A Trail for All Seasons

When I moved to Western North Carolina in my mid-20s, every weekend was a hike, and every hike was a destination: the grassy bald of Max Patch, the sweeping view from Sams Knob, the 100-foot falls at Ramsey Cascades.

Since then, my love for the outdoors hasn’t flagged, and my ideal day is still one spent outdoors, on a trail. But hiking has become less about the view at the end and more about discoveries along the way.

There are probably several reasons for this. The trails are more crowded than they were 10 years ago, making parking at many of my favorite hikes stressful and the walk itself less rejuvenating. And I have more responsibilities now than when I was 25, so entire Saturdays with nothing on the agenda but a scenic drive and long hike are fewer and further between.

These practicalities aside, I’ve begun to appreciate the peaceful beauty of a familiar trail savored for its own sake, rather than as a means to reach some scenic end. These days, when I’m short on time but itching for some woodland solitude, I almost always take off for the same spot, a little-used trailhead about 20 minutes from my house. Even on the most beautiful Saturdays, I encounter few other people as I disappear for an hour or two up a mountain that’s begun to feel like a close friend.

In the spring, I keep my eyes trained to the ground, searching for the first signs of life emerging from the blanket of brown leaves. When I find the first blush of spring beauties or thyme-leafed bluets, I pull out my phone for a commemorative photo. As April arrives, I anticipate reaching a spot a mile and a half up the trail where the land curves like a funnel. An explosion of trilliums covers the hillside as a venerable buckeye tree holds court in the dip, trickles of water seeping around the mound formed by its roots.

Then summer arrives, and I bask in the weight of the greenery that surrounds me like a blanket, blotting out the revving engines from the road below and filtering the blazing sun above. Released from the oppressive heat of the lower elevations, my dog runs in celebratory circles, and I rejoice with each sighting of fire-pink or Turks-cap lily, spots of floral flame amid the lush understory.

As the days turn cool and dry, l turn my attention to fall leaves and mushrooms. The overwhelming green of summer becomes thinner, brighter, more brittle. On sunny days, shafts of light shining through the canopy remind me of stained glass in a cathedral. I drink it in, a tug-of-war for my attention playing out between the light show above and the possibilities below. It’s mushroom season, and a glance in the right direction at the right time could mean a gourmet side dish with dinner tonight. Like an erstwhile lottery winner recalling the moment she hit the jackpot, I remember the time I stumbled upon a 5-pound hen-of-the-woods, watching carefully as I pass the oak tree where it once bloomed.

Then winter comes. The leaves disappear, mushrooms crumble, and the blooms of spring and summer are nowhere to be found. But still, I return to my trail. With the leaves gone, the woods feel big and empty. Views that were hidden throughout the gaudy summer open up. I charge uphill, my heart waking from its sedentary state, blood pumping enthusiastically through my body. Fingertips that have been cold for months now feel warm, and the only chill left is the blush on my cheeks. Up here, snow that was quick-melting or non-existent down below hangs around, painting the landscape clean and bright. If I make it high enough, I can cross a bridge over a chortling stream and walk a snow-covered path through a forest of birch, its bark tantalizingly shiny against the drab background of naked trees.

Even now, in the season of rest, there are signs of life. Rhododendrons and Christmas ferns, their greenery impervious to the freeze, punctuate the landscape. If I look closer, I can spot the mottled green-and-white leaves of the rattlesnake plantain scattered like rosettes in the duff, biding the time until its late summer blooming season.

Regardless what time of year it is, when I pull up to my trailhead, I feel a sense of joyful expectation. No overlook awaits me at the end of the trail. I’m not going to find a waterfall, or a river, or a storied historical site. But I’m going to find something—a flower, a footprint, food, or just a photograph to take with my phone or maybe only in my mind, tucked away for my enjoyment during some future day, when I’m locked up in the world of fluorescent lights and painted walls. My trail always provides.