Ohio

Ohio

The Buckeye Trail

295 Miles

August 24, 2001 – September 12, 2001

After months of preparation, the time to walk out the door had finally arrived. I had prepared at length, studying maps and reading everything I could find about the many trails that lie ahead. Six years, forty-eight states, and twenty-four thousand miles lay ahead of me. America was waiting.

I had slept well, and was refreshed and ready to go. Dodger and I, along with my brother, Carl, enjoyed my mom’s breakfast—fried eggs and home fries, an old favorite. I didn’t expect another home cooked meal for some time, as I would literally be living on America’s highways, back roads, and trails. With breakfast over, I hugged Carl and my mother Elaine good-bye, shouldered my pack, and took a last look at the small patch of land that my father had left me when he died. It was shortly after eight o’clock, and Dodger and I were on our way. We hiked off the porch and out of the valley in the late August morning heat, climbing the biggest hill we would see in several days.

An hour of hiking, and we were already in the small, familiar town of Bloomingdale, Ohio. In many ways, this town is home to me; not only did I attend grade school here, but I also served as the local Boy Scout leader for twelve years. On the west edge of town, I noticed the largest catalpa tree that I had ever seen. The heart shaped leaves were at least as big as my hand and the tree stood taller than the sizable farmhouse next to it. The trunk was bulky and would take three men to get their arms around it. It was covered with the long cigar shaped fruit that is it’s annual bounty. I had never noticed this tree before, even though I’d driven by it hundreds of times on my to work, to scout meetings, or to the post office. In all those busy years, I’d never noticed it was a catalpa. Funny thing about walking: you get to see, feel, and experience the world around you. You don’t get that so much on a bike, and you certainly don’t get it in a car. In noticing this catalpa, I could tell that I was already seeing this town with different eyes—a wanderer’s eyes, and not those of a man who had practically lived here all his life.

As a tourist on foot, I would be visiting a part of Ohio that once thrived from the bustling coal and steel industries—the Steel Belt, now known as the Rust Belt. Bloomingdale is one of numerous small towns that dwindled from prior prominence. It is now merely a suburb of the larger town of Steubenville, some fifteen miles to the east. A similar suburb is the village of Hopedale, our next destination on our hike across America. In Hopedale, we stopped at a local pub that I had frequented often over the years. In this familiar setting, Dodger and I had a bite of lunch and a couple of beers to celebrate our first day of hiking.

We marveled at the fact that we were already a curiosity, even though we’d barely hiked eight miles of the planned 24,000. Passing cars had slowed down as people looked at us, and more than one pedestrian had stopped to ask us where we were headed. Everyone we talked to seemed impressed, not just because we were hiking across the country … but also because we had walked eight whole miles down Route 22! Dodger and I felt that we had earned little credibility yet, and that people should not be impressed with us … yet. Eight miles is not a great distance for a long-distance hiker, and the terrain was relatively easy. Plus, we were carrying particularly light packs, having worked diligently to reduce our pack weight for this journey. The average backpacker carries more than 40 pounds over more challenging terrain than Dodger and I would encounter on our first day. We each carried less than 20 pounds over the roads—an easy load, and an easy trail, for two seasoned hikers. Still, everyone else seemed amazed at us modern-day hoboes, road-walking the gentle terrain of Ohio. When I saw these reactions, I realized something: not only was I seeing my hometown differently, but my old friends and neighbors were seeing me differently as well.

Around 3:00 that first day, we reached the Greenwood Cemetery and the gravesite of my father, Frank Rogers. Here, Dodger left me alone for a while so I could pay my respects. My father’s passing away seven months before had been a major factor in my decision to hike. I remembered the summer evening in 1998 when I told my dad of my dream to thru-hike the Appalachian Trail.

“Are you going to quit your job?” he asked, concerned that this might be a foolish dream to chase.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “I hope not.”

“For God’s sake, Daniel,” he said, clearly worried. “You can’t quit your job.”

As it turned out, I didn’t have to quit my job. I was able to chase that dream and suffered no threat to my job security.

Then, on a cool Thanksgiving Day in 2000, I told him of my dream to hike across America, and shared with him my meticulously developed plans.

“Are you sure you can afford this, your sure the math is right?” he asked.

“I checked it three times, Dad.”

“Then,” he slowly replied, “I think you should chase your dream.”

Six weeks later, he was gone, the victim of a third and final heart attack. My father’s death showed me that I am indeed mortal, and that I have only so much time to do the things in life I feel are important. My dear friend and fellow long-distance hiker, Eb “Nimblewill Nomad” Eberhart, has a saying that really hits home with me now: “When you’re young, your ‘one-of-these-days’ list is pretty short, and you have all the time in the world. As you grow older, it seems your list gets longer and longer while your time grows shorter and shorter. Best start working on that list while you’re young.” I felt good, knowing that I was working on that list with my father’s blessing. I knew that it was the right time for me to attempt this hike.

Our first day ended in Cadiz, Ohio—another familiar town to me. We would spend the night at the home of my friends, Scott and Donna Pendleton. I was happy to reach this first destination; the hot afternoon pavement had taken a toll on my soft feet, and I was ready for some rest.

The day was already warming up when we left Cadiz early the next morning. I had underestimated the potential for foot problems when road walking, and today looked to be another tough day of walking on hot pavement. I tried to focus less on my aching feet and more on today’s goal: Fort Steuben Scout Camp near Deersville, Ohio, where we would meet my old Boy Scout troop. The road led us through the reclaimed strip mine areas of Harrison County—the rusted ghosts of the Steel Belt. With the lack of scenery, it was difficult not to concentrate on my feet, which were swollen and blistering by now, slowing our pace considerably. After fourteen miles of painful walking, I was glad to see Deersville, where we found the Scouts, along with my twelve-year-old nephew, Frankie, waiting and ready to walk a bit of the journey with us. This, along with a stop for homemade ice cream, gave my spirits a much-needed lift. Also, the trail itself now changed from hot pavement to dirt road—much easier terrain for my weary feet. This was the Buckeye Trail. It led our little group directly to the Boy Scout camp property. These hills held great meaning for me; it was here that I first set up a tent as an eleven-year-old Boy Scout. I spent many days and nights here as a youth, learning about nature and outdoor skills as I matured from an awkward Tenderfoot to an Eagle Scout.

The Scouts I hiked with also held great meaning for me. I had watched many of them transform from young Tenderfoots to the upper ranks of Scouting as well—following in my footsteps, in a sense, much as they did now as we strolled down the dirt road that was the Buckeye Trail. I’ve remained a registered member of the troop and have accompanied these boys on many outings in recent years. I had long been a role model for the Boy Scouts in the area, I was proud of the fact that we were all together as I began chasing a new dream. I hoped that they would take from my example that being an individual and chasing dreams is okay—even if it means doing something out of the ordinary, like hiking across the country. I emphasized this during the afternoon ceremony.

 When I awoke the next morning at the scout camp, I knew I was in trouble. My body felt as if it had been beaten, and it was a challenge just to stand on my tender, blistered feet. Most of my hiking in the past had been done on trails—not on roads. Walking on the pavement was much tougher on my feet than I had imagined. In addition, I hadn’t hiked much in the preceding months. Dodger, having already completed a thousand miles that summer on the Appalachian Trail, had no problems, his feet were rough and tough, mine, however were soft and tender.

I walked gingerly out of camp to rejoin the Buckeye Trail, which would be our home for most of the hike through Ohio. The 1,300–mile Buckeye Trail circles the entire state of Ohio and is marked by blue blazes on trees, telephone poles, and other roadside objects that can serve as markers.

The days through Ohio warmed up quickly, and the late summer air was heavy with humidity. The countryside was a mixture of hardwood forest, pastureland, and crop fields. The rural roads led us past houses and farms, and along the tall rows of corn and other crops. We walked beneath the shade of the diverse population of hardwood trees in the area. One of the houses we passed was home to a friendly dog—so friendly, in fact, that he wanted to join us on our hike across America! Up the lane he came, followed shortly by a young girl, who obviously was chasing it. Dodger and I helped her corral the dog, and she took him back home. Sixty seconds later, the dog was back, his heart set on at least taking a morning stroll with us. The girl again gave chase. We laughed and chased—or played, from the dog’s point of view—until we had caught him again. This bit of excitement over, we bid the young girl a good day and meandered on down the country road.

My feet grew tougher day by day and we soon found ourselves in the small town of Old Washington, which was one of the first areas of Ohio to be settled by westward-bound pioneers. One route they followed was Zane's Trace; built in the 1790’s, the footpath was rugged and not fit for travel by wagons. It led west from Wheeling, Virginia, through present-day Zanesville, Ohio, and south to Maysville, Kentucky, and eventually all the way to Nashville, Tennessee. The Trace was used by those returning on foot from New Orleans and Natchez after floating their goods down the river to be sold at the ports along the Mississippi River. Settlers and missionaries also used this route in their efforts to bring salvation to the Indians of the Ohio frontier.

Old Washington is also remembered as the site of a skirmish between the Union army and General John Hunt Morgan’s Confederate Calvary. The Cavalry was captured during a later raid and sent to the Ohio Penitentiary to serve time. In Ohio, they were emphatically known as “Morgan’s Raiders”; these men were viewed as scoundrels and horse thieves—hence the prison sentence, as opposed to time in a prisoner-of-war camp. In November 1863, Morgan and six of his officers escaped the prison by tunneling from their cells into the courtyard, where they scaled the prison walls and ran to freedom. This was the farthest north any Confederate unit ever made it into Union territory.

One thing I have always loved about my home state of Ohio is that it is so rich in history. From the first settlers in the late 1700’s to her role in the Civil War, from the eight Unites States Presidents born here to Thomas Edison and the Wright Brothers, the first professional football team in Canton, Ohio, and the first professional baseball team in Cincinnati, Ohio, the state abounds with interesting history.

As Dodger and I walked south from Old Washington, we found another kind of history—a kind you can’t find in a brochure or a history book. This is the silent history that has been left behind by the millions of settlers who tamed the Ohio wilderness. With it are more questions than answers. Here beside the road were four weathered gravestones standing solemnly inside a small, fenced-in cemetery. I read the faded names of John Ledman and his wife, Catherine, as well as their son and daughter. It appeared that John, who died in 1854, was a Revolutionary War Veteran. Catherine died several years later at the age of 73. Both of their children were born in the 1790s and died in the 1880s. This little catacomb was all that remained of their lives. I wondered to myself, where was their house located? Where are their descendents today? Do their great-great grandchildren come to visit this site often? Do any Ledmans live near here? Did they achieve their dreams before they passed away? What were their dreams? I had much to ponder as I continued down the Ohio back road, so rich with the ghosts of Ohio’s past.

The morning temperature was crisp, as I lay awake thinking back to the days I would wake to the sound of an alarm clock. This morning was much different than those spent back at the factory. The pace had changed; I had no set time, and I could awaken of my own volition—not the alarm clocks. Today I woke gently as the sun warmed my face. I peered down from my perch beside the fire tower at the foggy landscape of Seneca Lake below me. The birds were singing and the sun was working hard to burn through the morning fog hovering on the lake below. As the fog thinned the lake surface turned a fiery red, reflecting the rays of the morning sun. Dodger and I sat in silence, watching the show that Mother Nature was putting on for us.  Soon the sun climbed higher, ending the fiery show.

Our morning walk led us past a monument for the USS Shenandoah. On September 3, 1925, the dirigible had exploded and crashed. The Shenandoah was a U.S. Navy airship and was built Lakehurst, New Jersey, as a weapons system, flying laboratory, and scouting vessel. It took sixteen months and a $1.5 million to build. When completed, the immense airship was 680 feet long and 93 feet high—that’s over two football fields long and nine stories high! Its first flight was on September 4, 1923. Who would have dreamed then that just 24 months later, in a storm over southeastern Ohio, it would crash? The Shenandoah had completed 58 flights, logging 740 flight hours. This would be its last. The explosion and crash occurred during the Noble County Fair; everyone there would have seen it. They all must have watched helplessly as the ship exploded, splitting into several sections and falling to the ground in a fiery crash. In a time when even airplanes were an uncommon sight, this must have been horrifying. Fourteen crewmembers died that day, including the Captain, Lieutenant Commander Zachary Lansdowne. Interstate 77 covers much of the crash site today, although three sites have been preserved.

On I hiked, daydreaming of the early days of aviation and remembering my time aboard the USS America when I worked as an Aviation Electrician’s Mate in the Navy. I was barely paying attention to my actual surroundings and nearly stepped on a bright yellow creature just off the trail. I stopped dead in my tracks. I had never seen such a creature.

“Dodger! I shouted. “Hey, Dodger! You gotta come back here and see this thing!”

Dodger quickly returned, and we both decided it was a caterpillar. We marveled at the Jiminy Cricket–looking creature before us. Its head was much too big for its body, and it had a painted on mustache, which made it look like a caricature of a French artist. Two huge black circles atop its head appeared to be eyes, but were just markings to make it look more formidable to its opponents. I took several pictures of the fellow and later learned that it would someday be a tiger swallowtail butterfly. It was certainly the most interesting caterpillar I have ever seen.

The next morning was gray and dreary, and rain looked eminent. We followed the blue blazes of the Buckeye Trail south out of the town of Sharon, along County Route 39. Just outside of town, just when we were too far out to go back and seek refuge, the rain began to fall. We hiked all day through the soft and steady falling rain. We eventually turned on to Route 78, a busy road with trucks hauling coal and logs from the rich Ohio countryside. We passed another of the USS Shenandoah crash sites and stopped to enjoy lunch at the picnic table there.

Tonight we had planned to camp in the Ohio Power Companies “Gamelands”. The Ohio Power Company owns this strip mined—and now reclaimed—land and maintains it as a wilderness area. It is a way for them to give back to the people from whom they have taken so much. Just short of our campsite we met Jim Sprague, the former president of the Buckeye Trail Association. An older gentleman with a smile and a glow about him, he chatted with us about our journey and told us that the rest of his trail maintenance crew was camped near our campsite.

The rain had stopped by the time we reached the campsite, and we had little trouble picking out the maintenance crew. This was quite a group of trail maintainers; Herb Hulls was the current Buckeye Trail president; Paul Daniels was the American Discovery Trail state coordinator; and Mike Minium was the U.S. Orienteering Federation’s vice president. Along with Jim, and another volunteer named Don; they were building a 100-foot long footbridge across the bogs and marsh of the lowlands that lay just to the south. We enjoyed dinner with them as the rains returned. When the mosquitoes appeared, hungry for their dinner, we all headed for our respective tents.

I was nearly asleep when I heard someone calling my name from the darkness. It was my long time friend and former co-worker from the Colgate factory in Cambridge Ohio, Mike Schwager. He had vowed to catch up with me while I was in the area to say Hi. I was quite a ways from Cambridge now and really had not expected to see him, but he had kept his word. With him were his two daughters Lauren and Lisa. We told a few stories and wished each other well, not knowing when we would meet again.

Everything was soaked from the night’s slow, steady rain, making for a cool, misty morning—actually a great day for hiking, as it wouldn’t be too hot. Toting our sopping wet tents in our damp packs, Dodger and I headed out, in search of the new footbridge. We would be the first hikers to use it. We descended the hill to the creek and marsh where we found Herb and company putting the finishing touches on the handrail of a rustic log bridge. Dodger and I walked across the sturdy bridge, the first hikers to use this structure that will ease the hikes of many hikers to come. We thanked them before moving on, continuing our hike along the Buckeye Trail.

Late that morning, Dodger slipped on some wet rocks on the trail. He fell hard, knocking the wind out of him. He rested a minute before removing his pack and climbing back to his feet.

“I’m OK,” he hoarsely groaned, in answer to my un-asked question. I sat with him as he rested for about fifteen minutes. As we resumed hiking, Dodger walked a bit slower, wary of the slippery trail, the legacy of yesterday’s rain. By afternoon we had finished the wooded trail section and were now hiking on back roads again.

“Where’re ya goin’?” We looked up to see a fellow on his porch who had spotted us.

“Louisiana!” we replied in unison. His jaw dropped, but he soon recovered and wished us luck. I’m sure he was wondering why, why anyone would set out to walk from Ohio to Louisiana.

Soon we neared what was obviously a family picnic. Shortly after, we saw a man running from the picnic to the road.

“I’m Jim,” he said, grinning. “Are you hungry?” His wife, Angela, had seen us hiking and thought we might be hungry, so he came to invite us to his family reunion fish fry. He’d caught all of the fish on one of his many fishing excursions; certainly some had come from the Ohio Power ponds we had passed earlier. We talked with Jim and his wife before being given a massive plate of deep-fried catfish with all the fixings. While eating, we were surrounded by the numerous children there who wanted to hear stories of life on the trail. We willingly shared with them the joy we have found hiking the Appalachian Trail and now across Ohio. In return, they told us of their school heroics and of life in southeastern Ohio. When it came time to leave, we bid them all a hearty thank you and reluctantly shouldered our packs. Several of the children asked if they could walk a ways with us, as they just lived down the road. Their parents consented, and the next half-mile was spent with an entourage of local kids laughing and asking more questions. It was quite a scene: two scruffy hikers with an entourage of skipping, running, talkative children. We reached their homes and they walked across their yards towards their houses, Dodger and I walked on, waving and shouting back to them. Soon it was quiet.

An hour or so later we passed a run down shanty of a house with a good ole boy standing in the open front door.

“Hey, ya thirsty?” he yelled up to the road. “I’m just a hillbilly but I’d share a drink with you.”

We stopped again, this time to meet JR. His shack was made from scraps of the houses that the local mining companies had torn down. JR was quite proud of the place, even though it was not yet finished. The bedroom was just a mattress on the floor, against the far wall, and the living room was furnished with an old beaten couch and chair. The plywood floor had not been swept in some time and was cluttered with tools and keepsakes. The kitchen had beautiful cupboards; they seemed out of place in the little shanty. It was home, and he was kind enough to invite us in to enjoy a cold beer with him.

We ended our full day on the sleepy banks of the Muskingham River, looking at Stockport, Ohio, on the other side. Long before airplanes, or even trains, water ruled; it is what connected communities in southeast Ohio, as well as the rest of the world. As the Ohio frontier, then the western edge of American expansion, began to be developed, travel by water was the quickest method available. The problem was that many of the rivers in Ohio were not reliable; they would dry up in the hot summers and were deep and swift in the springtime, making them unsafe to navigate.

The answer to this problem was the Ohio-Erie Canal project, designed to link Lake Erie with the Ohio River and give the small towns along the route access to the business world outside. Logically it would have come along the Muskingham River through the Stockport area, and then south to Marietta. The fight for inclusion on the route was intense, and in the end politics—not logic—ruled. The canal was routed farther west to Chillicothe, then the Ohio State capital, and on south to Portsmouth.

In 1836, however, the Muskingham River valley got its turn at being developed when a series of locks and dams were built. These would allow year-round navigation of the entire river. A person could now boat from Zanesville all the way to Marietta and the Ohio River. The cost of the project was $1.63 million, an astronomical amount for the time. The river communities boomed, however, and industry grew up and down the river. Competition from the trucking and rail industries, along with major repair costs, brought the locks to a close in 1948. The entire system is still in place today, and the state of Ohio is currently looking at it as a potential recreational draw for the area. It is the only complete hand-operated lock-and-dam system left intact in the nation.

The next day, I saw my first North Country Trail and American Discovery Trail markers. These two long trails are both a part of the National Trails System, and both pass through southern Ohio, following, for the most part, the Buckeye Trail Route. The North Country Trail is more than 4,000 miles long and stretches from the Finger Lakes region of New York west to North Dakota. The American Discovery Trail reaches from Delaware to San Francisco. Neither of these two trails is completely off-road just yet, but both do have completed routes that can be hiked in their entirety.

Labor Day came and went, and we continued our walk through Ohio. We walked through the Trimble Wildlife Area, only to find a trash dump at a trail summit. It was very disheartening. I felt like the American Indian in the “Keep America Beautiful” campaign of early 1970s. He stands there, a tear running down his cheek at the pain of seeing the utter disregard for our land that so many people have. A few days before, we had hiked around the Wolf Creek Wildlife Area. No roads pass through this area, and the Ohio Department of Natural Resources has decided not to allow a footpath to be built through it either. The reason? It would be disruptive to the wildlife. I’m confused with this policy. It’s legal to trap, hunt, ride a four-wheeler, and evidently dump your trash in a wildlife area. But a footpath has been deemed too invasive? What a conundrum.

Later in the day while taking a break along side of the desolate dirt road, I noticed a bee that appeared to be stuck in a flower. I had never seen a bee stuck in a flower before, so I curiously moved closer to get a better look. Sure enough, his pollen-gathering nose was stuck right in that flower. He was a buzzing as hard as he could, but could not get out. I looked even closer to learn the source of the flower’s grip: a tiny white spider. It had apparently lain in wait for something to come along, and this bee was the unlucky critter. When it landed, the spider attacked and held on with all his might. I watched for several minutes as the monumental struggle of life and death continued. Finally, the bee surrendered. The spider had won this battle against a beast at least five times its size.

Several days later, I called home to check in. I learned that my eight-year-old niece, Samantha, had broken her arm while doing cartwheels. Her arm was in a cast, but she would be fine. I sat and realized that, as I traverse along the back roads of southern Ohio, I sometimes forget that there is another world out there—the world I left behind. Oftentimes, all that exists for me is my current space; and my concentration is primarily on my next sources of water and food.

I was soon surrounded in the tranquility and beauty of Hocking Hills State Forest. I first came to these hills when I was eleven years old as a young Boy Scout. The sandstone cliffs rise 70 to 100 feet above the musky forest floor. The stream that runs through the ravine is a swirling cavalcade of water that flows and drops again and again through the gorge that is known as Hocking Hills.

Dodger was well ahead of me, and I walked these hills alone, but somehow I didn’t feel alone. I stopped several times as wave after wave of emotion passed through me. Eventually I gave in to my emotion, and sat gazing distantly at the forest around me.

It was a dreary day, the sky being the color of dishwater—no real color at all, just a faint hint of gray. As I sat in the forest, I imagined I was in an abandoned old house, littered with a world of ghosts and noises of the creatures that make these woods their home. I was more aware than usual of my status of visitor in these woods. I listened for the skitterings of creatures, a chipmunk, or mouse perhaps, but only heard the sibilant breezes through the trees. The trees were mostly young and thin-trunked, thanks to the history of logging in the area. There were also some old and gnarled ones still standing, their branches high, their trunks thick with age. These were the ghosts for me, the ancient inhabitants of this abandoned old house of a forest. I thought about how these same woods must have looked three hundred years before and about the skeletons it had seen over the years—skeletons of animals, skeletons of trees, skeletons of old roads, skeletons of people. Skeletons of dreams.

The Shawnee and Miami tribes once made their home in these forests. Their skeletons, their spirits, still haunt this old house of logs, leaves, and dirt. Tecumseh, Chief Logan, Blue Jacket, Cornstalk, Little Turtle, Black Fish, Black Hoof, Pontiac, Tarhe, Simon Girty, and Daniel Boone have all walked among these hills. At the turn of the nineteenth century, as more settlers streamed into Ohio, the Shawnee and Miami people fought hard to keep this land. Tecumseh had a grand plan of uniting all of the Native American tribes in the untamed western country into a coalition to expunge the Americans from the western lands forever. He traveled far and wide, building this great coalition of over 3,000 natives. At one point, warriors from the Wyandot, Mingo, Miami, Kickapoo, Delaware, Shawnee, Ottawa, Ojibwe, Potawatomi, Chickamauga, Fox, Sauk, and Mascouten were in the alliance.

In the fall of 1811, Tecumseh went south to recruit the Chickasaw, Choctaw, Creek, and Cherokee into the alliance. He left his brother, The Prophet in charge back in Ohio, giving him specific instructions to avoid, at all costs, a confrontation with the Americans. William Henry Harrison, later to become President of the U.S., was responsible for settling the Ohio frontier. Playing on The Prophet’s personal greed for fame and recognition, he tricked Tecumseh’s brother into engaging in battle while Tecumseh was away. The Indians were soundly defeated, and Tecumseh’s years of effort were quickly undone. The thousands of Indians that had gathered in western Ohio and Indiana dispersed back to their own villages, dejected and worried about the imminent struggle with the Americans for their own lands. Tecumseh’s dream for a native coalition died with him during the war of 1812 when he was killed in Canada at the Battle of Thames. His burial place is unknown.

As I sat in deep thought, nearly overwhelmed with all that ran through my mind, I frantically wrote my thoughts down, and in the end came up with a poem.

As we cut into Mother Earth

To rob her heart,

Oh, my friend, I hear you cry,

And to this day I wonder why

The words you spoke we could not hear.

All I can do, my friend, is add a tear.

We didn’t understand then your wisdom and foresight,

So now we dwell in our own refuse.

We wrote down your words and still preach them today

But we have yet to hear what you had to say.

Oh, where are the bear, the buffalo, the wapiti?

We have traded them to make room for hay

And now the silence of your forest

Is disrupted by the trucks that haul Mother Earth away.

A tree will lean to get to the light

Nature is that way

But what will the tree do when there is no more light?

How many more mountaintops will we blow up

To make room for another ski resort?

How many more marshes will we drain and fill

To make room for another Wal-Mart?

Oh, Tecumseh, will we ever listen to your words

And comprehend your wisdom?

Or will we just add a tear?

Ohio continues to suffer from a serious drought, and the waterfalls and swirls here have been reduced to a mere trickle. Ironically, water damage from a flood a few years ago is the reason for the massive construction project that is taking place in the gorge as we hike through. This is a very heavily visited area, so the forest service is putting in sidewalks to make the area handicapped-accessible as well as to limit the damage done by the masses of people who come to see the beauty of Hocking Hills. We pass through quietly, the only visitors today with backpacks on, and soon we are back out on the back roads that have become our home.

We later reached the weathered Grove Hopewell Church. Like many of the churches we’ve passed in southern Ohio, Grove Hopewell was built long before plumbing was common, and still operates today with no plumbing. Each church generally has an outhouse—a true blessing for a passing hiker! The outhouses are labeled in many odd ways, denoting one for men and another for women. They generally don’t have a hard time spelling men, but women seems to hold a greater challenge. I have seen them labeled as “wemem” and “wimem,” as well as other misspellings I don’t recall. Time has passed very slowly here, and in many ways it seems we’re no longer in the twenty-first century.

As Dodger and I pitched our tents in the churchyard a pickup truck pulled in, it is the Pastor, Tommy. He is a young man who has not been ordained, but has volunteered to lead the church. His Grandparents attended here, as did he as a child. His children are now the fourth generation in his family to grace the pews of this small country chapel. He had stopped to see what we were doing, and soon asked if we needed anything.

Several mornings later, I hiked through a very scenic little valley, nestled in the rural farming community near Eagle Mills, Ohio. The road seemed deserted, with just a few scattered houses dotting the landscape, most of them in need of repair. I started across a bridge, Salt Creek beneath me. I looked up to see a man walking towards me. His clothes were rumpled, and his hair was uncombed. I smiled thinking that he looked a lot like me. We met in the middle of the bridge.

“What’re ya doin’ out here?” he quickly asked me, and I proceeded to tell him about the hike to see America. I can be a bit long-winded, and I noticed as I talked that he was antsy to speak. I finally finished, and he asked enthusiastically, “Do ya need a bath?”

Well, this took me by surprise; I thought my spiel about my hike would surprise him.

“Pardon me?” I replied, wanting to make sure I had heard him correctly.

He nearly cut me off as he continued. “I reckon with ya walkin’ all over the country, ya don’t get to get cleaned up very often! Do ya need to get a bath?”

“Um … I guess …” I stood there, thinking he wanted to invite me home, when he turned toward the creek below us and pointed downstream.

“See that deep spot down there? That’s whar I get mah bath.”

He grinned at me then turned again, this time pointing to the bank, “And there on the bank, ya see that downed tree?”

I nodded, peering.

“Well, thar’s a flat spot on the top of it. That’s whar I keep m’soap. Feel free to use it if ya need to.”

Unable to say much more, I thanked him for the offer, and soon we each went our separate ways. I didn’t realize we still had people bathing in the streams of America, let alone in the supposedly industrialized and developed state of Ohio, not far from my own backyard!

My time on the Buckeye Trail finally came to an end. My route would take me south to Portsmouth, while the Buckeye Trail continued westward towards Chillicothe. The Buckeye Trail is truly a treasure for the citizens of Ohio and all those who come to hike it. Someday I hope to do the rest, but for now, Kentucky beckons.

The seasons were beginning to change as I neared the end of my Ohio journey. The farmers’ fields were filled with dying crops of yellow, green, and brown, and the roadsides were dappled orange, purple, and yellow with late summer wildflowers. We walked among hills that jutted up some two to three hundred feet around us. One afternoon, Dodger and I stopped to chat with a worn old farmer; his furrowed face weathered from too many years in the sun. I don’t recall the entire conversation, but as we parted he said, “When you get to be my age, every day is a blessing.”

As we walked off, 54-year-old Dodger looked at me and asked, “Why do people have to grow old to figure that out?”

We camped that night along the banks of the Sciota River. The fish were jumping, eating the bugs that hovered just above the water. A few boats came trolling by in hopes of catching a bass or a crappie. As the darkness fell, I watched a muskrat swimming silently up the river. Their was harmony in this world, and calmness ruled as the sun set.

Our last day in Ohio would be spent hiking thirteen miles to the town of Portsmouth. We got an early start that morning; we wanted to have plenty of time to accomplish our town chores, such as laundry and grocery shopping. My radio, Coby was playing classical music as we hiked along. Shortly after nine, the music was interrupted by a news brief. It was the beginning of that horrific day, September 11, 2001. Dodger was ahead of me, and I hollered for him to wait up. We listened together as the second plane crashed into the World Trade Center. In utter disbelief, we continued our journey to Portsmouth. A few cars pulled over to ask if we had heard the news. All faces were stricken, as I’m sure ours were as well. We reached town in the early afternoon, got a hotel room, and remained glued to the news channels the rest of the day.

The mood of our hike had suddenly changed, and I questioned whether my great adventure should continue. Did my country need me elsewhere now? I had served in the Navy, and I thought of visiting the local recruiter to see if I was needed for service again. I decided to wait a while and see if a call came for veterans to serve again.

Taking the next day off, I decided to stop at the local American Legion. It was good to be around other veterans and, while the current attacks controlled much of our discussion early on, we also talked about Portsmouth and its unique history. The men talked proudly of days past when Portsmouth had its own NFL football team, the Portsmouth Spartans. They Spartans were in Portsmouth from 1930 until 1934. In 1931, their 11-3 record was good enough for second place. The Green Bay Packers won their third title in a row by finishing 12-2 that year, and refused to play the Spartans in a championship game. The next season, with a record of 6-1-4, the Spartans finished in a tie for the NFL title with the Chicago Bears. For the first time, two teams finished tied atop the league's standings. The league office arranged for the first playoff game in NFL history. The game was moved indoors to Chicago Stadium because of bitter cold and heavy snow. The arena was small and only had enough room for an 80-yard field. The field came right to the walls and the goal posts were moved from the end lines to the goal lines. The Bears won that day, 9-0, scoring the winning touchdown on a two-yard pass from Bronko Nagurski to Red Grange. The game would lead to divisional play and an annual playoff game to decide the NFL Championship in future years.

In 1933, the Spartans struggled all season to finish with a disappointing 6-5. It would turn out to be their final season in the small town of Portsmouth, Ohio. The NFL was moving into larger cities, and the Spartans moved to Detroit where they established a new tradition as the Lions. My new friends at the American Legion also told me of Branch Rickey, who was born in Portsmouth. He was the General Manager of the Brooklyn Dodgers that had signed Jackie Robinson, breaking the color barrier in professional sports.

It was an educational afternoon, and the talk of football helped me to focus on something other than the tumultuous world around me. Dodger and I further discussed whether we should continue with the hike, or if we stop here due to the inevitable war the country would soon be in. After discussing the matter with family and friends, we decided that the hike is what we could give our country for now. I hoped that, through my online journal, I could provide something positive to others—something to let them know America is still a safe place, and something to bring some good news into their lives.

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Last modified: 05/27/08