A couple images will stay with me for a while from last Saturday. The first clicked at about 4:30 p.m. We were walking across Duaneís field, the five of us, when the sun dropped below its skirt of clouds. The soft light of late afternoon instantly spread a golden glow on everything, the grass, the plowed field, the faces of the four people walking over them. It didnít hurt that those humans were walking with a purpose. There was a glint of adventure in their eyes.

It wasnít a huge adventure, mind you. We were hiking from our house to Freeburg, a whopping four miles at best. Little Miami awaited us there, good food, good music, perhaps a cheering crowd. Well, two out of three at least. But it put a spring in our step.

The sun left us about the time we hit the state land and its plantations of pine trees. We pawed through them and descended through the woods above Elsheimer Valley. I donít know if thatís its official name, but every adventure needs an Elsheimer Valley or two. The walk through that woods was darn near magnificent, in the subtle ways that our woods have around here. I half expected to be going through logging slash. Sometimes it seems like you canít step on state land without running into the after effects of logging. Not that I have anything against that. But itís still hard to beat a mature hardwood forest and its big oak trees.

Outcroppings of limestone rocks dotted our trip down the big hill. We bounced from one to another, probing with a stick here, testing a boulder there. Rattlesnake country, I thought more than once.

Then it was the floor of the valley, big open spaces, leaves flattened by snow but the snow now gone. Perfect hiking.

Not for everyone though. Malika, my daughter, started complaining about blisters on her heels. ìDo you have two pairs of socks on?î I asked. Thatís always been my remedy for blisters, something I learned when I was about her age. She answered in the negative, and not to worry either, Dad.

We followed a dry creekbed south to the end of the woods, then through a prickly border of wild plums to farm fields. I had received permission to cross the property, which made our climb over the fences just fine. Itís not a good feeling to climb over a fence without permission. I peeled two oranges. We drank water. Time to celebrate.

We came to Elsheimerís Road and walked along it. It was good that we hit the road when we did, because the sun had set and it was getting hard to see. A couple dogs barked as we approached the farm of Mark and Pat Lange. One came up to the road and gave us a friendly greeting.

Malikaís blisters were getting worse. We stopped by an overturned boat and sat down. I took off one of my pairs of socks and gave them to her. ìItís kind of late now, isnít it?î she asked.

ìItís never too late,î I insisted. ìThey could get a lot worse.î She didnít seem entirely convinced of that, probably because I wasnít either. But she put them on.

We crossed the bridge over Crooked Creek and found the snowmobile trail. Its sign was barely visible in the gloaming. Still we left the road and went west on the beaten-down path, although it hasnít received much of a beating this wimpy winter.

Then the other image of the night popped out. ìHere comes the moon,î Alex said. He always notices little things like bald eagles and full moons. Sure enough, it rose right above a rounded bluff, like a Roman candle in slow motion. We stopped for a few minutes. ìYou can see it move,î Alex added. Right again. It was a reassuring sight, and a beautiful one.

We kept walking, and the trail kept getting brighter. Soon we could see our shadows. A full moon in January is no small thing.

That lasted for about 10 minutes, then the clouds smothered the moon. The darkness slowed us a bit. We werenít quite sure where the trail was, or where Freeburg was, or the Bruening homes that marked our way. A little worry crept over us, just enough for an adventure of this magnitude. But it didnít matter, and we all knew it. We just had to keep walking and weíd find our way. Itís hard to get lost in the Crooked Creek Valley. You go one way, you come to the river. You go the other, you come to Freeburg.

We finally climbed over one last fence and at 6:10 p.m. we stood on County Road 249. ìHow much further is it?î Cindy asked. She was worried about her daughter and not herself.

ìAbout a mile,î I replied. That last mile went quickly, and 20 minutes later, we came over the rise to the friendly lights of Little Miami.

The others went into the restaurant first, while I changed shoes at the car that we had left there earlier. Then I walked into the bar with a feeling unlike any Iíve had there before. I was cold and tired, yet proud in a small way of what we had just done. It made the food and fellowship and music seem even better than normal. A good little adventure will do that.

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Caledonia Argus
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