Mosquito Valley
The brief rain yesterday has had no effect.
Damn it’s hot.
And dry.
Dry and hot, and the trees know it. Most of the poplars and birches are already dropping their leaves because of the drought. Almost a mile and a half into the Red Trail, I realize I won’t be taking many pictures today, it is getting to be a little barren. Almost no flowers are blooming and those that are blooming are all yellow and drooping. Daisies and black-eyed-susans and goldenrod all suffering from the lack of rain. A few butterflies have tempted me to take pictures, but they’re having none of it, staying high in the trees. Spicebush and Tiger Swallowtails darting to and fro.
As I descend into Mosquito Valley (my pet name) at the halfway point of the trail, the air is getting even more humid. The creek in the valley has long run dry, but the rain yesterday has made it almost misty in this hollow. 95 degrees and almost 95% humidity with a clear hazy sky. August in the Ohio Valley is a delight if you like to sweat.
As the trail flattens, the bugs begin their ear whine and the vegetation draws in close to the trail. But what is normally lush is limply hanging in the air, looking like it might fall to the ground if brushed. The orchard spiders have been busy and I have to wave my trekking poles in front of me to avoid the constant barrage of spider silk. After a few more yards, I spot them.
Ahead, almost exactly at the midpoint of the trail, two strangers are sitting and resting on logs that cross the trail.
As I approach, my mind stops and evaluates. Details start to pop out with each step. They’re both white, no shirts, skinhead haircuts a few tats that look vaguely tribal. Camo pants and crappy tennis shoes complete their outfits. Not hikers, just kicking it in the woods. They’re solid too, not much fat on either, making me think about the extra pounds I’m carrying and suddenly feeling a little old. I still think like I’m 23, but the creaky knees tell a different story. As I get within a few yards, I’m catching a strange vibe. They’re not talking and I smell weed, the almost clove-like tang of the smoke.
What is going on here?
I’m suddenly hyper aware that I’m dressed for a mugging. Trekking poles, Camelbak backpack with water tube protruding. My digital camera is hanging from my shoulder strap where I can reach it quickly. A hiking geek with $500 bucks of equipment in plain sight. All alone. But then again, I probably have about 75 lbs on either of them, and I estimate I’m maybe 4 inches taller. Not exactly a pushover with a bullseye on my back.
I try not to sound nervous as I straddle the logs and move by them “Hey fellas, how’s it goin’ ?”. No answer but I keep moving, putting yards between us. There are dead leaves on the trail as I crunch forward, but no sounds are coming from behind.
Feeling a little surreal in the heat, I don’t see much of anything in Mosquito Valley, just the crunch of the leaves and the ever present ear whine of the bugs. As the trail ends and starts up out of the valley, I plod forward with a purpose. I might have a few extra pounds, but this hill is easy and I have my wind. If a smoker were following in this heat, I could leave him in my dust. In a few minutes, I’m 200 feet above the valley floor and have a clear view of the logs where the two skinhead dudes were copping a buzz.
No one to be seen. Vanished like Andy Dufresne, a fart in the wind.
I suspect they are walking counter to my clockwise, since I hear nothing behind me the rest of the way up the valley face. As I emerge onto the fire road that comprises the rest of the trail out, I catch a small shiver. “That was strange”, I think to myself and trudge onward in the heat. The poplar and birch tree leaves on the ground crackle as I walk through, speaking volumes about our Summer drought.
Just another hike on the Red Trail in August, with just a small twist
Mosquito Valley, Red Trail, Horine Reservation
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