With my children's Spring Break fast approaching, my wife preparing for a business trip, and my daughter getting her turn for the annual vacation with the grandparents, I found myself wondering what I could do with my son for the week. At fourteen, he is at the age where spending time away from his friends and his obsession with X-Box Live, all factor in on what he might consider a good time with his father. Due to other commitments, including a medical appointment later in the week, we were consigned to a two-day window to plan something enjoyable for both of us.
After ruling out a trip to Chicago (the Cubs were out of town) and some other inexpensive options, I decided to take Ethan on a trip to southern Indiana to hike the trails of Harrison-Crawford State Forest. Located on the Ohio River near the historic town of Corydon, Indiana, the state forest offered over forty miles of remote hiking trails and the prospect of very few hikers and campers this early in the season.
I had been to the area once as a small boy, accompanying my dad and one of his hunting buddies on a trip to scout deer hunting locations. It was a quick trip, spent mostly driving up and down dirt roads, but my recollection of the area was one of lush forests and towering hills, something totally foreign to me after growing up in the glacier-leveled plains of central and northern Indiana. Instead of meticulously planning every facet of the trip (something I am notorious for doing when planning family vacations), we decided to just pack up and go, even leaving open the possibility of camping under the stars.
Tuesday morning dawned unseasonably warm with temperatures near seventy degrees. After loading up the Rendevous with the bare essentials (including a compass, trail food, gloves and two rain ponchos), we hit the road. Unlike the typical family trip where the kids sit in the backseat and listen to their I-Pods or watch a DVD, Ethan sat up in front with me and we talked a great deal about school, sports, girls, and life in general. The conversation was refreshing. It was the sobering kind of interaction that reminds a parent that their child is two-thirds of the way to adulthood.
Not counting a quick pit stop south of Indianapolis, we made the three hundred mile drive in a little over five hours, arriving in Corydon around three o'clock. Since Ethan seemed less than thrilled about spending the night outdoors, we stopped at a local motel, checked-in, and got a quick bite to eat before heading to the state forest. With the temperature now at a balmy 84 degrees, we rolled down the windows and drove silently through the countryside. Turning off of State Road 62 to enter the state forest, we paused for a moment on a bridge over the Blue River, both of us entranced by the sight of two kayakers paddling down stream in the bluish-green water.
A few miles down the road we stopped at the entrance of O'Bannon Woods State Park. While Ethan waited patiently in the car, I spent five minutes talking to a cheerful park ranger who seemed very happy to see us. He asked about our plans, pointing out that it was not uncommon for people to get lost on the miles of trails, and stated rather mischievously that they had never lost a hiker for more than a day or two. After collecting a trail and topography map, we set out for a trail that followed a ridge line overlooking the Ohio River. Other than a lone hiker and two people on horseback, it appeared that we had the entire park to ourselves.
We were both excited as I parked the car near the trail head. Ethan laughed out loud while I struggled to put on a fanny pack filled with our supplies, especially when I put it on backwards the first time. The view from atop the bluff was surreal, almost as if we had stumbled back to the 1800's. No barges, boats or industry as far as the eye could see. The trail was well-maintained and clearly-marked. Two hawks circled overhead, effortlessly rising and falling with the wind as we walked silently, taking our time to enjoy the sweeping views from the ridge, and pausing at several spots to stand on the rocky outcroppings that perched over the river.
While I cautiously approached each overlook, Ethan negotiated the rocks with athletic ease, completely oblivious to the fact that one missed step could lead to a tragic end. Walking fifty paces in front of me, he shouted suddenly for me to join him on a large, flat rock that formed one half of a chute that led straight down to the forest between the river and the bluff.
"What is it?" I asked, surprised to hear the sheer excitement in his voice.
"I found a big black snake!" he replied. "Quick... Grab the camera out of your pack!"
By the time I had extracted the camera from my pack and joined him on the outcropping, the snake had vanished, undoubtedly annoyed at being interrupted during his late afternoon sunning session. We explored the rock for a few minutes, marveling at the dozens of cracks and crevices where snake could have sought refuge. I was actually somewhat relieved that it had been a black snake. Southern Indiana is Northern Copperhead territory, and one of their favorite places to den is in rocky crevices. Disappointed that he wouldn't have a picture to show his friends, Ethan finally agreed to give up his search and we continued on our way.
Fifteen minutes later we emerged from the trail at the bottom of the ridge. Instead of continuing on another trail that angled away from the river, we decided to walk back to the west between the bluff and the river. There were no trails leading up to the base of the cliffs, which presented us with the challenge of navigating the steep hillside filled with brambles and fallen trees.
While Ethan led the way, I carefully followed behind, choosing each step with the knowledge that a fall would probably result in a bruised backside. Sure enough, about fifty feet from the base of the cliff, my left foot slipped in the wet foliage and I tumbled first sideways and then downhill about eight feet. Pulling myself up with the help of a sapling, I was surprised to see that other than a few small cuts on my calf and a wet behind, I was none the worse for wear. Ethan, who was standing at the top of the incline, laughed for several minutes as I wearily made my way up the rest of the grade.
"Not very graceful, dad." he chuckled good-naturedly, extending his hand to mine for a final assist to join him at the top. "I'm surprised you didn't fall all the way down to the river!"
"It was the fanny pack's fault." I replied, before taking a paper towel out of the man purse and dabbing my bleeding calf. "It threw me off balance, probably because I packed those extra batteries in the left pocket."
All Ethan could do was smile as he scrambled up twenty feet to a rock ledge that appeared to run for several hundred feet beneath the outcroppings. Suddenly feeling my age and nursing my bruised pride, I declined Ethan's invitation to join him on the ledge, and instead followed beneath him, snapping pictures and watching every damn step I took. The rock ledges were both foreign and fascinating. Large and small crevices dotted the rocky formations, the product of millions of years of weather and erosion. Around a small bend, several hundred feet from our starting point, we came across an actual cave. The entrance was about ten feet wide and six feet tall. Ethan made a brief attempt to climb up to the cavern, but thought better of it when he realized the rock wall actually inverted outward.
Exhausted after about two hours of climbing and exploring, we both decided it was time to head back up to the car. Ethan had drained his water bottle in the first hour of our adventure and we were now sharing my half-drunk bottle. The point at which we chose to descend was fairly steep, and in a fearful moment of history repeating itself, I decided to tie a 25 foot line from a sturdy tree and rappel-stagger-slide down a particularly steep portion of the hill. I made it to the bottom of the incline without incident (although I wouldn't describe it as a graceful maneuver). Ethan was excited about the prospect of doing the same until I informed him that he couldn't because it was his job to untie the rope and throw it down to me. We couldn't leave it behind. Determined not to suffer the same fate as his father, Ethan did an excellent job shifting his weight to his down foot and slid down the incline without incident.
After some more good-natured ribbing back and forth, we made our way to the bottom of the hill and walked back to the base of the ridge. We stopped for a water break fifty yards from the river and during our break discovered two walking sticks that had carved, pointed ends. Tired, and hungry, we used the walking sticks to guide us back up the ridge. Watching my son navigate the long, upward stretch of trail with ease and grace, I couldn't help but feel a tinge of both sadness and joy knowing that my youth was gone, but Ethan's wonderful journey was just beginning.
At the trail head we stopped once again to admire the beauty of the river below us. The two hawks who had sailed overhead at the beginning of our trek were still floating effortlessly in the warm, humid air. We considered briefly taking the walking sticks with us for our next day's hike, but instead decided to set them next to the trail head marker for the next hikers who would follow in our footsteps.
As we trampled through a small meadow back to our car, I smiled and hummed an old Dan Fogleberg song. It had been a good day for both of us, father and son.
