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An Endorsement

An Endorsement

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A few weeks ago, in a rush of gratitude, I emailed a stranger whose maps I had recently accessed online. It’s thanks to his map that I’ve been exploring the paths in a woods not far from here, the one where I finally found the Northwest Passage. 

I wasn’t expecting to hear anything back from the man, but I did want him to know how much I’ve been appreciating his maps and commentary, what a difference they’ve made for me.

Late yesterday, I heard from him. He’s 88 years old and doesn’t check his email as often as he used to, he said. But he credits all the walking he’s done with being alive now.

Quite an endorsement for walking in the suburbs. Or for walking anywhere. 

Welcome Wreath

Welcome Wreath

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I began to spot them in the forest a few days ago, although from the looks of it they’d been there for a while. The wreaths seem homemade, maybe fashioned from local boughs. 

This one is special though, decorated as it is with an eagle feather. 

Welcome back, the wreath says. Welcome back to the eagles, more common in these parts than they used to be.

Welcome back to the foxes, who prowl and hunt and make their home.

Welcome back to the walkers, including this one. 

A Mind of Its Own

A Mind of Its Own

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It’s been a while since I studied a topographical map. I’ve had to refamiliarize myself with those little squiggly lines. The closer they are together, I remember, the greater the elevation. 

Sometimes there’s a little number there to help. In the case of my terrain it’s a little number in more ways than one, something in the 300 range, as in 367 feet above sea level. 

But even 367 can be felt in the legs on the way up — and on the way down. It’s a good reminder that the land has a texture and a contour. That it has a mind of its own. 

Suburban Passage

Suburban Passage

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Once again, I’m on a mission, this time to find a passage through the Crabtree Park woods to a street called Foxclove. From there it’s a short walk to a Reston trail. 

Having struck out on finding it from my end, yesterday I drove to Foxclove and tried it from the other direction. I reached at least one point I recognized from earlier hikes, enough so that I think I can find my way back there another time. 

Once I have this figured out I’ll be able to walk from my house to the trail system I usually must drive to reach. It’s not exactly the Northwest Passage, but it’s something. 

From Ordinary to Extraordinary

From Ordinary to Extraordinary

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To the untrained eye this is nothing but an ordinary parking lot. But to me — and the other people who parked their cars here — it’s a suburban trailhead. 

Yesterday I took two short walks, both of which began in parking lots. In each case, I had to find the paths, which took online research (which happened years ago) and on-foot exploration. Then I traipsed the paths themselves, an ongoing process of discovery. 

Who would guess that less than a quarter-mile from the lot above there are fox dens and creek bends and greening briars glittering with raindrops? 

The photo above was snapped quickly with no attention to angle or light. But I’m glad it looks as ordinary as it does. It’s proof that around here, the ordinary can lead to extraordinary. 

No Map, No Phone

No Map, No Phone

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The trail was unfolding as it had the last few times I hiked it. I thought I knew where I was going … until I didn’t. 

Yesterday I took off for a stroll in the woods without a phone or a map. This was not a well-marked Reston trail, where I usually know where I am. This was one of the district parks with sporadic signage and paths that meander all over the place.

When I saw the outlines of a rooftop in the distance, I took the turns I thought would bring me out on a street where I could get my bearings. But even doing that took more twists and turns than I would have liked. I was, in short, beginning to feel a bit anxious about being in the woods alone at 4 p.m., the sun lowering in the sky, not knowing exactly where I was and without the tools to find out. 

This is not a cliff-hanger. I kept walking and eventually made my way home. And in the end … I relished that my heart skipped a few beats along the way. 

(Signage for a walk near Asheville, the kind I wished I’d had yesterday.)

Connector Trail

Connector Trail

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The trail beckoned, a trail beside the trail, a connector. It meandered from the Washington and Old Dominion (the W&OD), a rails-to-trails strip of asphalt that runs from the D.C. border to the foothills of the Blue Ridge, to a garden park. 

Connector trails are surprises. Often makeshift and cobbled together with stray pieces. Frankintrails, you might call them.

This one had a bridge, a warning to avoid trespassing on the surrounding land (on which was built one of the more impressive mansions I’ve seen in this region) and a bucolic stretch where the scenery had the scale and immediacy of a New England lane.

Beyond that, there was a street winding through a neighborhood, then a shaded trail threading its way among fir trees to the park itself. That part was hilly enough that I can feel it today in the backs of my legs.

Still, the connector walk was a beauty of a discovery. I’d take it again today, if I could. 

Hybrid Walk

Hybrid Walk

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It begins in the neighborhood common land, field and forest, and continues in the stream valley park that meanders through these parts. I cross a couple of bridges there that have seen better days, and once I’m over them, I make my way to another neighborhood street.

This one is hillier than ours. It reminds me of the great sledding hills of my youth, including one I heard about but never experienced, Banana Hollow. The slope begins on one side of the street and continues on to the other. You have to imagine the hill without the houses and lawns, see it the way it once was, part of the roll and sweep of western Fairfax County hunt country.

After 20 minutes on pavement, I’m ready to be in the woods again, and follow a well-marked trail most of the way home. 

The hybrid walk: it’s good for what ails you. 

Snow Sparkles

Snow Sparkles

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Puxatawney Phil has seen his shadow, predicting six more weeks of winter. Though the two-inch daffodil shoots and the flowering hellebores may disagree with that assessment, the low temps and blustery winds make it easy to believe. 

As I look out my office window this gray morning I see pockets of snow still left from yesterday’s dusting, including a thick rind of the frozen stuff curled around the trampoline. It drew my eye before the sun came up, its whiteness gleaming in the dusk.

I’m glad I took an early walk yesterday, while snow still clung to every branch and  twig. As I strolled, the wind blew clumps of flakes off the boughs. The clumps exploded in a fine dust that sparkled in the air. 

(Yesterday, before the melting.)

Woodland Guideposts

Woodland Guideposts

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When walking in the woods, my eyes grow accustomed to the lack of signage and focus on subtler clues: boards along a muddy path, a dry gully, the curved white trunk of a sycamore.

Failure to notice these guideposts has consequences, like the boxy bridge I missed on Friday which meant I sidled right into someone’s backyard, complete with kiddie gym.

A woods walk sharpens the powers of observation. It keeps me on task, and for that reason, the thoughts that come seem more my own.