Natural Bridge 2023: A Fine Time

"Wherever I roam, nature

is the only stranger that feels

like home."

Angie Weiland-Crosby

 

 

I am looking forward to the upcoming hiking/biking trip Jon and I have planned at Natural Bridge State Park.  To my surprise, we are easily able to snare a two bedroom cabin that, while spartan, will serve our needs just fine and will be much cheaper than two cabins.  (Yes, two bedrooms.  We are friends and not lovers despite some people's belief to the contrary. Our relationship has not, and likely will not, lead to that of lovers.) And on the morning of the seventh, we take off. Since the cabin has a kitchen, we will be eating there or on the trail, so we bring food as well as clothing, bikes, firewood, etc.  Prior to the trip we discussed our menu and each contributes.  I wonder if it will all fit in my small car, but somehow it does. 

On our way there we discuss what to do when we get there.  The first thing is to see if we can check in or have to leave everything in the car.  We also stop and buy a topographical map of the Red River Gorge area.  While there, I make a joke about possibly getting lost and the man at the station tells us of a call he got a few weeks ago where a young man had fallen and broken his ankle.  He said it was supposed to get in the twenties that night and the call did not come in until late afternoon, but he did not know what happened. He also points out that these hikers were young and strong (leaving it hanging that perhaps we are none of those things).  We exchange a few more words before heading on. While getting lost is a possibility, Jon is good at reading maps and it really does not overly concern me.  We have been hiking regularly throughout the winter and often do ten to twelve miles in a day.  As far as falling and breaking an ankle, anyone that rides a bike accepts that activity brings the possibility of injury and even tragedy.  But it sure beats not living life. 

 

Due to the warm weather, we decide that we will ride the first day since the weather is lovely though quite windy and rain is predicted for the following day.  Originally, when reservations were made, I figured that we would, in all likelihood, be hiking only due to the cold weather.  Yes, I can and have ridden is some pretty cold weather.  I just find it more challenging and less enjoyable now. That is why I added hiking to my activities. I won't accept not being active at this point, but some sports are more comfortable than others in the winter. An added bonus, is that the short break from regular cycling seems to do me good mentally. And after all, the reservation is in early February.  But the forecast, while predicting some rain and wind, is ideal even reaching the sixties and seventies.  The only time I have bicycled in this area was on the TOKYO four day ride a few years ago, but I know enough from those rides to anticipate some hills.  I will not be disappointed.  What I am disappointed about when I get there is that, somehow, I have remembered everything EXCEPT my riding shoes.  

 

But I am ahead of myself.  I don't realize this until after we check in and eat our lunch. We  head out on our bikes anyway, my feet clad in running shoes.  I am not sure how this will go.  I remember Grasshopper forgetting his bike shoes and doing a brevet (I can't remember the length) and how his feet hurt at the end.  I determine that I will try it, however, and turn around if the pain is too great. Somehow, despite the small SPD knobs, I do fine unless I attempt to stand.  So I  remain seated and use granny a bit more than I might otherwise throughout the ride.  Occasionally I grin at my own stupidity.  I even remembered shoe covers, just not the shoes to put them over. 

 

This is following our laughter at the speed limit in the park.  23 mph.  Jon points it out and I giggle about it at times throughout our stay.  I don't think I have ever seen a speed limit that was not based on 5:  5 mph, 10 mph, 25 mph, etc.  I suppose it truly is no more random than any other choice the powers that be decide to assign to a road, but it seems more random because of the rareness.  This is one thing I enjoy about Jon's company:  his sense of humor and his quickness in noticing and pointing out things I might otherwise have missed.  Throughout our stay I think how lucky I am to have found a friend to share some adventures with and who enjoys many of the same things that I enjoy for it is much more fun sharing experiences.  Yes, I like and even need a certain, even a large amount, of alone time.  But I get that in my everyday life now being retired and widowed.  

Despite the wind, for once it seems a tail wind more than a head wind throughout the ride.  I assume we are sheltered here on roads that seem to run between mountains and hills.  It seems like no time before we are at Nada Tunnel.  Or at least I "think" the tunnel was before the center. I have told Jon I might walk as while I have ridden the tunnel in the past, I also have found that the darkness is a bit disorienting.  But I manage to ride through glad I remembered to bring a clip on light.  I am busy in my mind trying to connect the tunnel with previous Tokyo (Tour of Kentucky Overland, 4 days, a bit over 400 miles).  I decide, and later riding it in reverse, become even more certain that we passed through the opposite way during Tokyo as I remember the climb.  Jon talks of a time when he was there before when two cars pulled up and neither would yield causing a traffic jam.  Since Anne and he were on bicycles, they did not know how it was resolved, but someone must have yielded as well as all the cars that piled up behind them.

Shortly after, we pass what I think looks like beaver activity.  I ask if Jon minds if I stop, and as usual, he is tolerant of my request for a closer look.  It is, indeed, beaver.  Several trees of varying sizes have been felled.  What I can't understand, and still don't, is why the distance from the water rather than felling trees closer.  I then wonder  how  they cart the trees they gnaw down.  Despite the lack of foliage on the trees, when I peer at the water I see no evidence of a dam.  Damn, I think;-) 

 

 

We also stop at a small cabin right outside of closed Gladie Visitor Center.  Jon is again tolerant and does not complain that I want to see the cabin that sits nearby.  We cross a small bridge to see the cabin built in the 1800's and transported to this site.  The doors are locked and there is no access, but it is interesting to see it and to imagine who lived there.  Besides, it will give us a small rest before the long, demanding climb to Sky Bridge.  As we settle back in our saddles, I note and comment not only on how lovely it is, but on the lack of traffic.  It is as if Jon and I are the only ones on the road.  And for a time, other than three motorcycles, we see nobody.  

The climb is easier than I expect, but then I use granny the entire time to (at least this is my excuse and I'm sticking to it) protect my feet.  I find I really am enjoying the demands on my legs and lungs.  I realize how happy I am to be here, to be alive, to be healthy, to have a companion.  I also realize how grateful I am for this unseasonable warmth.  

Near the end of the ride, we do run into some traffic.  But it is not terrible and the drivers, despite it being time to go home from work, are considerate.  Day one is over all too soon, but there is dinner and a fire in the fireplace to look forward to.  Even this has an element of humor as the pork chops were a bit too close to the broiler and charred setting off the smoke alarm.  At home, I keep a step stool in my kitchen for such emergencies, but there is none here.  Fortunately, Jon, who is tall, is able to dismantle them while I have visions of fire trucks racing at top speed to drown our evening meal;-)  Despite the charring, the meal is delicious and afterwards we chat a bit then watch the State of the Union before drifting off to bed.  

The next day we decide to combine riding and hiking as the warm weather and new roads are too hard to pass on.  We hike first going to Gray's Arch.  In places, I find myself reminded of Scotland when we pass boulders and fallen trees covered with a rich, green moss.  In fact, yesterday, we passed a road by the name of Glencairn and now I spend a bit of time speculating on the reason why.  My guess is that someone who immigrated from Scotland settled here as the area reminded him of his home, but of course, I tend to romanticize things at times.  Still, I suspect most of us suffer from homesickness when we make moves,  particularly those who switch countries.  It takes a certain kind of bravery, I conjecture, to pack up and leave ones home and friends and all that is familiar.  A line from a song from elementary school Music class comes to mind: "Oh, Erin must be leave thee driven by a tyrant's hand? Must we ask a Mother's welcome from a strange and distant land?"  (Dion Boucicault)

As we begin the climb up to the arch (not the top but the top of the underside) we hear a voice warning us that there is a dog up there in case we don't like dogs.  We find two men and a black lab looking dog who is friendly in a way that only dogs can be.  He greets us as if we were old friends that he has not seen for an eternity before resuming regular dog business of smelling and exploring. They head down before us and we spend a few moments taking photos of the scenery to give them time to forge ahead.  We later learn they returned to their car and were not doing the longer hike. 

We pass trees shooting roots down around rocks, victims of where they landed as seeds and I think about the urge to cling to life. We see roots where soil has eroded away leaving them desperately trying to adapt.  Again, something perhaps, that all living creatures, plant and animals do, this clinging.  We see rhododendron everywhere, running rampant, getting ready to bloom, and I think how lovely it will be in just a few weeks when color begins to seep back into the world shucking off winter and leaving it behind.  And I realize that Ms. Weiland-Crosby is right.  This feels right, one leg following the other through woods that are unfamiliar to me yet seem like home, a heritage.  At one point, we stop to savor our lunch.  Both of us have soup that Jon made in our thermoses, can combined with a peanut butter sandwich, we refuel. 

After the hike, we head out on a shorter, backwards version, of yesterday's ride.  It is colder and the wind bites a bit deeper, but it is still lovely.  I determine that this is, indeed, the direction from which we approached the tunnel on Tokyo.  After stopping briefly before the tunnel to photograph a small waterfall, we come to the tunnel.  This time there are cars.  This time I walk my bike through most of the tunnel.  My foot begins to ache a bit so I become glad that we near the end of our ride.  Plus, I am getting hungry.  I think of how hungry I would get when we used to go to Hell Week, day after day of century riding turning my appetite almost wolfish and insatiable.  Still, it is nice  to actually feel hungry and to need food.  I wonder how much of our eating is fueled by boredom/loneliness/inactivity.  

 

We decide to just hike the last day due to the high winds, and indeed they are strong.  We start by climbing to the top of Natural Bridge and then do a 12 mile loop.  As we walk, I think how natural, no pun intended;-), it feels to be out here in the woods.  I am, however, glad there is a path for else-wise I fear I would be hopelessly lost.  Learning to navigate by compass has been one of those winter chores that I always think I will have time to do while it is cold and dreary out yet never seem to accomplish.  Such a long list of things many of which will never get done.  

 

We pass through groves of Rhododendron so thick that the are all you can see on both sides of the path.  Indeed, in places someone has cut them back.  We come across a board that has the tracks of what appear to be a large Bobcat on boards laid down covering a muddy spot that I promptly slip and fall into.  At one point, there is a mile or so of sporadically, large areas where something has been pawing at and moving leaves.  We see no tracks to give us a clue, but they are large areas and obviously some animal has moved them.  I wonder if it is a black bear coming out of hibernation and looking to refuel an empty belly.  

 

We sit on a log and have our lunches:  soup an peanut butter sandwiches.  Shortly thereafter a lone female hiker appears.  I suggest we allow her to pass as I assume she will be faster than we are, or should I say, I am, for she is much younger.  And she does keep up a good pace.  But near the end, we catch and pass her as we near the end. I tease Jon about losing the gazelle to follow and note that her gait was, indeed, graceful.  He suggests that perhaps she is a runner, and I think of a girl from the county named Chrissy Johnson whose running was so gloriously light and beautiful I could have watched for hours.  Her brothers were the same. As if their feet just briefly touch earth to prove they are, indeed, human.  It is then we see a sign someone has put up as a trail marker designating the area as "the naked mile."  This is not too far out from Natural Bridge.  We decide it is a prank but it brings a grin to both of our faces.  

 

And then it is over and time to go home.  The drive, despite good company, begins to seem interminable, particularly when we hit a traffic jam near Lexington.  Waze takes me through part of the city to bypass it, but it is still slow going.  Myriad thoughts pass through my mind on the drive because I know what my feelings will be when I get home from past experiences.  I will be happy to be home in familiar surroundings, to have a cat on my lap purring.  Yet there will be a sadness that the adventure has come to an end and a yearning for just another day.  And there will be tiredness from all the physical activity, but a good tiredness that left memories and, hopefully, greater strength.  And yet again, as I have thought so often during the trip, I think how very blessed I have been having health and friendship.  Yeah, it was fun.