Pennsylvania’s State Park system capitalizes on the state’s geography, forested highlands and hill country abutting the Appalachian Mountains. From Erie to Philadelphia, the state has established a consistently maintained network of public lands for recreational use. Ranging from picnic areas to sites of historical significance to the American Revolution, Pennsylvania stands above many East Coast states for the diversity and effort placed in its state park system.
The southwest corner of PA is dominated by Pittsburgh and its surrounding communities, but should be recognized as too for the preservation and land use of the Laurel Highlands. While mere foothills to the Appalachian range, thus wild hill country deserves more attention as one of the country’s best outdoor recreation regions. Mixed leafy tree forests swaddle steep and rounded hills, while rocky rivers outline the space and allow for roads to enter the terrain. Rural towns dot the landscape, some lost to the entropy of abandoned coal seams, and others learn to embrace new economies.
Ohiopyle is Pennsylvania’s Park City. A sleepy hill country community has risen up in the shadow of these Laurel Highland hills and reoriented itself to serve as adventure recreation base camp. Mountain biking, hiking, and numerous water sports are supported and thriving in Ohiopyle. Local outfitters have emerged to capitalize on the public interest in outdoor adventures sports. The proximity to one of PA’s two major metropolitan centers has made the parkland one of the region’s most popular recreational sites.
Unlike my usual attempts to focus on a singular trail, in this post I’ll cover Ohiopyle State Park in its entirety. Not merely for efficiency, but also as the distinction between the various trails at Ohiopyle are networked and intertwined in such a way as to defy specific descriptions.
And, for the casual daily hiker- this a feature, not a bug. From any of the park’s trailheads, its possible to saunter in a great loop of the hills and valleys without backtracking or missing any viewpoints. There are 79 miles of trails in Ohiopyle’s boundaries, making it uniquely suited for return trips should a dedicated hiker interested in seeing it all. The trail crews have built a diverse palate of options, from the easiest paved strolls to steep, hill-climbing. The interconnected looped trails make for jump-off points to lengthen or shorten the duration of your hike in multiples places.
While many of the trails require some effort to compensate for the elevation gain, almost all of the park is heavily forested. Exposure is much less a concern than the need to monitor local sunset times, as darkness will come quickly under the canopy of trees. This also leads to cooler temperatures, especially near the river.
As you can see from the photos shown, I visited Ohiopyle in the Autumn. The Indian summer temperatures make it comfortable enough for t-shirts and shorts while still making it possible to getting photos of all the fall leaves. 2020 was a good year for hiking, and despite Covid restrictions, the local outfitters and businesses were open and busy.
The Real Story Behind Canada’s 1982 Conquest of Everest
Mountaineering documentaries are a guilty pleasure of mine. I’ve been fascinated with the subject for decades, and dabbled some myself when able. I may not always have the time or money for outdoors sports, but these films sate a bit of that urge now and then.
This film is a retrospective. It is much less so about the tribulations of the 1982 expedition, and much more about the impact the events had on the two Canadian men who summited, and the lives they led because of it.
“The Climb” is not especially unique amongst mountaineering documentaries, in content, theme, or execution. Even among this niche topic there are tropes and trends, perhaps as there are only so many ways to depict what takes place during an alpine expedition. From amateur GoPro footage to IMAX productions, mountaineering films rarely deviate from a structure that follows a climb linearly: the big idea, the preparation, the journey there, the ascent, and retrospective.
The trap of this linear structuring is especially so in “Big Peak” expedition films, of which focus heavily on Everest and K2 (the sheer number of documentaries that are about Everest is worthy of a post itself). The public’s appetite for high adventure media, climbing in particular, probably doesn’t support the more esoteric subjects- Why are there no big-budget movies covering Nanda Devi?, for example. Perhaps the appeal of the topic is proportional, if not driven by, the ability to express the action, something that whitewater kayaking, big wall climbing, and mountain biking have never suffered from. The suffering of kick-stepping up a long slope is much harder to sell.
One other theme that returns again and again in these films is the peril. This too may be the litmus of audience interest: disaster stories sell. Anyone familiar at all with mountaineering is aware of the incomparable numbers of climbers who ventured upward and perished in attempt. Thus drives the story, and often the tagline in climbing films. “The Climb” doesn’t shy from this point, and it instead addresses the issue in a very unfiltered manner.
In the years following the first successful ascent of Everest, there was almost a race as other nations acknowledge the prestige and spectacle that came with seeing their flag held up atop the highest summit on Earth. The successes and failures of these teams were followed like sports, and each successive expedition marked a national victory. Not unlike the concurrently media attention the US-Soviet “space race”, mountaineering expeditions were a source of national pride and legacy. (Not acknowledged was the lingering cultural vestiges of Nineteenth Century nationalism being acted out, a debate which continues especially today concerning post-colonial attitudes in the Himalaya).
The 1982 Canadian Everest expedition team (as hosted on Summitpost.org)
Canada- a country which has born a sizeable roster of renowned alpinists, sponsored an expedition to Everest in 1982. Unlike the attempts made by earlier national teams, this undertaking would happen in the age of television news crews, filmographies, and carry the burden letting the media drive its messaging. No victorious telegraph from Katmandu- the Canadian team’s every action was up for public scrutiny on stations from Quebec to Yellowknife.
I feel some sympathy for those who only saw this documentary as screened on CBC channels- the DVD contains news reels from 1982 with period interviews and commentary following the expedition. This additional footage sets much of the context described in the documentary. It’s important to the story, and something a casual viewer (particularly one not from Canada) might be aware of. Perhaps not until the events of the 1996 season was the public so aware of climbing taking place on Everest’s slopes.
Laurie Skreslet and Pat Morrow, the successful summit team leads, take part in journey back to Everest Base Camp, now as much older men. The audience is introduced to the leads of this story not as heroic protagonists, but observers of their own story, looking back through the decades to analyze the decisions they made and take stock of their losses.
And they did experiences loss, right from the start. The accidents that befell the team nearly ended the expedition before it found its footing. Unlike many contemporary climbing tragedies, there are no foolhardy novices, arrogant characters, or villains to blame in this story. The men who died were lost because they chose to be there, in the mountains, where the mountain would decided who lived. Fate- nothing more, nothing less. The natural processes of the ice and rock continue unbated, and not all who choose to be amongst them will survive. Those that do must live with the questions and consequences.
A very positive note to this story is the inclusion of Lhakpa Dorje Sherpa and Sungdare Sherpa, the Sherpa guides that made the successful ascents with Skreslet and Morrow. Often left behind in the rush to congratulate the accomplishments of Western climbers, the men in this story do not differentiate or hold back praise for the Sherpas who took part. There is no sense of exploitation or classism present- the film shows old friends meeting for a heartfelt reunion.
There is a moment in the film that carries such emotional weight, neither dramatized or deflected, that it becomes the entire documentary’s coda. I will not spoil it, like an expedition itself, the impact is consequential only in the light of the journey. Don’t expect to see this film as a narrative about the ’82 expedition, instead recognize this is a reckoning of its impact on those who made it home. The Climb is not a cinematic experience, but a an emotional one set against a breathtaking backdrop.
This film does not appear to be for sale on any streaming service or distribution website. I purchased my copy from a third party seller via an online auction. Tracking this documentary down may be a challenge, but I highly recommend it. For mountaineering purists, its another story for the collection. If you are interested in adventure sports, this ay not be the best example. But it is a human story, and one worth sharing.
The city of Huntsville, Alabama sits amid a ring of low slung forested hills. Urban expansion has crept up to those prominences, but a few of those places remain islands of nature. Monte Sano State Park is one such place, a small but well maintained parkland just East of the city center. Rising 1600 feet (300 meters) above the surrounding terrain, the ridge is occupied by an eclectic neighborhood of homes and the state park.
Monte Sano State Park hosts a systems of interconnected trails, many of which are mixed use. The trails are predominantly easy, gravel pathways left over from Civilian Conservation Corps projects in the 1930s. (Several descend steeply down the East slope). Unlike dedicated foot or bike trails, the park allows visitors to use the trails as they please, save for motor vehicles.
The park’s proximity to the city and ease of access makes it VERY popular on the weekends. This was my primary concern when I decided to ride the South Plateau Trail – the idea of tearing through the rocks and bowling over some children was enough for me to reconsider driving up the mountain at all. I opted for a Saturday evening, before the park was set to close at sunset. My arrival at the park was met by a fierce downpour and hail, which conveniently cleared out the other visitors.
Of course- 30 minutes of rain and hail inundated the trails and left much of it a temporary streambed. Mud spray being the only obstacle, I set out on the 3.3 mile loop, headed Southbound and on the East side of the ridge. Elevation gain is minimal, although keeping upward momentum on the wet rock was a challenge.
The South Plateau Loop is marked by occasional white blazes painted on the trees. The trail itself is hardly unnoticeable, and the blazes better serve to keep one from taking one of the many interconnected crossing trails. Adirondack lean-to style shelters are dotted along the loop, situated so as to face outward toward the valleys. For several stretches, the trail follows a gravel service road, allowing for faster travel.
The entirety of the trail is under forest canopy. This assuredly makes it worth visiting in the hotter summer days, and perhaps a bit deceptively blocks any visions of the city so close. The cover also allowed the rain on my day of visit to keep the trails wet, with standing water and occasional mud traps. A few seasonal streams are crossed by wood plank bridges wide enough to let hikers pass even while on a bike.
The trail system is regularly used by local race groups- so be aware of temporary markers and staffers near intersections. My ride took me past a refreshment stand, all by itself, more than a mile and half into the forest.
There are few overlooks on the plateau trail. For better views, a viewpoint is located on the East rim, looking out toward the direction of Chattanooga. It can be reached by foot or bike by from the trailhead.
Rainwater splash on the South Plateau Loop
I recommend this trail as a casual hike or warmup for more intense mountain biking. There are no significant obstacles, and the environment is diverse enough for seeing a wide variety of local wildlife. A connecting trail takes one to the site of an old fire tower, but I did not venture that way on this trip. Water is not available, so pack your own. And be prepared to share the trail!
Afternoon spring storms over the valley, April 2021
“…Maybe it is a sign that the we are at last learning of our origins ad our future, a warning that there is little time left, that our destination is death- we are running out space and the stench of extinction is massing on the horizon. And so discovering life that is unknown to science and to our world reveals a human need: the deep need to name them so we can learn.”
While perusing a local book store in Saranac Lake, New York, I came upon this title and was Immediately taken by the premise: a previously known species of bird was discovered, and the author wrote of the expedition to find a living specimen. That’s enough of a description to lure me into purchasing a retail-priced copy.
It is a significant event in contemporary times when a new species of vertebrate life is discovered. In an age of satellite imagery, there are no more unmapped corners of the world. Genome studies enable scientists to classify or reclassify taxa. The last untrod wildernesses are slowly, inevitably becoming known. Occasionally, the identification of an heretofore unrecorded example of a unique animal makes the news, and brief articles are published marking the event. As the ever-expanding presence of industrialized society reaches deeper into places like the Nechisar, we will learn of species and ecosystems we did not even realize are being effected by human behaviors.
It began with a wing…and just a wing. In the early nineteen-nineties, a chance discovery led to a “cold case” scenario when it became clear, after a time, that a desiccated wing found in the Nechisar region was very likely evidence of a previously unidentified species. The novelty of discovering and cataloging a new species is uncommon enough to warrant resources for an expedition, so that’s what the author and a small group of world-renowned ornithologists did.
This book is not an expedition narrative. I have a certain fondness for that genre, ever since reading “Into Thin Air” by Jon Krakauer. The spark of the idea, the preparation for the journey, introducing the team, the challenges to overcome, the tragedy and resolution. Those stories follow a traditional, if somewhat expected arc. Vernon Head has not written that story here, however. Instead, this book floats about, touching down at moments in time and space to philosophize on the significance of discovery, the impacts of western science, and the author’s perspectives. The quest to find this unseen bird is central to the story, but provides context for the musings and experiences.
What is a species? What value is biodiversity? What is lost when a genetic line is extirpated? What cost is extinction? The author asks this, not rhetorically, but musingly, bearing the melancholy weight of someone who actually does know the answer. The Nechisar Nightjar has been “discovered” in time to recognize its tenuous existence is bound up in the consequences of resource extraction, deforestation, overhunting, and ripples of colonialization of East Africa. It is recorded now, for science- forever listed among the species known to mankind. But as the author narrates his personal journey to find it live, he makes note of the unlikely survival of the species considering where and when it lives.
The birding community is large and diverse, and overlaps with numerous tangentially related subcultures of society. Any media or event related to observing birds crosses may lines between those sometimes distinct and unrelated communities of people who range from passing interest to fervent obsession. An announcement of an unprecedented sighting of an out of place or inherently rare bird can become an event that impacts the lives of many, amateur and professional alike. Nature literature is peppered with stories of enthusiastic birders chasing once-in-a-lifetime sightings of obscure species. The story if the Nechisar Nightjar is that story too, though it comes wrapped in floral prose and exuberance.
Too little is known about this rare bird for this book to be a natural history of the species. There is little science to be gleaned from it. Instead, there is a lot to be said for the conservation and international responsibility of its existence written here. Vernon Head uses the story of the Nechisar expedition as a backdrop for more important messages, the bitter but nutritious morsel of environmentalism.
The Rarest Bird in the World is recommended for anyone interested in birds especially, but also those with an itch for examining the human place in nature. This book isn’t an adventure, it’s an introspection.
Finding economic salvation and sometimes conservation
Park City Utah
There’s a doctoral thesis here for someone looking to find the intersectionality of post-industrialization, social migration, and the environmental impact of land use. A unique American invention- or reinvention to be precise, has become part of the cultural landscape, and sometimes the wild landscape too.
Across the United States, a number of small communities have adopted a new economic model that rejects the extraction industry and embraces outdoor recreation as a new livelihood, arguably a more sustainable one. The transition from mining town and logging camp to urban center was the defining one for much of the 20th Century West. The insatiable need to supply raw materials for the established Eastern cities, and later international trade partners is the reminiscent tale on every mural and picture book about towns from Arizona to Alaska. Whether it was bauxite mining or salmon canning, the Western States as we know them were defined by the extraction industries they could bear.
For all too many towns across the mountain and coastal West, prosperity was fleeting, and dependency on natural resources was an inescapable social death. Depleted ore veins, logged out groves, decimated fishing shoals- the obituary for these communities could have been copied and distributed as so many towns succumbed. The boom-town of the American West died, and no attempt at resurrecting the corpse of that exploitive model will succeed (A fact lost on many who leaped at the massive shift to, and from, fracking).
Marin County. Tahoe. Park City. Telluride. Lake Placid. Asheville. Durango. Bend. Moab. These and other cities have become synonymous with outdoor recreation. These are the communities that adopted one or more outdoor sports and made it THE reason to visit. It’s on their brochures, its featured on their website. Each hotel nearby advertises it. Local shops cater to enthusiasts. Guide services emerge. Start-ups form there to develop equipment. People begin moving there to embrace those sports not competitively, but as a lifestyle.
Olympic Ski Jumps, Lake Placid, New York
For some towns, transitioning to embrace outdoor recreation is a natural evolution. For others, it was a series of fortunate events. Some have resisted, grasping dying industries long after the last log floated down a flume. In time, we may see some municipal leaders seek outdoor sports as a lifeblood, a last effort to save an otherwise obsolete community.
Scott Michael Hicks II published a short book about this idea in “Mountain Bike Capital USA” (ISBN-13: 978-1545010969) -clearly one can see where I found the title of this post. Grand County, Colorado is where the story takes place, in an almost “how-to” lesson in creating an outdoor recreation economy where none existed before.
Grand County and the various public lands administers were early advocates for what was then in the 1980s a very new pastime- mountain biking. Forest Service rangers helped to cut and maintain some of the first publicly accessible backcountry trails, often adapting old logging roads to accommodate the cyclists. It wasn’t long before local leaders began to see the advantage of supporting an “off season” recreation type in the heart of ski country. Colorado had already made itself known as the downhill ski center of the United States, eclipsing the New England states in the 1940s.
As more and more resources were made available to the summer season users, mountain biking became even more popular country-wide. This further encouraged tourism and travel to the region, placing Grand County on par with Park City, Utah and the origin of downhill biking, Marin County, California. Deliberate policy and marketing were key- a necessary but often overlooked aspect of public lands use.
Scott Hicks also notes in the book that, in this case, mountain biking- the community, the users, the service providers, public lands admin, and local authorities, were all incorporated into the planning processes in order to ensure public and municipal support. (Some neighboring communities never agreed, focusing instead on sports such as off-road motor vehicles, for better or worse.) This cohesive participation enabled local business owners to adapt to new sources of revenue and remain open through the off-season. It helped to secure interest in public lands preservation. And consequently, through authorities such as the Bureau of Land Management and US Forest Service, funding to maintain designated bike trails resulted in conservation of those properties.
State-by-State GDP from Outdoor Recreation
With a playbook written as to how to create new business opportunities, increase funds for public lands, and add to local conservation efforts- how can this be applied to places outside Grand County, Colorado? The map above, retrieved from a short article describing the increases brought about by outdoor recreation stimulus (see here), depicts the GDP by state as a result of spending on outdoor recreation and tourism. Local trends are apparent- states with the most unaltered natural landscapes benefited the most from adopting outdoor use economies. This data is specific to the role of outdoor recreation, ignoring the impacts that other industries have on particular states- resource extraction (Texas, Oklahoma, Alaska) technology and manufacturing (Washington, California) financial and consumer services (New York, Virginia). However, a map like this is a useful tool for illustrating where opportunities remain in the States where outdoor recreation remains a miniscule percentage of the local economy.
California I adopting aggressive investments in Outdoor Recreation -SGBonline.com
Even with its incomparable and diversified economy, the State of California, through public-provide partnerships, is investing billions into the local outdoor creation industry. More so, the policies enacted through state legislation seek to focus on sustainable business practices, having turned away from extraction industries as the basis for natural resources economies. This too can serve as an example of how deliberate planning can create business opportunities as well as establish conservation practices that aid regional entities. (see more here).
The Outdoor Rec City model isn’t limited to the Western States, but it has succeeded more there. This in and of itself would be a worthy sociological study. So how can these communities proliferate in other regions? Where are the outdoor rec cities in the Midwest? The Deep South? And for that matter- how can those towns in Western states that continue to resist change learn to adopt more sustainable economic practices?
But clearly its due in part to access to unfettered wild places, and younger demographics with deliberate intent on living in such communities. (It’s remarkable the number of people I’ve met that moved to certain cities to be closer to places they wished to climb, for example). Bridging the urban-rural divide is another challenge, both in encouraging economic growth through social migration and advocating for sustainable natural sources industries. Changing the mindset of a person is difficult. Changing the cultural perspective of a city is a generational challenge. Appealing to “green” solutions may never be as influential as the prospect of new sources of taxes or retail spending. The idea of a sustainable economy based on outdoor recreation will require demonstrations of value and measurable impacts, in addition to open minds.
This isn’t to say that suddenly marketing to mountain bikers will save a Rustbelt town. Nor will gouging out miles of singletrack turn an already devastated wild space into an environmental trophy. But its a idea with merit and examples of success worth pursuing if the pieces can be arranged. There are opportunities waiting to be discovered.
I welcome your ideas and discussion on this topic.
Riding the Towpath through Cuyahoga Valley National Park
There is a National Park between the cities of Cleveland and Akron, Ohio. I’m totally serious. And you should come visit it. More on that later.
Cuyahoga Valley was once one of the most important transportation routes in the United States. In the turbulent years following the revolution, the greater Ohio Valley became transitioned from frontier to breadbasket. The shipment of grain and ore from the country’s interior to port cities required navigable rivers. The canal system that emerged across the upper Midwest were a national priority.
From the 1820s until 1913, a canal system operating alongside the Cuyahoga River, allowing barges to move cargo North to Lake Erie. Predating even steam engines, these boats were towed by teams of oxen or mules from a “towpath” paralleling the canal. Eventually, a railroad was constructed on the opposite bank of the river, making the canal obsolete. However, since 1974, the valley has been under the authority of the National Park system, and the old towpath is now a recreational trail extending for 83 miles.
While the towpath extends both North and South of the National Park boundaries, I opted to ride the sections within the NPS and reservation properties. This is the mist scenic and natural stretch of the trail. It also afforded me access to the local trailhead and opportune parking.
Hours Daily: 6 a.m. – 11 p.m. *Parking lot managed by Cuyahoga Valley National Park; hours may vary.
Beginning at Botzum, I planned to ride northbound. Botzum marks the located of a small village and trading post that has long since disappeared. It sits adjacent to the municipal boundary of the City of Akron, although you’d never know looking about from the parking lot. Deciduous forest is thick in the valley, and especially dense near the river.
The towpath may be measured in miles, but the real mileposts are the series of locks along the old canal system. These rock and concrete structures helped the riverboats and barges descend the roughly 500 feet of elevation distance from the river’s headwaters to the shore of Lake Erie. With massive wood and iron gates, the locks could be drained to a level of the next canal section, allowing the boats to continue their journey. The remains of these structures, some nearly two centuries old, mark the path towards the Lake and Cleveland.
Much of the trail is crushed gravel, although paved asphalt sections exist. This helped tremendously with reducing puddles and maintaining traction. A few well marked portions had suffered erosion damage, and were reduced to mud. However, the trail overall lends itself to casual riding, suitable for any tires save for the narrow racing styles.
A section of the towpath near Botzum trailhead
The Cuyahoga Valley is narrow in width, leaving a channel with few meanders and relatively steep valley walls. This protects the riparian habitat, leaving a corridor of forest between the two cities. From the towpath, its absolutely possible to forget that one is still surrounded by suburban neighborhoods, industrial parks, and capped by major cities. The strongest indication of human incursion are the several small towns that exist within the park borders, and the massive bridges that cross the valley perpendicular to the river. High above the valley floor, the endless stream of traffic is hidden from the oasis of nature below. If ever there was an example of urban planning to preserve a wild place in situ, CVNP is it.
The interstate crosses the river far below it
The role of the National Park Service is one of dichotomy. Tasked with preserving unique natural resources in a wild state while simultaneously ensuring public access and recreation is available. This challenging balance is ever-present in CVNP, along the towpath you’ll see constant examples of compromise. The towns of Boston and Peninsula straddle the river, having grown from trading posts along the canal to quaint, picture-postcard villages. The NPS has preserved a number of historical structures, offering almost unchanged views of the 19th century in post-colonial America.
The trail passes through areas of thick woodlands, rocky cliffs, wide open floodplains, and swampy backwaters long passed over by the river’s swaying channel. Occasionally, you’ll suddenly encounter remnants of the inhabitants of the park, such as Boston Township. The old canal station is now a park service visitor center, and a few local businesses inhabit historical structures. The Conservancy for CVNP operates a small convenience shop there, named “Trail Mix” during peak hours.
A rare intersection of nature and civilization
On any given day, the towpath is exceptionally busy. It traverses so many communities, intersects so many other trails in the park, or serves as access to landmarks in the park, that you’ll encounter visitors on every section of the towpath. The trail itself is rarely busy, but expect to see numerous hikers, joggers, walkers, bird watchers, picnickers, and so many others along the way.
The famed Route 82 bridge is a favorite stop for photographers in the park. Its depicted in many of the CVNP promotional imagery. To see it, you must exist the towpath and take a slight detour West to the Station Road Bridge, where there is a rail stop and trailhead. The smaller iron bridge offers access to the West bank of the river and city of Brecksville.
A flooded and overgrown section of the canal
The Pinery Narrows is an especially wild section of the parkland. Wildlife here is abundant. It is also the most remote section of the towpath, no trails or roads intersect the path between locks 36 and 37. Just South of Lock 37, Sagamore road meets Canal Road to the west of the towpath, and several post-colonial homes can be seen on the East slope of the Valley uphill from the roads.
The convergence of the river and the canal near Lock 36
Fifteen odd miles from the trailhead, I’m still counting distance by locks. The periodic passage of these landmarks makes it clear how much further I had yet to ride. Signage along the towpath is posted regularly, so there is no doubt as to what a rider will reach next.
Placard indicating the site of a pre-Columbian native village
The park service and local municipal reservations have done an excellent job of denoting historical and culturally significant sites along the towpath. The markers include placards describing local wildlife present, historical places from the heyday of the canal operations, and informative descriptions of the canal life.
Historical tavern and store from the early twentieth century
Across from Lock 38, the Park Service maintains a small visitor center devoted to the history of the canal. The building was built in the 1920s and was improved in 1853, becoming a tavern that catered to the barge sailors and mule drivers working the canal. The lock itself- built in 1905- was restored to functionality in 1992, and demonstrations of its operation are offered by interpretative rangers.
The hilly, forested segments of the towpath dissipate the further North one goes. As the valley widens, the grassy floodplain replaces the woodlands. Here the canal is stagnant and deep, almost as though it could still function as a waterway. The terminus of this section of the trail is the suburban sprawl of a Cleveland suburb, appearing impossibly distinct from the wild tracts of public lands to the South.
A restaurant at the end of the line
Lock 39 marks the end of the NPS property. The towpath is crossed by Rockside Road, ending the corridor of protected nature. This marked the halfway point in my ride- 20 miles from Botzum. Which of course meant I had to pedal back the same distance. There was less sightseeing on the return journey, instead it was a matter of measuring time versus distance and counting the remaining ounces in my waterbottles. I didn’t sample the food at the restaurant- that may yet happen in the future.
Overall, this was one of the best distance rides I’ve ever done. At not point are you too far from a road or help, and during peak season hours you will inevitably encounter one of the park rangers on duty. The trail is still a chore, so pack appropriately. While much of it is forested, several areas are exposed- use sunblock. Bring plenty of water too, despite the towns and NPS facilities, free water is not readily available.
Of Wild Places 