Over the Wire
Drums echoed throughout the canyon as a cult gathering were afoot. "Do you think that's some Austin band preparing fir a gig" Mike asked. "No" I answered, "we'd better get around this brush anyhow".
We crouched and slithered our way along the greenbelt for the first quarter-mile after the trail mysteriously ended. Mesquite branches cut deep, and we held it back in parts for each other... the first one through each section was greeted with nothing but his own profanity and confusion, for the most part.
We'd been trekking for a good half-mile before we saw Nathan, who had pulled ahead of the group of three neer-do-wells, toying with a section of barbed-wire fence. It was a hard sell, but everyone climbed over the razor sharp wire. Even myself, wearing shorts and sandals.
A good friend holds the barbed wire for you... a great friend gives you a shoulder to climb , when wanting for a hand-support. Most of the trees around were weak, rotting, or dead, and I gripped Nate's shoulder as I crossed it. My sandals were protesting a bit too much, and part of them obviously wanted to become tangled in the fence, but I made it across. We were so close to the water it was evident in the air. But the section of stream we were hiking along was more stagnant and disgusting than the worst of the brush.
Even rot and tanglewood can't compare to the pure stillness that is a muddy Texas creek. We had no illusions of walking down to the water and "floating it".
Time dragged on like a millstone, and we trudged onward like slaves, bent over, trying to clear the lowest branches of the driest trees. We were obviously carving our own path... the rest of the hiking community be damned. We were the greenbelt.
Things went on like that for a good while... Mike was always close behind, despite the 35 pounds of ice and liquor in his backpack (which was constantly becoming lighter). By the end of the first mile, the mad Irishman was barreling through trees, tearing up old stumps and rocks, and leaping fence remnants. But where brawn fails, it fails all around. The lot of us were constantly assessing the situation and toward which direction we should pour our combined barbarity.
After hiking along the fenceline of someone's private property, under mesquite and juniper , for a good forty minutes, with muddy feet, we reassessed the situation. We nearly ached from bending over and stooping so low, for so long. It was time to turn back. The setting sun's rays seemed to give us halcyon condolences as we trudged back toward Mike's car.
When we finally crossed over the barbed wire again, and had walked a few meters, Nathan stopped cold in his tracks.
His eyes surveyed the scene as if in disbelief... it was the end of the same trail we'd followed since crossing the stream, at the onset. The same spot, going the other direction, had brought us into the deepest, darkest woods... pitting us against barbed wire and mud, ants and spiders, rotting debris and ground so soft it stinks when stepped upon.
Nate surveyed the scene, and almost unbelievably, a second pathway appeared to us... a clear continuation of the original path upon which we'd embarked. Bright, obvious, and wide, it beckoned us back into the greenbelt.
Somehow, we'd missed this branch of the trail during our first trek eastward. As we made up for lost time, continuing toward our original destination, we could've been winged palomino. We'd eventually catch up with the waterfall before sunset, and have the pictures to prove it. And in the water's cold embrace, our cuts would be mended.
I chuckled to myself. The best solutions in life are always the most easily overlooked.
We crouched and slithered our way along the greenbelt for the first quarter-mile after the trail mysteriously ended. Mesquite branches cut deep, and we held it back in parts for each other... the first one through each section was greeted with nothing but his own profanity and confusion, for the most part.
We'd been trekking for a good half-mile before we saw Nathan, who had pulled ahead of the group of three neer-do-wells, toying with a section of barbed-wire fence. It was a hard sell, but everyone climbed over the razor sharp wire. Even myself, wearing shorts and sandals.
A good friend holds the barbed wire for you... a great friend gives you a shoulder to climb , when wanting for a hand-support. Most of the trees around were weak, rotting, or dead, and I gripped Nate's shoulder as I crossed it. My sandals were protesting a bit too much, and part of them obviously wanted to become tangled in the fence, but I made it across. We were so close to the water it was evident in the air. But the section of stream we were hiking along was more stagnant and disgusting than the worst of the brush.
Even rot and tanglewood can't compare to the pure stillness that is a muddy Texas creek. We had no illusions of walking down to the water and "floating it".
Time dragged on like a millstone, and we trudged onward like slaves, bent over, trying to clear the lowest branches of the driest trees. We were obviously carving our own path... the rest of the hiking community be damned. We were the greenbelt.
Things went on like that for a good while... Mike was always close behind, despite the 35 pounds of ice and liquor in his backpack (which was constantly becoming lighter). By the end of the first mile, the mad Irishman was barreling through trees, tearing up old stumps and rocks, and leaping fence remnants. But where brawn fails, it fails all around. The lot of us were constantly assessing the situation and toward which direction we should pour our combined barbarity.
After hiking along the fenceline of someone's private property, under mesquite and juniper , for a good forty minutes, with muddy feet, we reassessed the situation. We nearly ached from bending over and stooping so low, for so long. It was time to turn back. The setting sun's rays seemed to give us halcyon condolences as we trudged back toward Mike's car.
When we finally crossed over the barbed wire again, and had walked a few meters, Nathan stopped cold in his tracks.
His eyes surveyed the scene as if in disbelief... it was the end of the same trail we'd followed since crossing the stream, at the onset. The same spot, going the other direction, had brought us into the deepest, darkest woods... pitting us against barbed wire and mud, ants and spiders, rotting debris and ground so soft it stinks when stepped upon.
Nate surveyed the scene, and almost unbelievably, a second pathway appeared to us... a clear continuation of the original path upon which we'd embarked. Bright, obvious, and wide, it beckoned us back into the greenbelt.
Somehow, we'd missed this branch of the trail during our first trek eastward. As we made up for lost time, continuing toward our original destination, we could've been winged palomino. We'd eventually catch up with the waterfall before sunset, and have the pictures to prove it. And in the water's cold embrace, our cuts would be mended.
I chuckled to myself. The best solutions in life are always the most easily overlooked.