Unmarked Trail
Two minutes from the road there’s a trail. Not the fancy one with the updated benches and picnic tables; not the campy one with “you are here” placards scattered along the path. This trail is the old one no one thinks about when you want solitude.
It’s where I took my friend. She’s the friend who moved to better pastures south. It’s not perfect hiking weather, but it’s not bad. A bit of a pickle, seven minutes in. Dodge potholes and broken branches and we’ll be all right.
Nobody knows the wildlife comes here to rest their bones. Bobwhite quail race across the path, while buzzards hide in numbers. You can hear foxes growl, deer grunt, songbirds chatter, screeches from woodpeckers and squirrels. They don’t mind us.
The end of the path becomes open space; sand, rock, and dirt underneath our feet as we approach the barbecue pit and trash cans. The waves are in the distance greeting us with babbles and roars; we can’t swim—too cold to take the plunge and melt in the peace and quiet. Sitting is okay.
We won’t stay long.
