earth: some of them were large, but they were decidedly un-trendy, and neither particularly wealthy nor badly run-down in appearance.  Steady-Freddy, clipped lawns, a little piece of small-town America at the edge of this usually busy city.  It was not, in any sense of the word, bustling.

I read a few of the historical signs, which mainly referenced racial segregation and integration over time: a pretty little school built for African-American children when few such schools existed (now the Latin American Montessori Bilingual Public Charter School).  A neighborhood built for working-class whites, most of whom white-fled when black homeowners began to join them in the 1950s.  A building constructed as a synagogue which has now been a Baptist church under the same leadership for 40 years.

​A good solid neighborhood.

​Back on Georgia Avenue, I passed one of my favorite Art Deco buildings, the Silver Spring Shopping Center (built 1938), which has carefully maintained its style while housing an assortment of small businesses.

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​And then, here I was again at Fort Stevens.  How truly odd to find these remnants of battle in the midst of a diverse urban neighborhood where construction and decay are coexisting side-by-side, not far from the crumbling laundromat and the new, shiny Walmart.  While near Fort Stevens, I read the story of Betty Thomas, whose land was seized by Union troops to construct the fort.

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Was this supposed to be an inspiring or heartwarming story?  In sum: a prosperous black woman has her property appropriated and destroyed by the U.S. government.  As she mourns, lo, the Angel Lincoln appears to her and assures her that her virtuous sacrifice will be rewarded.  Fast forward to the future... nothing happens. "Aunt Betty" (and is this really respectful? depends) got very little for her trouble.

Isn't that always the way.

I will leave you with a photo of what has been my favorite unfortunately-named local business for years: