I Can Do It (Our Pioneer Trail adventure)
"I'd like you to take me ruck-sacking in Jennings Forest."
That was my 77-year-old mother's request as we played Giant Jenga on New Year's Eve.
"OK," I replied as I watched my husband wiggle another block free from the precarious tower on the dining room table. I didn't ponder whether or not my mother should be hiking, though I did wonder if she knew what "ruck-sacking" was. Certainly, I knew she could walk a nature trail, but should she really try doing it in a weighted backpack?
My mother had a stroke last spring. The ER doctors didn't call it that, nor did the attending neurologists in the following days as we waited for her release. But what else could it have been? While raking leaves in her tiny front yard, she began to feel strange. Thinking she had simply gotten overheated, she went inside to rest, but while reading a book in her armchair, the words began to look like hieroglyphics. Wisely, she called 911.
That was the beginning of a frightening three days, though nothing was as worrisome as that first night in the emergency room. As I entered my mother's room, there was no recognition on her face during that brief initial eye contact. Her fleeting gaze was mostly directed at her hands, blanket, and bedrails. I sat down beside her, studying her face, and asked her if she knew her name and who I was. There was no response as her eyes drifted around the brightly lit room. At times, a look of confusion would cross her face, as if she were searching her mind for an answer that eluded her.
Moments later, the repetitive movements and gibberish commenced. My mother began yanking at the wires and catheter tubing within her grasp. I tried to discourage her by gently clutching her hands, but she was undeterred. Soon she was taken away for imaging, where she was sedated when she became combative. I began to wonder if my mother would ever be normal again, or would she forever view people, even those most familiar to her, as aliens poking and prodding her to do things against her will?
After three days in the hospital, my mother was once again cognizant and was released, though she didn't remember much of what happened after the ambulance picked her up. Life went mostly back to normal, except for the knowledge that this mysterious episode could happen again, and a faint nagging fear for both of us that the time to enjoy life is finite. So, on New Year's Eve, ten months after my mother's stroke, I agreed to take her on her first "ruck-sacking" adventure.
A few days later came a clear sunny day, and we drove to the western edge of Clay County and one of Jennings State Forest's many remote entrance points, Knight's Landing. The parking area we chose along Black Creek was a mix of sand and gravel, and not much more than a sparsely treed turn-around. It was midday on a Thursday, with the temperature hovering around 50F, and ours was the only vehicle in the lot. I backed my mother's SUV up to the guardrail separating the parking area from the steep creek bank. We climbed out and gathered our gear before investigating beyond the embankment. Dark tea-colored waters swirled and snaked around fallen branches, the ever-moving surface twinkling in the January sun.
"Oh, this is a perfect day!" my mother exclaimed. She stood at the top of the sandy bank wearing a brand-new camouflage backpack. I wondered what was in it, how heavy it was, and how long she would be able to carry it. After observing the creek for a few minutes, I suggested we go look at the trailhead map we had passed at the parking lot entrance. We walked about 75' to a sturdy wooden kiosk along the edge of the woods. A large map of Jennings State Forest was tacked up behind a layer of plexiglass.
"You are here," I said pointing at the map. We studied our options for a moment before I proposed we head towards Indian Ford, a roughly two-mile hike to another parking area. "That should be a relatively easy hike," I said.
"I don't care. I want to go wherever you want to go," my mother replied.
"I've been wanting to see Dunn Cemetery," I said, "but I don't know how far it is."
We searched the map a bit more, looking for anything that might represent a graveyard. Then I noticed a section labeled "Dunn's Farm Trail" next to a cluster of three crosses.
"There!" I said pointing at the symbol. "Those crosses must be it...but that looks pretty far. I don't think we should do that today."
"No, let's do it," my mother insisted.
"You sure?"
"Oh, yeah, I can do it."
I still worried about the weight of her backpack. "What's in your bag?" I asked.
"My water...and some snacks...and a roll of toilet paper."
None of that sounded very heavy to me, so I agreed, we would head towards the cemetery. If things got too tough, we could always turn back.
The start of the trail was a gentle incline. The weather was perfect, clear and sunny, but cold - no chance of overheating. As the trail's elevation increased, I began to notice clusters of deer moss the color of pale sea glass. Knowing this was a favorite accessory in my mother's outdoor fairy planters, I pointed and said, "Check out the moss."
"Yeah...cool," she replied unenthusiastically.
We continued for another couple of minutes before I heard my mother's voice behind me, "Bree...I can't do this."
"OK," I responded as I slowed my steps, anticipating that we were turning back for the car.
"Can you carry my backpack?"
"Sure!" I replied, happy we were going to continue.
I took the backpack from my mother and pulled the straps over my shoulders. It felt light to me, and I was only wearing a hip pack, so the added gear was no bother. We continued on, my mother remarking how much better it was to be hiking without the pack, and soon we were crossing our first foot bridge across a narrow stream of clear water.
The terrain quickly changed now from hardwood hammock to sandhills. A sparse landscape of pines and turkey oak revealed scattered burrows from gopher tortoises and armadillos. Soon we found ourselves at the summit of a sugar sand hill with a wide wooden bench built by trail volunteers.
"Let's have some snacks!" I suggested as I sat down on the bench. My mother sat down beside me and I turned away from her so she could access the food on my back that she had packed for us, mostly granola and nuts. We sat for several minutes, sipping water and enjoying the brilliant blue sky and unfiltered sunshine.
"How are you feeling?" I asked my mother.
"Oh, fine," she replied.
"Do you want to keep going?"
"Yeah, I'm good."
After a few more moments, we returned the remaining food and water to the backpack and resumed our course on the sandy path. At times we found ourselves strolling easily over level ground. Other times the trail commenced a slight incline or descent as we moved along the ridge of a ravine. The mix of vegetation that came with each change in elevation was interesting to observe, and the surrounding woods were silent except for an occasional breeze rustling the canopy.
As time went on and we covered more ground, my mother's spirits remained high. Whenever I asked how she was doing, she would respond with "good" or "fine". Our next rest stop was at Taylor Overlook, a scenic drop off to a wide ravine below where the waters of Black Creek flowed quickly, tumbling around bends in the shoreline. A sturdily constructed pole fence ran along the top of the ravine to discourage hikers from climbing down the steep slope, both to protect the ravine wall from erosion, and to prevent hikers from becoming injured.
After taking in the gorgeous view from the overlook, we sat on another volunteer-provided bench and ate more trail mix. After confirming that my mother still felt like continuing, we packed up again and headed into some of the steepest climbs and descents of the journey, where we both began to get winded. When the trail at last spilled out into the Ellis Ford parking area, we would have been content to turn around, but we hadn't come to the cemetery yet. We followed the gravel road extending away from Ellis Ford until we reached the next trail head about 100' away. Another kiosk was planted at the trail entrance, and we took a moment to re-examine the map.
"There's the cemetery," I said pointing to the cluster of crosses. "Looks like it's still quite a ways away."
"That's OK. I can do it."
I could tell my mother was quite tired by this point, and I was grateful the air had remained chilly under the unclouded January sun. She had been consistently drinking water, and I felt no need to worry about either of us overheating. We resumed our trek to Dunn Cemetery, the trail still rising and falling as we skirted Black Creek. As I studied the topographical map on my phone's trail app, I noticed a spot where two sections of trail ran parallel to each other with what appeared to be a narrow ravine between them.
"Hey, look at this spot on the trail," I said to my mother. "Look how closely these sections are to each other. We might be able to cross here unless there's deep water in the bottom. That'll shave some time off."
"Oh, yes, please, let's do that!" my mother responded with optimism.
As we covered more ground, I continued to check the glowing triangle on my trail app that represented our location. At last, we reached the spot where the two trails ran closest to each other. Poised at the top of a gentle slope, we could see a clear trickling stream below, not the murky rushing depths of Black Creek's tannin-stained currents.
"This is it. You want to try?" I asked my mother.
"Yes, let's do it!" she responded.
Generally, it's frowned upon to go off trail on a hike, particularly in an area where erosion is prone to occur. Sometimes, like at Taylor Overlook, there are even posted signs prohibiting this action. But there was no sign here, and I felt the deviation from the marked trail was necessary for my mother. We descended the leafy embankment easily to the stream below.
We were immediately presented with a deep channel, which thankfully was only about 3' across and had a rotting log conveniently draped across its span. We each shimmied across successfully before finding ourselves in a grassy marsh that squished beneath our feet. We found that by jumping from one grass clump to another, we could get across without soaking our shoes. We then climbed the hillside beyond, and soon were deposited back on Pioneer Trail.
"That wasn't bad," I commented, and on we went, though progressing at a snail's pace.
I often looked back to find my mother nowhere in sight and would pause to allow her to catch up. Sometimes, when she did not appear quickly enough, I would backtrack to discover her resting against a tree. I began to ponder whether or not I could carry her out of here if she became incapacitated. Mercifully, I soon came to a fork in the trail. A sign indicated Pioneer Trail's continuance downhill to the right, or the Dunn Cemetery uphill to the left. As I stood waiting for my mother to peel herself away from another good 'leaning tree', I looked at my watch - 2:30 PM. The sun would be setting in 3 hours, and it had taken us 2.5 hours to get here while we were still feeling fresh. Worry began to creep in.
Once my mother was at my side again, we made the climb together up the hill to our destination. A sunny clearing revealed a picnic table next to a large kiosk detailing the history of those interred in this once-forgotten graveyard. Scarcely more than a dozen people had been buried here, some of them born in the 1800's, and all of the grave markers lost to time. In recent years, the cemetery had been cleared of the tangles of overgrown brush that had obliterated it. A single elegant marker had been placed in the center with the names of those known to have found their final resting place on this hill in the woods.
While I photographed Dunn Cemetery, my mother rested at the picnic table and sipped her water. The air was still chilly, barely 60F, and I knew the temperature would begin dropping soon with the setting sun's departure. "Who can I call to come get us if this goes bad?" I wondered to myself. I walked back over to my mother to see how she was faring.
"I've read this whole sign," she announced as I approached, referring to the lengthy information provided on the kiosk about the history of the area and the families that lived there. "Now I want to see it."
Together we meandered back around the side of the tiny, fenced cemetery to the chain-link gate that provided entry. We spent several minutes taking in the details - the engraved wooden arch over the gate that read "Pioneers of Clay County: Dunn Cemetery"; an American flag waving in the breeze; the wind chime hanging high in a solitary cedar tree in the center of the cemetery; and of course, the graves, which each had a short wooden post and a cluster of artificial yellow roses placed on top of them. After taking it all in, my mother noticed a wide path leading westward away from the cemetery.
"I wonder where that goes," she said starting towards it.
"We don't have time to see. We've got to start heading back if we're gonna make it to the car by dark."
My mother chuckled. I could tell she thought I was kidding. "Unless you want to wait here, " I said, "and I'll fast-hike back to the car and pick you up."
"NO, we're not splitting up. I'm not sending you off by yourself," she insisted.
"I'll be fine. There's no one out here today."
"NO, we're going back together."
"Alright, well we gotta get moving. Sun goes down at 5:30."
We returned to the single-track trail at the edge of the tree line and walked back down the hill until we were on Pioneer Trail again. We retraced our steps to the spot where we could negotiate the ravine the easiest without taking the long way around, and again avoided soggy shoes with careful placement of our feet.
Later we walked along the high sandy bank beside Black Creek before finding ourselves deep in the woods again. When we arrived back at Ellis Ford, there was now a Jeep Wrangler parked in the gravelly lot, and we soon encountered a middle-aged couple and their young son on the trail to Taylor Overlook. They were heading back to the parking lot and could not have been out there long. As we approached one another, I could see that the man was out of breath. I wondered if it was their first time experiencing Pioneer Trail and its surprising elevation changes. We said our 'hellos' and each offered a gratuitous head nod and smile as we passed them.
Alone again in the woods, we trudged along slowly. My leg muscles were feeling fatigued, and my mother was beginning to lament about her knees on the downhill slopes, especially after we passed the overlook. To ease the pain, she collected a pair of sturdy sticks to use as hiking poles.
The sun was sinking ever lower, casting long shadows that began to shroud the ravines in darkness and swallow whatever warmth still existed in the late afternoon air. When at last we reached the bench at the top of the sandhills that had served as our first rest stop earlier in the day, I assured my mother it wouldn't be long now. Through the sugar sand hills and riparian slopes, we soldiered on, a cold winter's evening marching to greet us.
At last, we were ejected onto the shadowy road leading into Knight's Landing. We were both pleased to see my mother's SUV in the distance, and climbed in precisely at sunset, the automatic headlights illuminating our way upon ignition.
"How many miles?" my mother asked weakly.
I looked at my hiking app. "7.8 miles. Now wasn't that good practice for Cumberland Island?" I asked my mother, regarding our next planned adventure to a remote barrier island off the coast of Georgia.
With a snicker, my mother answered, "Let's see how I feel tomorrow."
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