Spring Hiking

 “The trail is the thing, not the end of the trail. Travel too fast, and you miss all you are traveling for.”

― Louis L'Amour

 Hiking a well worn trail is meditative. Don't worry so much about the direction you're walking, let the trail decide. Get swept away from worries and enjoy the sights and sounds of nature. The water trickling down the creek and the birds singing their songs in the boughs overhead accompany you as you wander away from your concerns for a bit. It's therapeutic, and for me things always seem to be a little less stressful after a few hours on the trail. And you might even meet some friendly faces on the trail, an unexpected surprise!

Spring and fall are the best times of the year for hiking. The weather is just right, with a cool breeze and warm sun shining down. The colors of the spring wildflowers or autumn leaves enhance the scenery of the trail. This year, there was a late freeze that might have had an impact on flowers this spring, but last year they were beautiful. This hike was on March 27, 2020 at Raven Run, just before the park began restricting access due to the pandemic. I hope we can go back soon to see how things look a year later!

My favorite hiking partner and the prettiest flower on the trail!

 

 

We saw Luke and Ben as they were leaving!

I love the sound of water trickling down the rocks.

 

 

Trillium

Duchman's Breeches

Phlox - Look at the bee fly coming in for a landing!

Phlox and trillium

Twinleaf

Trout lily

An Old Pocket Knife, Part Three

Imagine hearing that you were expecting your first grandchild, a boy, and that you were so excited that you wanted to get your grandson something he could use for the rest of his life, something that he might remember you by. Something that ran alongside your interests. A pocket knife! And so it was that my Papaw June bought me a pocket knife before I could crawl. I had heard about this pocket knife for most of my life, a pocket knife with a green handle that my papaw bought me when I was a baby, to the extent that it had become legendary to me. I wasn't allowed to have the knife yet, so it came into the safe keeping of my Papaw Oak. There it stayed in his knife roll with the rest of his collection, waiting for the right time. Waiting for me to be old enough. 

That time came last fall. I was spending the afternoon with mom at the cabin in Elliott County, and had been thinking about this particular knife for some time. I asked her if I could see it, and the rest of Papaw Oak's knife collection, and she told me the story of the Old Boker Knife, which I wrote about here. 

I asked mom, "Is one of these the one Papaw June bought me when I was born?" 

Mom's eyes scanned the knives, one by one. One of the knives in the roll had some corrosion on the surface of the blades, a faded, cracked handle that looked green with Buck Creek stamped on the side. A Congress knife, with four small blades that folded down and met in the middle. 

"I think that's it." Mom said. She pulled it from the knife roll and handed it to me. 

I opened the blades, testing them with my thumb. The first one I tried was as sharp as a razor! I closed the blades, ran my thumb along the handles like I watched mom do with the Boker, and bounced it in my hand. It was a small pocket knife, but it felt amazing to see it and hold it. It represented something very special to me, the love of both of my grandfathers. One who bought it and envisioned me carrying it, and the other who held on to it for me. I felt like I had waited my whole life for this moment. But I struggled with whether I should take it with me. 

"Maybe it belongs here, in Papaw Oak's collection," I told Mom.

Mom smiled. "Take it with you. It's right where it belongs now," she replied.

I put it in my pocket, alongside my red Case canoe knife. It's with my small pocket knife collection now. I learned that the handle is made from celluloid, and that over time these handles tend to crack and release trace amounts of nitric acid, which can cause corrosion of the blades and even nearby knives if they're kept in close proximity. So I keep it separate from my other pocket knives, and I have plans to clean and restore the blades. Maybe someday I'll carry it with me, like my Papaw June and Papaw Oak both reckoned that I might. 

An Old Pocket Knife, Part Two

Just An Old Boker Knife is a story my mom wrote for her blog, and that I've heard iterations of it a few times in my life. It's one of those family legends, you see. We all have them. Maybe it's tied to some legendary deeds performed by a forebearer, or an ingenious object that was made by hand for a specific purpose. The last time mom told me about the Boker knife was last fall. We were at the cabin where she and Gene share their lives, on the upper porch. I had asked mom if I could see Papaw Oak's knife collection, and specifically I wanted to look at another knife that I'll write about soon. Mom got out an old knife roll. She pointed to one and then another as memories began pouring out. My mom is a natural storyteller, and seeing the Boker knife was the cue that it was time to tell the story. 

Rather than re-tell it word for word, I'll just say that my favorite part of the story of this old pocket knife, that Paw Huff said you probably couldn't get 5 dollars for, is the way it returns to its owner each time. Unexpectedly, at suppertime, when a person's mind is adrift with thoughts from the day and plans for tomorrow as your body begins to relax from a day of hard work and you fill your belly with good food from the table. When mom told the story, she demonstrated the way Papaw Oak looked at the knife, the way his thumbs appraised the handles, and the way he bounced it in his hands. I love that this reflected the way the knife returned to my great-grandfather. The way she told it brought me back to that moment with her. I picked up the knife, bounced it in my hand, and felt the true weight of the knife wasn't necessarily due to its mass, but the memories of my papaw and great-grandfather connected to it.

The story goes on from the end of mom's blog post, after she had the knife repaired and handles replaced for Papaw Oak. For Christmas in 2015, mom gave my brother Kevin and I each a tobacco stick from our papaw's farm, that our papaw and his father rived by hand. Embedded in them, just above our initials, are the original handles from the old Boker knife. They came to us unexpectedly, just after suppertime. They connect us to this nearly 100 year long story, that began with our great-grandfather, continued with our grandfather, and resonated so strongly with our mom. I don't remember Paw Huff, but I miss my Papaw Oak and I wish I could talk to both of them and hear some more stories from them. Whenever I see the tobacco stick with the old Boker knife handle embedded within, I feel like I'm looking at a relic of significance that ties me to my family and my roots that extend deep into those eastern Kentucky hills. And that, to me, is worth more than $5.00. 

Christmas 2015, tobacco sticks and the old Boker knife handles embedded inside, thanks to Mark Eclov.

An Old Pocket Knife, Part One

"A person's pocket knife can tell you a lot about that person. Mine says 'I ain't always that sharp!'" - Anonymous 

Pocket knives have always been an important part of my life. When I was a kid, they were an object of fascination that represented some measure of coming of age ("You can have one when you're older."). Both of my grandfathers carried pocket knives. To me, a pocket knife always seemed to be a mark of preparedness. And in the right hands, they are useful - from carving watermelon or slicing an apple, or in a pinch as a makeshift screwdriver. There are knives in my small collection that connect me to certain specific times in my life. This is one of them.

I can't say that I have always carried a pocket knife throughout my life. But there have been periods of time when it was second nature. During some classes at Morehead State, like Botany and Local Flora, I used my red Case canoe knife that my Papaw June got me to cut leaves and whole plants for the plant collections those classes required. I used this knife a lot during the field work for my PhD. Look closely at the photo below, on the larger blade you can see a chip on the edge near the tip, from where I dropped the knife in a creek and it landed point-down on a rock. Afterwards, I stopped carrying it, afraid I'd break or lose it. I dated the production of this knife to 1997, and while I can't remember when I received it, I believe that it was a Christmas present from my papaw that year. 

For the longest time, I kept the knife stashed in a Shaker box along with other keepsakes. After Papaw June died in 2017 I started carrying it with me in my pocket again. Irregularly at first - I'd forget it on my dresser in the morning, or sometimes I'd be afraid I'd lose it. Over time, I began to feel like something was missing if I didn't have it with me. It's useful, I open a lot of packages with it at work. But often, I just feel glad to have it with me in my pocket. It's a totem in a sense, or a good luck charm. It connects me to my grandfathers in ways I can't explain but that I consider a lot. The knife reminds me of my roots in eastern Kentucky where the tradition of carrying and using pocket knives is strong, so every day I carry a small piece of home around with me. It also has occurred to me that losing pocket knives, and subsequently finding them again is part of the overall experience of carrying a pocket knife. I have a story to write about that, one of these days. 

Case canoe knife, produced sometime in 1997,
and given to me by my grandfather sometime that same year.

School Days

Some of my earliest memories are of school. In fact, I've spent the majority of my life in school! My primary education took place at Concord Head Start, Lakeside and Sandy Hook Elementary Schools, then Elliott County Middle and High School. Immediately after finishing high school, I began undergraduate studies at Morehead State University, initially planning on a major in Computer Information Systems but eventually switching to Environmental Science with a minor in Regional Analysis and Public Policy. Upon graduating, I entered Dr. Tom Barnes' lab in the Forestry department at the University of Kentucky. I studied ways to remove invasive grasses in attempts to restore native Bluegrass savannah habitats in central Kentucky. I became really interested in invasive plant and animal ecology, and was lucky to find a spot in Dr. Lynne Rieske-Kinney's forest entomology lab in the Entomology department, also at UK. I studied forested watershed ecology in headwater streams with eastern hemlock growing in the riparian zone, compared to streams without hemlocks. I spent a lot of time hiking to field sites in eastern Kentucky, at Red River Gorge, Pine Mountain, and Robinson Forest, which was difficult, but looking back it was my favorite part of the experience. 

Almost immediately after finishing my PhD in 2012, I began teaching college classes with very little prior experience. I had part-time teaching gigs at Georgetown College, Morehead State University, and Transylvania University during 2012-2013, eventually landing in my current position, Biology Lab Coordinator and Adjunct Professor at Transylvania.

What this means is that I spent from about 1986 to 2012 consistently going to school, and 2012 - 2021 teaching classes, working on research projects with students, colleagues, and friends. School has always been a huge part of my life. There is something comforting about the academic year schedule. The nervous excitement at the beginning of the fall term, the magic of winter break, the exhausting push through the latter parts of the spring semester, and the sprint that May term represents toward the finish line of summer. Each year represents variations on a theme - you know roughly what will happen but each year expresses itself in completely unique ways. Students bring new observations, new questions, new personalities that make teaching the same sets of courses interesting, I always come away from each course iteration having learned something new. 

It also means that there was always a goal for me to achieve, I knew where the goalposts were and what was required to reach them. "Finish high school." "Get a college degree." "Finish writing the thesis." "Finish and defend the dissertation." "Find a job." Perhaps that explains the anxious feeling I have sometimes, that there is something on the horizon I should be preparing for. For now, my goal is to plan a good hybrid experience for May Term Entomology class, and a summer Environmental Science class that focuses less on Western environmentalism with inclusion of more diverse voices and thought. 

The Gray Drive

There’s nothing quite like driving to cause old memories to stir, even on a chilly, gray day. And, there's no drive better than the drive that takes you through beloved, familiar territory. As the well known landscapes slide by, a carefully selected music mix serves as a soundtrack, and the hum of your tires on the road serve as the final component of the spell to transport you back to another time. The flat, Bluegrass terrain becomes more rolling, and there ahead the hills of eastern Kentucky rise above the countryside. My parents are from those hills, and their parents before them. Seeing them ahead always makes me feel like I'm coming home. 

This particular drive was taking me down the Mountain Parkway to West Liberty. Administering an estate is tough work, even if the estate isn't that large. There are complex emotions wrapped up in the paperwork and account balancing, memories that I'd rather not face again. Mine and Kevin's grandparents' house was built in the 1950's, and my father inherited it from them. Now, the management of the house has come to Kevin and I. That was the reason for the gray drive. 

All was dark in the house when I arrived. The power had been turned off, and had yet to be reconnected. The only sound was the ticking off the clock, marking each second that slipped by into history. The house was disheveled, a symptom of my brother and I attempting to determine the value of the accumulated odds and ends of a person’s life. Grandmother, grandfather, and father, all had lived here before. That was another time, though. All had gone on, like sand that escapes your grasp they fell away into memory. The wall clock continued to tick off each second. Tick, tick, tick. The gray skies overhead dampened the ambient light. On the coffee table in the living room, there was a John Deere cap, the one Jr. Adkins used to wear. Tick, tick, tick... In the kitchen, the pan that Nell would bake Sunday morning biscuits in sat cold and empty, in the dark. Tick, tick, tick. Time moves on, but memories linger. These memories awakened like ghosts during the gray drive down the Mountain Parkway, these and more. 

Perhaps there are no physical ties that bind one to a particular location, but there are mental threads that connect us to places from our histories. Highways serve as a transition from one place to another, but sometimes they unlock memories that transport the driver back to another time. This gray drive bridged past and present, and mingled them with the unknowable future. How the estate administration will play out is yet to be determined, but with each action that my brother and I take, we try to honor the memory of our family in whatever way we can. That is enough.

The Mountain Parkway