Day 1 & 2 – Logan to Waverly, OH – 61 miles

“I’m in Circleville,” the old man said. “I’m going to Circleville Country Club to golf with my friends.”

“Circleville?”, the highway patrol officer asked. “Sir, what county do you think you’re in right now?”

I couldn’t hear the answer, but when the officer’s eyes bugged out, I knew it had missed the mark. And I knew this poor fellow would not be golfing any time soon.

But hold on, this was how the second day started. Let’s take it back to the beginning.

——————————–

After flying into Columbus, I slept near the airport. My photo-journalist friend Fritz is back with me for this stint, after previously accompanying me on short stretches in Delaware and West Virginia. It’s thanks to him that I’m now famous in Estonia and Serbia.

Fritz drove in from Iowa, so the plan was for him to keep the rental car through the first couple of days, where accommodation options were quite limited (or heinously over-priced). This would also allow him to settle in to the walking, and–unofficially–be able to bail me out if my foot failed.

So on Sunday morning, after some mushy eggs and a pocketful of smuggled cereal bars from the hotel’s breakfast buffet–back in service, like my walk, after a lengthy COVID closure–we were off to Logan. We parked right where I left off and set out around 8:30am. Later than ideal, but the day was unusual in many regards. Where normally I’d be setting out with confidence and adrenaline, I was genuinely anxious this time around. My foot didn’t actively hurt, but it made certain I was aware that it could hurt whenever it chose to do so. The foot of Damocles, you could say. My stride was a little off, just a tick, but enough to worry me about what kind of damage might accrue as the miles rolled past.

I shoved those concerns to the corners of my mind and looked around. It was a crisp spring morning in Hocking County and locals were already taking to the roads for a perfect Sunday in the country. And where better to be than Hocking Hills, perhaps the best place for hiking in Ohio? After a short stretch on the bustling highway 664 out of Logan, we soon transitioned to more peaceful roads. Fritz backtracked shortly after, to travel ahead in the car while I made my way onto the first trails of the day.

It would be overstating matters to characterize it as the final nail in the coffin. The coffin was well and truly sealed by that point. But perhaps it was the first shovelful of dirt: back when I canceled the walk’s attempted reboot in May I learned in Logan that the Old Man’s Cave section of Hocking Hills, among others, had been closed to all hiking. Continuing would mean having to skip all of those trails, all of those places that I had been reading about, perusing pictures of, and instead walk along highways past a series of reminders of how awesome they are. It seemed cruel.

Having now walked those trails, I can confirm that those sentiments, unlike the old man’s internal GPS, were indeed accurate. This is some of the most scenically rewarding walking that I’ve done anywhere along the American Discovery Trail thus far, packed full of interesting natural landmarks and scenic views. On this beautiful spring Sunday, they were, alas, also packed full of people. The trails near Old Man’s Cave, in particular, were the most crowded trails I’ve been on in years, crammed cheeks to jowls with maskless faces.

The main trail sequence–though there are many offshoots–follows the Buckeye Trail from Old Man’s Cave to Cedar Falls to Ash Cave. A creek runs alongside the footpath, merrily proceeding with its implacable work, having already carved out the crease through the hills that brought all the damn people here to begin with. At each of those three points, one encounters a lovely grotto area, with a teasingly modest waterfall trickling into a languid and inviting pool. No swimming or wading allowed, however! Instead, families milled around the outskirts, posing for pictures and laughing and smiling.

Surely, there must be a German word that captures the simultaneous feeling of warmth and horror and affection and dread. Because whatever it is, it kept rippling through my mind as I wove past family after family, happy to see–actually see–so many happy people around me, and appalled at such a complete and collective disregarding of the behaviors we still have to practice, tired as we are.

Pretty walk, though.

Fritz rejoined me for the walk between Cedar Falls and Ash Cave, then pushed ahead to the final destination. Another five or six miles separated me from that point, meaning that I had already covered 21 or 22. And while I was plenty tired, and my feet and legs had plenty of aches to complain about, those were aches, not injuries. The foot had held up to a hell of a first test, with the majority of those miles coming on uneven trails, forcing it to contort in all kinds of different directions. And with that, adrenaline arrived, just a little behind schedule.

Leaving Hocking Hills behind, I also left the land of $200-300/night rental cabins and re-entered Trump country, passing by a series of mobile homes with 2020 campaign signs still proudly standing in their cluttered yards. Halfway down this road, a truck pulled up alongside me.

“Where are you headed?” This question used to be easier–and more fun–to answer. Have you ever told someone in the Eastern time zone that you were walking to the Pacific Ocean? They aren’t sure what to do with that. “Cincinnati” still seems to sound plenty impressive to people near Logan, however. I thanked him, though, for the ride I knew he was prepared to offer.

The driver, a young man, maybe in his 20s or 30s, saluted me and said, “Thank you for what you do” as he drove off. I puzzled over that for much of the remaining walk. What did he mean? Why, exactly, was he thanking me? What did he read into my actions and why would they evoke gratitude? I appreciated it, of course, but I couldn’t ferret out what it meant.

Ultimately, though, he couldn’t have given me a better gift than the gift of mental distraction. I pushed on to meet Fritz at the corner of Branch and Macedonia roads. And confidence was waiting for me there. Lazy bastard.

————————

Driving back to Logan with Fritz, where we had a room for the night, I enjoyed watching the roads pass by–the very roads I would have been walking instead of the Buckeye Trail, had I pushed ahead last May. I saw the first Trump 2024 sign I’ve encountered thus far. Then I saw an “Impeach Biden” sign. A little later, another resident offered a less constitutionally minded approach, with a large sign declaring “FUCK Biden.”

The healing, I guess, has not yet begun. One other house had an alternative proposition: Jesus 2021. It is possible, it turns out, to find a presidential candidate older than Trump and Biden.

———————–

“I have two new clubs in the trunk that I’m looking to test out,” the old man said, as we stood in front of Grandma Faye’s, a greasy spoon near Old Man’s Cave. (To be clear, the “old man” in this case is not the one associated with the cave, at least to the best of my knowledge. That would really be something.)

The conversation had moved in fits and starts. It’s an awkward arrangement, a random collision of strangers that confines them to the same space for an undetermined span of time. The Ohio Highway Patrol moves at its own pace, and on this dark Monday morning, that pace was most charitably characterized as “leisurely.” Another highway patrol officer had passed by at some point, but he was en route to training, so he only redirected us to a safer place to wait before he proceeded to his day’s activities while ours remained in limbo. So we heard about those clubs.

But again, I have gotten ahead of myself.

———————–

Fritz and I departed Logan under the cover of darkness, grabbing coffee at McDonald’s and then returning to Highway 664. The highway, I should note, is non-stop curves, weaving through those hills of Hocking. Every so often, my gaze shifted over to the speedometer. Fritz drove with care, a fact I appreciated given the challenging road and the supremely limited visibility. The cars behind us were less appreciative. Before long, though, they turned off, leaving us alone in the darkness, winding right, then winding lef—

—and at that moment, a car whipped around the corner in front of us, crossed over the yellow line, and turned our commute into a sudden, jarring, and mercifully brief game of Bumper Cars. It happened too quickly to be scared, too completely out of my control for it to have any immediate impact on me beyond noticing that some of my coffee had spilled. Annoying.

When the shock passed, we were parked on the grassy shoulder. We were fine. Fritz had no time to react, but he was clutch nonetheless, shifting the car just enough to minimize the contact. An over-reaction in that moment was probably the greater risk, causing us to lose control and careen into the woods. He couldn’t have handled it better.

For a split second, the other car kept going. We thought he was going to run. But, to his credit, he halted. Credit does not go to his judgement, however, as he parked in the middle of the road immediately on the other side of a blind corner. I watched for oncoming traffic while Fritz set forth into the darkness to have a conversation.

“I think this might be even more complicated,” Fritz said when he returned. “He might be inebriated.”

Sadly, one might say, it turned out he was sober.

It took the actual highway patrol officer an hour to arrive. He didn’t need long to suss out the situation. Responsibility, for starters, was indisputable–even the old man acknowledged that he was “left of center” (a damning description in these parts). Once the officer discovered that the man thought he was in Circleville, though–a location some 25 miles away–the circumstances shifted. He wrapped things up with us, letting Fritz know the next steps, and then cleared us to depart. The old man would be sticking around.

“Good luck, man,” I said, as we prepared to leave. In my defense, I meant it earnestly. It earned, however, a snort of laughter from the officer.

Neither luck nor golf were in the old man’s near future, I’m afraid.

—————–

Confidence, well-established as a lazy bastard at this point, played its part by sleeping in. When Fritz got me to the drop-off point, it was already 8:15am, nearly two hours after my planned departure time. This was the longest day of the walk, some 34 miles, and it was a mini-crucible. If the body held up, I’d be rewarded with an easy distance on day three, and optimism would prevail about my capacity to complete this walk. If. Again, confidence was busy at the moment drooling into a pillow.

But adrenaline was with me! I pushed off hard, buoyed by how well my body had recovered overnight, and by a sense of urgency. I needed to make up some lost time. The geography accommodated, with yesterday’s hills yielding to flat, even terrain. I don’t have my typical top-end speed right now, but I settled into a consistent 3.5-3.7mph, which felt like a dream. The whole opening stretch–13 miles to Londonderry–breezed past with relative ease. The only hiccup came near the midpoint, when a Jeep went whipping past me and then reacted slowly as the road curved right. Only a late, sudden jerk of the wheel and some accommodating tire tread kept the vehicle on the road and out of a Simone Biles floor routine. I confess that in that moment it wasn’t the driver’s life that flashed before my eyes but rather my itinerary. I couldn’t afford to wait around for the highway patrol for another hour!

Fortunately, my itinerary was saved, and the vehicle stayed on the road.

There’s not much to Londonderry–just some houses scattered across an intersection of minor highways. It has one notable highlight, though: the Family Donut shop. Somehow, for reasons inexplicable to me, its drive-thru is open 24 hours. I can’t fathom where the demand comes from in this rural part of Ohio, but I salute the dedication.

I dutifully donned my mask and entered. That raised the number of masked people inside the shop to one. Now, I’m not a donut guy. On this trip, though, I’ve come to appreciate a good fritter, and the Family Donut shop does quality work on that front. Their fritter is a solid brick of a pastry and it tastes like it has some cinnamon roll in its DNA. Too big for a human mouth, it’s messy work, but I pulled up a stool and clocked in.

A couple of local guys popped in soon after, ordering lunch. One of them asked me if I was walking the Buckeye Trail. I described what I was doing and noted how I was closing the gap in my walk between the Atlantic and the Rockies by completing this section.

“I’d like to say you saved the best for last,” he replied, “but…” It’s a recurring theme, unfortunately, running into locals who articulate disparaging sentiments about their homes.

“I don’t know, man, I was in Hocking Hills yesterday and it’s pretty amazing!” I tried to sing the praises of what I had seen. He wasn’t entirely convinced and shifted the subject soon after.

“So where are you headed next?” “To Waverly,” I answered, leaving the Buckeye Trail for a while in order to cover some ground more quickly. He bemoaned how much asphalt I had in my future, but I highlighted the positive, noting how much I enjoyed the added opportunity to be around more people.

“I’m not sure that’s a good thing around here,” he replied. “What do you mean?” “Well, back near Hocking it gets pretty methy. Same thing up ahead near Waverly.”

Good to know. I finished my fritter, thanked the staff, and bid the guys farewell.

————————–

When you’re coming out of a Portland winter, 70 degrees feels like summer. And when you’re fully exposed to that 70 degrees and on asphalt throughout the afternoon, you start longing for autumn.

I mostly was concerned with not falling, though.

There’s not much to say about those remaining 21 miles. I drank a liter of iced tea at a gas station in Richmond Dale. Fritz rejoined me a couple of miles later, the rental car returned and the road before us endless. We flanked a railroad for a stretch, then a river, and even both simultaneously for a while. Otherwise, there were fields, lots of fields, most too early in the season for signs of life.

But confidence, confidence had finally gotten its act together and rejoined me. Because as the miles rolled by–ok, ok, as the miles delicately tottered past–my body responded. My feet were sore, my left calf and right quad were tight, and I was certainly tired. But I was not injured. And rolling into Waverly with 60+ miles under my belt in two days, after far less than 60 miles total over the previous month, that was a damn triumph.

The last two miles of the walk spanned the length of Waverly. Half-a-mile in, Fritz and I decided to pop into a Wendy’s for celebratory Frostys. We waited at the counter for a few minutes. As we did, a woman came up insistently to the counter to our left. I rolled my eyes–was she really going to try to cut in front of two tired, sweaty guys who had been biding their time?

At long last, the cashier came over to take our order. Sure enough, the woman butted in. “I want to pay for their meal,” she announced.

Oh.

So Sandra bought us Frostys. She tried to talk us into some burgers as well, but we were happy to be a cheap date. Funny enough, Sandra wasn’t looking for much of a conversation. We tried, but she stuck mostly to short answers, aside from encouraging/commanding us to buy more. The cashier passed Sandra her change. “Be safe out there,” she said, and she was out the door.

How much safer could we be? We had only gotten in one car accident that day, after all. For Sandra’s sake, though, we’d try to make it zero tomorrow.