The best lengths of trails in our National Parks are perhaps those which are least appreciated - though even knowing that you and I may well pass them over in preference to more glamorous pathways. I speak of those trails that lead not to the best views, the big falls, stunning canyons, glaciers, or alpine lakes. I write of the quiet forest paths, overgrown and wonderfully neglected for their obsolescence. Every park has them, and they are a treat for anyone who has had their fill of the famous sights and who now merely seeks solitude and respite from the crowds.
Some may ramble through quiet valleys, through brush and deep thickets, the warbling of a spring, or the echoing roar of a tumultuous river filtering through the primordial wood. The path leads nowhere, or to somewhere better and more easily reached by other routes.
Some fight their way skyward, crawling over boulders and up tangled ladders of living roots jutting from steep embankments. Without respite they climb, waterless in a forest of thick pines or firs draped in golden moss. Their end comes at long gone lookouts, now swallowed by vegetation, or at lakes small and mean.
Some do this in reverse - dropping precipitously into valleys on the way to unremembered destinations - to lose themselves in devils club next to murky ponds. Your wobbly legs will burn on the return trip - back to that distant trailhead now so high and far behind you.
For all their horrors, these decrepit pathways have value beyond their superficial aspect. They lead one to that treasure that grows still rarer with every passing year - real wilderness, real solitude, the meager rewards of your efforts infused with the heady taste of rediscovery. They are a fine wine to the weary frequent pilgrim of the parks - the connoisseur of forgotten places from another time.
________________________________________________________________________
Written for the #NatureWritingChallenge
