Proof that the three of us are on the Midstate Trail.
Good company makes the way seem shorter.
— Izaak Walton
When Waldo and I go for long walks in the hinterland, some planning is required. First, I look for places I can leave my car (where there is little chance of it getting towed), that’s within the distance I think I might be able to go (sometimes requiring a healthy dose of hubris). That’s not always so easy, because there aren’t always parking lots close to the limit of my endurance. When that happens, I look for places where the trail crosses a road, with the idea of finding a wide spot where I can pull off the tarmac. Sometimes, you just gotta be there to know for sure and sometimes, there’s no guarantee about the towing thing.
Then I look at the weather, looking for a day that is neither too wet, nor too hot. I don’t mind slogging through a bit of mud, but I don’t really like turning Waldo into Swamp-dog. I am not kidding when I tell you he is self-cleaning – an hour or so after he’s black from his toes to his knees and elbows, all of the mud and grime falls off and he has sparkling white feet. But the odor lingers for a bit and I don’t relish bringing that into the car and home. So I try to wait a day or so after the last hard rain before venturing out. It rained only lightly yesterday, the temperature is forecast to be in the high 50s at its peak today, so we’re good to go.
Phyllis has agreed to join us, so we can do a one-way hike, leaving cars at both ends. I figure I can realistically expect to be able to do around 6 miles, with some up and down. I go to the AllTrails app and find we can start at the Mt. Watatic parking lot, where we left off on our last hike, and walk around 6 miles, with something like 600 feet of elevation gain, and end at Rte 12 at Blackburn Village. The app isn’t that accurate, but it should put us in the right ball park and it’s doable.
I leave my car on the side of Rte 12, with some trepidation, and take Phyllis’ car to Watatic. We start out, as eager as a border collie, and are soon winding our way on a dirt path through the weeds, roots, rocks and trees. The ground, at first, is just barely noticeably damp, but not muddy. The temperature is in the low 50s and the sky cover is broken. That means we are oscillating between being grateful for our light jackets, when the sun is behind a cloud, to being definitely over-dressed, as it comes out and shines down on us. Soon, we’re going uphill, although not nearly as steep as when Waldo and I trekked over and around Mt Watatic, and we’re working up a sweat. The jackets come off and go into our packs and we deal with the cooler air in the shade and under clouds.
We’re surrounded by hemlock and spruce. The latter is not so easy to identify because their needle-bearing branches are all up high, beyond where we can see them well. But I know they’re there, because I’m walking over more than a few of their distinctive cones. The leaves on the deciduous trees are still on the small side, but I can recognize the bark of birch, maple and oak. There are very few birds out serenading us as we go – it’s around midday and their choruses are much more plentiful in the early morning and late evening.
“I heard something interesting on a news feed on my way here this morning,” I tell Phyllis. “Apparently, there is a recent study that shows that being involved with the arts increases longevity as much as exercise.”
“I don’t believe it!” she says. “To quote my friend Byron, show me the data!”
“It’s out there, all you have to do is look it up.”
“For it to be credible, a metastudy needs to be done.”
“That’s absolutely not true!” I reply. “Metastudies are only required when you can’t reach statistical significance from the data you have.”
“Well, you have your opinion and I have mine.”
“No. You have an opinion. I have an informed opinion.” We are good friends, but we don’t see eye-to-eye on everything. When we don’t, we do enjoy some playful banter – as we negotiate our aged feet over root and rock, at a white-haired pace, being careful not to stumble.
Waldo just keeps plodding along, restrained only by being at the end of his leash, ignoring the chattering noise behind him. There aren’t a lot of side trails where he can make a wrong turn and he does a fine job of leading the way.
I know it’s what I always say, Phillis, but, really, it’s only another mile or 2 more.
To be continued…