And suddenly, I was back to where I started. Way back in August, I flew into Cincinnati to start my journey on the ADT, leaving Ohio twice over the course of that day, first going into Kentucky and then Indiana. That said, I can’t claim to have made any real, lasting impressions of the state–that first day was a blur.
We all carry our own biases. Having spent most of my life in the Pacific Northwest, I somehow formulated a vision of Ohio as flat, unremarkable farmland, with a few more hills scattered through its southern fringes. As such, when I spoke with Byron Guy, a Buckeye Trail supervisor and now also the ADT state coordinator for Ohio, I believed him when he sang the praises of hiking in Ohio, but I didn’t believe him. How could a place with no mountains, no oceans, no major geographic features–not to mention few towns of note on the itinerary–be so appealing?
I departed Belpre early on Monday, groaning at the 5:30am alarm and then walking awkwardly for the better part of the first mile, gradually coaxing my body back into gear. At the town’s outskirts, I strolled into a gas station, ready for a coffee, only to discover that all self-service coffee machines and fountain drinks have been closed for Covid. Those probably represented a third of my calories on the ADT’s southern route.
While I didn’t get coffee, I was immediately gifted a nice, sharp uphill, the first of this trip. Ohio’s hills didn’t waste any time; the remainder of this walk was a constant churning, up 50-100 feet to open fields, then back down into wooded gullies. The views from the highest points revealed an endless world of green, with treelines filling the horizon in every direction. Those trees were interrupted only for a short time by Veto Lake, a long, thin body, with tendrils reaching towards all four of the compass points. I looped around the eastern point, then proceeded along the northern tip, before leaving it behind to enter Vincent.
On a nearly entirely rural day, Vincent, population 340, stood out as a veritable metropolis. Its pizzeria was pushing pies out the window at 10:30am, but I abstained. A persistent drizzle set in as we passed through, so we briefly took shelter under a church porch. Across the way, a stuffed pink unicorn sat in a driveway atop an abandoned couch. I commented to Fritz how much I had come to appreciate these kinds of small towns–stately, if aged, homes, conveying a spirit of community simply through their layout.
On the outskirts, Fritz and I parted; he returned to a rental car, aiming to meet me near the walk’s end. Just after he took over, a woman barged out of the last house in sight, declaring, “What’s your business.” It was a statement, not a question. Before I could reply, she added: “That house is inhabited, so you can just move on along.” Now well and truly confused, I asked what she was getting at. “Where did your friend go? Is he checking out that house?” Finally connecting the dots, I quickly powered through a response–I’m just a hiker, my friend is walking back to his rental car, I’m heading straight down the road and she won’t see me again. Seemingly mollified, though still far from welcoming, she muttered something about being close to calling the sheriff and then shuffled back inside.
I never saw the sheriff.
Later in the day, the ADT brought me to my first covered bridge of the walk, the Shinn Covered Bridge near Bartlett. I once encountered a source that informed me that covered bridges existed to keep horses calm when crossing a river in difficult weather. I bought that explanation wholesale. Looking it up again when writing this post, I quickly learned that, while perhaps that was a side benefit, the primary reason for the design was to protect the wooden structure from the elements, allowing it to last longer. The truth behind the Shinn bridge’s origins is similarly muddled. One source says it was built in 1886 following the tragic drowning of one of the Shinn children, while another claims it was a near-miss. Regardless, it’s a pretty spot. Count me firmly pro-covered bridge.
I joined the Buckeye Trail in Chesterhill. The Buckeye Trail is a 1400-mile loop that runs through the state of Ohio, marked with sky blue blazes. Fritz and I were back on the trail around 7am, and enjoyed a stunning morning–still quite cold, but with bright blue skies and birdsong all around. As nice as Monday was, this was a top-notch, completely outstanding day of walking, and yet even that was overshadowed by the people.
After passing through Fairview Park, I climbed back into the hills. There were no towns on the agenda for nearly thirty miles. For every thriving farm operation that I encountered (some of them Quaker-run), I saw a modest household, a vacation home, three ravaged mobile homes and four other collapsed structures. Soon after Fritz rejoined me, a red Toyota Yaris pulled up alongside us with an older couple inside. The man behind the wheel asked for our story and shared that he has helped out walkers in the past. He was more than willing to assist us as well if we needed anything.
Later, in my final approach toward Burr Oak Lake, I passed a middle-aged man working on his truck, flanked by a pair of dogs. He shared that he was a mechanic from Columbus, but currently furloughed. It’s the first time since he was eight that he wasn’t working. His boss recently invited him back in a part-time capacity, but couldn’t offer more because of limited demand. He passed on the offer, noting that he has savings to get him through, and that the boss should instead bring on someone more desperate for the work.
I asked how he was dealing with the pandemic. He started by observing that he went into town today and noted that nobody was taking social distancing too seriously. I thought this meant that he’d be distinguishing himself from that practice, but he then added that he doesn’t wear a mask in public. He prefers, he explained, to expose himself to germs and let his immune system protect him, like a muscle getting stronger through the work. Besides, he said, he’s pretty sure that he already got it in December.
While it took him a minute to warm up, by the conversation’s end he was genuinely positive and encouraging. He laughed when I mentioned the woman who threatened to call the police on me, acknowledging that people in some towns like that might be more suspicious, but adding that people like him along the trail would be more supportive. In the next sentence, though, he asked if I was carrying protection.
Soon after, I emerged on a footpath around Burr Oak Lake. I sat on the high bank and ate a can of vegetarian chili with a heel of stale bread, relaxing beneath the warm sun in the early afternoon. Having bid farewell to Fritz earlier on the walk, I was now fully on my own. I also remained unsettled. These first few days hadn’t clarified anything for me about the merit of my decision to be here, back on the trail.
That said, for all my concern that people would be averse to engaging with me, just the opposite was the case. People kept going out of their way to be welcoming and encouraging. Indeed, it happened yet again soon after. I walked past a boat dock, where three guys were fishing. They asked what I was up to; I asked what they were fishing. They asked how far I was headed; I mentioned my goal, but also shared that I was quite footsore and worn down. Without pause, one offered me the hospitality of a warm cabin and cold beers. That stopped me in my tracks for a minute–the latter wouldn’t do me much good, but the former would beat the hell out of another near-freezing night in the bivy. I just didn’t feel right about potentially exposing them to something I might be carrying, so I passed on the offer and carried onward.
I passed a couple of small clusters of backpackers, then winded inland from the lake, climbing to a grassy field in the hills above it. Really feeling the miles, I crashed onto a picnic bench, staring up at the blue sky. While technically no camping is currently allowed at Burr Oak, I could have easily tucked myself away here, beneath a shelter, and taken the time to recover. I probably should have. But I already felt behind, with nothing yet written from the road, and only one chance–tomorrow night in a hotel–to get much done in the next four or five days. That added urgency to push farther today, in order to minimize tomorrow’s walk to wifi.
Just before arriving at the turnoff for a lodge, I passed a big family, with kids sprinting back and forth and jumping in and out of a creekbed. The father greeted me; before I could respond, his daughter shouted, “we saw two dead baby birds!” It turns out, I wasn’t the only one struggling with the frigid nights. We parted ways and I climbed up to the trailhead. Once again, I slumped onto a bench, staring into a phone that finally had reception, for the first time in hours.
A few minutes later, the father, Alfred, emerged from the trail, headed toward the parking lot to check on another family. We quickly fell into conversation; I explained how I came to Burr Oak and my misgivings about being here. He acknowledged the large gray area which we’re all trying to muddle our way through right now, noting that some people are shocked at what he’s letting his kids do, while others are right on board with it. Zooming out, he mentioned his wife’s reading of Sapiens, which highlights the vast number of species we’ve already wiped out over the course of our history, and believers in Gaia or other earthly deities, who see the world being cleaned during this pandemic, through actions we never would have taken voluntarily. It was, perhaps, more nuanced a discussion of moral relativism than I was capable of in my tired state, but sometimes the sentiment of a statement matters more than the content. Alfred observed, as a recovering addict, that the worst place one can be stuck is between their own ears, and he wished me well in finding my way.
Before we parted, I remarked on how struck I was by the beauty of the surrounding countryside. He beamed and quickly became reflective, recalling how he grew up in New York and spent time in Santa Cruz and Boulder, and never in his life thought he would end up in the midwest. But then, circumstance brought him here for a short stay, and it quickly became a lifetime. Now with four adopted kids, a home, and thousands of acres of public land on which to play, he can’t imagine living anywhere else.
I stepped back onto the trail, laboring downhill through thick trees. Over two days, in the midst of a pandemic, I had been chased away, then invited in. I had been encouraged, first to continue, and then to find my own way. I saw the best of Ohio in many ways, but I also emerged more concerned about what the future holds for people here, for all of us.
