SLIP SLIDIN' AWAY
I set out at about 6:20 in White Clay Creek State Park. Pleasantly cool mist but no rain. Beautiful surroundings—cool air, lush foliage, so calm, so quiet. And slippery. On the David English trail, I take a sharp turn uphill and whoooop I make my first slip-n-fall. I can't just hop ahead easily out here today.
In the arduous Possum Hill section a few deer stands precede a section alternating between expansive meadows and forest interludes. As the pack begins passing me the often muddy trail shows increasing wear. And most of these people seem to handle the mud and slime with no trouble at all. (My camera malfunctioned after the first few shots; my few pictures show only the better parts of the trail.)
Single track follows the creek for maybe a half-mile before beginning a particularly strenuous ascent into what the map calls the "Great Good Place." Hmf. Though I do find this trail magnificently beautiful (and for geography fans, this segment makes a brief foray into Pennsylvania), right now I don't find much positive to say. For me simply maintaining equilibrium drains as much mental energy as physical—energy that I'd rather use for forward motion. Simply stepping over a series of four or five trees fallen across the trail requires deliberate attention. Eventually I begin the descent. Scrambling for balance on the downhills, I find that horse doots on the trail provide more traction than the trail itself. Any day in which you find yourself thankful to step in horse doots requires serious re-evaluation.
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The course crosses one major stream. The water rises to about mid-calf this year. To help make sure I don't soak my prosthetic socks, I've brought a plastic bag to wrap tightly around the top of my prosthesis. Otherwise the stream crossing poses no problem. Matter of fact, it feels good. Finishing the first loop, I re-stock my supplies and change my prosthetic socks. As I set out on my second loop a drizzle begins. More mud. At points I can hardly move forward. I struggle just to stay upright. I don't dare even try to run in many areas; I'd lose control. At about m19 or 20 I stop to switch to my last batch of dry, clean prosthetic socks. Trails in the Great Good Place have evidently grown longer and steeper. I fight the gravity demons that constantly reach out to grab me and drag my soul back down the hill, trying to make me one with the mud. At points here I have reeeal attitude adjustment issues—again, despite the natural beauty, which I still genuinely adore. I cross the finish line with a new PW (Personal Worst). |
I put a towel over the car seat to protect it from the multiple layers of mud and drive back to the creek. I sit in the cool water and soak my legs. Ahhhh.
The following photos I took on a return trip to the area.
The trail passes this marker on
the border of Delaware and Pennsylvania.
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