Gorge-ing Out

Warning: This article takes a turn into some blue territory. Nothing racy, but since I know some of my aunts read this blog on occasion here is your heads up. On a scale, I would say this post is rated Aunt Carri. Definitely not Aunt Rose. Aunts Rita, Alice, and Helen: I'll let you judge where you fall on that scale.

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I’m not an “I love nature” kind of girl. I’m more of an “I love nature in theory and want people to think I love nature in practice even though I avoid it at all times” kind of girl. Things like camping and hiking always seem charming in the abstract. Babbling rivers bubbling by. Leaves rustling and fluttering to the ground. Birds perching on my shoulder to chirp harmonies to the tune I’m humming, then fluttering away. I blame Disney and the Lord of the Rings movie trilogy for my unrealistic expectations of nature. In reality, that river will fester with mosquitos and flood footpaths. Leaves will fly up in your face and give you a heart attack. And those birds? Robin and bluebird will sooner drop a deuce than a tune on that shoulder of yours.

That being said, sometimes the urge to appear rustic and easy-going overtakes me and I find myself  heading out for a hike. Hikes are manageable, much more so than camping, which I’ve never actually done. (I have stayed in a heated, amenity-filled cabin. I do not claim that as “camping.” I have some sense of pride.) If I plan my hikes right, I make it back to my car about fifteen minutes after I start itching for central air and carpet. 

There are a few flat, basic footpaths around my town I walk on occasion. But when I really want to wallow in my appearing-to-be-one-with-nature, I head to a nature preserve about an hour outside town called Clifton Gorge. For my birthday this summer, I decide to take the day off work and visit ol’ CG. It had been months since had last headed out to see it. The last few weeks have been stressful and I always struggle a bit with my birthdays. I am in desperate need of fresh air and a perspective recalibration.

For those of you with dwellings surrounded by natural wonders, you may not find this particular nature preserve all that awe-inspiring. For those of us with lives forever tinted with a suburban beige, in a state as flat as a pancake? CG is freaking gorgeous. Not like, oh-how-charming-there-are-some-trees-out-here-between-interstates beautiful. Like, good-lord-not-ANOTHER-waterfall beautiful. Like, it’s-incredibly-isolated-and-yet-if-I-was-murdered-in-these-woods-I-think-I’d-be-okay-with-it beautiful. I mean, check this out:

Am I right?

CG also isn't like the run-of-the-mill hiking trails found around my town. Those trails are normally beaten dirt paths through sparsely wooded spaces and flat, limp meadows. The trails at CG are different. CG in the summer emanates that brilliant, vibrant shade of green you only see on the celluloid. It’s like the entire preserve comes with an Instagram filter. Some paths narrow and gnarl close to the river, passing by fallen logs that tempt you to tiptoe closer to the rushing water’s edge. Other paths rise upwards, stretching wide and welcoming you with space to walk, to feel the air move and the moments pass. Leaves canopy the ceiling so tightly that  sunlight beams have to fight to pierce the shield.  Waterfalls polish massive, mossy rock cliffs. ranches and stems lean in and keep the trail cozy. It’s like nature is hugging you. (I know, that sounds obnoxious, but there isn’t a non-corny way to describe it.)

As I park my car and head down the short walk to the start of the trails, I’m both excited and soothed by the day ahead. I never quite remember what direction each trail wanders or where certain viewpoints crop up. I only remember the peaceful sense of centeredness that settles in along the trails. Choosing the more rigorous route, I walk down the steep staircase into the floor of the gorge and begin winding my way along the path beside the river. The rush of water provides a steady soundtrack, blocking out most of my thoughts. At first, my mind fights it, trying to race. After a few minutes I slip into a rhythm of steps and focus almost entirely on placing my feet and moving forward.

GC is the perfect place for comforting solitude. No need to force cheerfulness. The gnats flying in my face don’t care if my hair falls flat or if I have armpit stains. They aren’t armed with papers to sign or phone calls to return. They can be swatted away. Everything about CG is refreshingly offline.

And that’s not all. Not only does it feel like CG is the best version of nature, I feel like the best version of myself IN nature while I’m there. When I’m hiking — oftentimes stumbling — along the trails, I feel outdoorsy. Half a mile in, I think, you know, I might try out eating vegan for awhile. The night before, I ate three chicken quesadillas with Taco Bell sauce packets for dinner. And I microwaved them. This, my friends, is the transformational power of CG. After the fourth waterfall, you think about giving up cheese.

I also suddenly think I look great. The summer humidity makes me sweat like a middle-aged man who eats too many Cinnabons and never takes the stairs. But I am not clammy. I am dewy.  Like an ethereal wood sprite in a Cover Girl marketing campaign. Maybe it’s the lack of reflective surfaces.

I should point out it’s only when I’m actually at CG that I feel this at ease with. I lose it as soon as I hit the highway on-ramp. Apparently my zen is location specific.

A mile into the hike I try to convince myself not to experience the view around me in pixilated form. After pondering which Instagram filter best brings out the whitecaps of the rapids, I notice a crane flap out of shot. I had been staring at the bird for a full minute and never noticed it through my camera display. After that, I vow to put my camera away. Just be in the moment. Don’t give in to some urge to artificially capture everything. Enjoy the sights. Move on.

I also get hypocritical. Five minutes after I miss spotting the crane I walk past a woman using her flip phone to take a picture of a rock. Humph, that lady is totally missing the point of this. Jesus, try being present for once. City folk…

Okay, so maybe CG doesn’t bring out the actual best version of myself. In fact, CG may just be my on-again, off-again boyfriend. When I’m here, I pretend to be “nature girl.” Who I really am is a knitting homebody who gets nervous walking into bars and prefers an evening of DVR’ed Sex and the City episodes while eating microwaved quesadillas with Taco Bell sauce.

Then again, on this particular trip, CG reveals that it is not what it seems to be at first hike. Sure, when everything is shiny and new all you see are the grand vistas, the endless trails, the wooden footpaths wandering through undisturbed flora.

Then one day, on a hike, you look down.

And you see a penis.

Okay, not an actual penis. A crude sketch of a cartooned penis, etched into the mud of the trail.

But still, a penis.

I try to shake it off, get back to my zen status of transcendentalism and hippie freedom. But once you see a penis on the ground, you can’t help but look down and try to spot more.

And oh, there is more to see.

This particular part of the trail is flat and easy-going, with mud recently baked firm. Some hikers must have spotted the forest floor when it was more malleable and said hey, free canvas. Let’s make our mark.

Some of the drawings and messages are just doodles or spirals, some are smudged by footsteps. But the ones I can decipher start giving away the artists’ demographic. Take for example, the next message:

CALL FOR A GOOD TIME.

Classy. Clearly we’re dealing with snot-nosed, adolescent street youths here.

I spot another etching. This one actually gives me some advice:

TURN BACK.

Hmm. Those previous thoughts about being totally cool with being murdered in these particular woods come back to me in an entirely different light.

A few strides later I eye the next message:

I heart boobs smiley face.

At this point I throw my no-picture rule right out the window. Forget Zen. This is no longer an exercise in being present. This is a documentary. Exhibit A:

I hit a stretch of repeating patterns: tawdry comments that certain youngsters find scandalous interspersed with warnings of “beware … don’t look up … turn around or else…” Then the forest comment thread shifts in tone. The lovebirds must have wrestled the stick away from the perverts and alarmists because now valentines sprinkle the trail. Name plus name equals 4EVA. Hearts encircling initials. If only those kids knew that the odds of longevity were better for the mud imprints than their relationships.

Then I spot this gem:

I heart no one.

BOOM. Found my high school self, fifteen years later. Maybe CG is some type of time warp that introduces you to the mental state of your past.

Five strides later:

Dylan sucks.

Hmmm. Maybe the aforementioned “I” does in fact “heart” someone. Someone named Dylan. And really, ladies, if we are being honest with ourselves, who wouldn’t have fallen for a guy named Dylan in high school? I bet this kid has hair drapes like Rider Strong and Leonardo DiCaprio circa 1996.

Next, out of nowhere, tons of circles with five-point stars pop up everywhere. Apparently the Wiccan member of the group cast a spell to get the stick and went hog-wild scratching pentagrams everywhere.

And then, finally, this gem:

Now we aren’t even writing sentences. What is this, Dirty Pictionary?

And, please, put a little effort into it. What is that thing? Yet another one-eyed willie? A pacifier? A pile of poop? Is Joe supposed to have transformed into whatever that thing is? Or is he supposed to go get it? Or put it down?  WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY, DYLAN? USE YOUR WORDS.

You know, I came to CG to get away from the humdrum. To spend time in a calm, peaceful, isolated spot. To reach some romantic notion of a higher plane of consciousness. And here I am, two miles into a hike, being sucked into a Facebook comment thread right here on the forest floor. Maybe that’s what CG actually does. It just brings you back to your most basic self. People who love nature? They probably spot some type of rare fungus popping out of the prairie grass. Me? I’m going to spy the high school burn book etched into the mud. No amount of granola in my knapsack can mask that. At this point the messages fade out and only unadulterated trail spans forward. I decide I’ve had enough nature for one day. The waterfalls are nice and all, but I have what I truly came here for. While things may be stressful right now, it could be way worse. I could be in high school. I could be surrounded by the most beautiful sites, see a stick, and have the instinct, you know what this trail needs? Boobs. Not being Dylan? WAY more comforting than any existential one-with-nature-ness. 

A few days later, back in suburbia, I head out for a run in my neighborhood. It’s a stretch of sidewalk and pavement I have pounded regularly for months. Same uneven sidewalk blocks. Same scorched frog carcass three strides from the fire hydrant. Same middle school punks taking up the entire sidewalk and forcing their elders (me) to sidestep into the goose poop grass to avoid their weird lacrosse net/stick apparatuses. 

My runs never end in a triumphant burst. I just huff and puff along until my legs give out. I also have an unbelievable talent for stubbing my toe on the slightest bump in the sidewalk and go sprawling flying-squirrel-like onto the pavement. When my face hits cement, I call it a day. It has been a month since my last skid-out so I know I’m due. I spend the last part of my run looking straight down to spot any potential hurdles. A few blocks away from home, I spot something written in the cement. Great. Probably another lewd comment. Is no malleable surface safe? 

This message is different. It isn't suggestive or crude. It's simple and heartfelt. My mind races to imagine the backstory. Every version is moving, tender, touching, and kind. It stands in stark contrast to the messages I walked over in the mid of CG. It feels wrong to stumble across this sentiment carved into the sidewalk by a water pipe cover. If any message should be draped across a beautiful vista, it should be this one. Then again, finding messages like this one in unexpected places in some ways adds to its meaningfulness.  It will live on much longer than the scrawls in the dirt. The next strong storm will wash those scratchings away. This one will weather storms and snowfalls. And even after the concrete cracks, the message should continue.

I stop and take a picture.