It's like he's making a point of making a point

Found recently in an Amazon book review:

"This book is very repititive [sic]. If you like books in which things are repeated, this is the book for you because things are repeated in it. This book says the same thing in different ways. Similar ideas are stated in different ways many times in the book. Although stated differently, many times, a sentence states the same idea that was stated previously. This happens many times. Many many ideas are repeated many many times. It gets redundant."

The original context may be found here.

So...

I've been kinda quiet these past couple of weeks, and there's more than one reason for it.

For one thing, I injured my left peroneal tendon a couple of weeks ago. It irked me, because I had intended to go join the Old Timers for their AT workday on October 1st, but wasn't sure it would be a good idea on an injury, since I really have no clue what a workday entails. It also irked me because it kept me off the trail for several days, and this right after I had developed an obsession with day- and section-hiking the AT. Twice. More on that in a bit, though.

The other reason is that, well, writing long, detailed posts about every hike I took became a bit...boring. And I figure if it's boring for me to write, it has to be at least a little boring for y'all to read, right? Probably even more boring, considering I get to relive it while I write, and you just, well, read.

I'm still trying to decide what to do to liven things up around here. For one thing, I don't think I'll be writing such long posts about each and every hike I take. Probably more likely I'll do brief entries unless for some reason I get excited and have a lot to say about a particular route. Also, I'm going to start keeping track of, and posting, my miles hiked. I've begun using a GPS, which makes this much easier. I may even keep a running tally of pounds lost, since I now seem to once again be headed in that direction (finally!). It's as if I've had a standoff with my weight for about a year now, and it has been very annoying. I know, hardcore dieters call this a "plateau." I just call it irritating. Especially that it lasted so long, and was so resistant to weight training, which I didn't expect. I suspect that the weight training simply traded fat for muscle, and given the reaction of Jeff's Aunt Jannie when she saw me after about 7 months of weight training, ("You've lost weight!"), I think I'm probably right. I'll probably also start tossing in a bit more about my non-hiking life as well, just to keep you on your toes.

So, what would you like to see? Blogs are supposed to be at least somewhat interactive, so I'd love your input!

Rock Creek Falls Trail

This hike began with an unexpected surprise: a fee. Generally speaking, I don't like to pay just to go wander around on public lands (I tend to feel my wandering rights are secured by my tax dollars. I'd rather believe that than face the idea that they're funding this godforsaken war). However, since I had driven quite a distance to reach this place, and had not brought the necessary guidebooks with me to decide upon another trail, I paid up. It was only two bucks, and for once in my life I actually had cash on me. Yay!

I decided to do a waterfall hike because I had not seen a fall since the week I moved up here. This one sounded mostly easy, and it was. This was actually a refreshing change. The first segment of the trail was actually wide, level, and graveled, allowing me to take in my surroundings instead of focusing 90% of my attention on the trail. Even after the gravelling ended, the trail followed an old road bed, and remained wide and fairly flat for some time. Eventually it got rocky and I had to begin paying more attention to where I placed my feet, but I had looked around so much during the first portion of the hike that my neck actually started to ache!

There wasn't much of an incline to the trail, so I was fairly sprinting along when I came across this spot:

It doesn't look like much in this photo, I realize, but when I first happened across it it was hosting a couple of gentlemen who went by the names of Bill and "Mump." We got to talking, and it turns out they are members of the Johnson City Old Timers Hiking Club. Once we got done jawing, we continued on together, and I got to be an honorary Old Timer for the day. :) The trail increased in steepness just a bit as it continued, and after a couple more rest stops, and a pause to chat with some other Old Timers who had already made the falls and were on their way back, we ended up there ourselves. Here's a shot of Mump (left), Bill (middle) and CB (right, who we "picked up" close to the falls) taking in the well-earned view.

And here's my blurry shot of the falls themselves. I had recently taken to carrying only my small camera as it was much less heavy, but after reviewing my photos from several hikes, I was unimpressed with the quality. I hate using flash on outdoor shots, so I turn it off. The little camera, however, doesn't do so well with compensating for that fact (much smaller lens aperture, lets in less light, yada yada yada), so then I almost invariably wind up with blurry pictures. I've since broken down and started carrying my heavy DSLR again. *sigh* Oh well, I bought the thing for a reason, didn't I?


The Old Timers tell me that this falls is much more spectacular at certain times of the year, especially after we've had some considerable rain. They also said that it is beautiful in the wintertime when it freezes.

After meandering around near the base of the falls for a while, and nibbling on a granola bar, I took my leave of these amiable gentlemen. It was, after all, a Monday, and I had many packages yet to prepare and ship. And quite a drive home to boot.

On my way back I was able to hustle quite effectively, although once I hit the flatter, easier portion of the trail again I slowed down to look around me some more. It was then that I noticed a squirming, buzzing mass on the ground just ahead of me. Upon closer inspection, it seemed several yellowjackets were fighting intently over something. Or killing it. Or eating it. Or something. Aw, here's the photo; decide for yourselves:


I honestly couldn't see what it was that they were clustered around, and I wasn't about to disturb them to try and find out. I contented myself with a few quick (flash) pictures, and scooted out of their field of vision as quickly as possible. I've never been stung by anything but one bee, and I don't plan on changing that record any sooner than necessary!

Finishing up the hike, I noted that they were revamping one of the park's structures. I'd guess it's a visitor center or something of that ilk, although there were no signs around identifying it. If nothing else it contained a bathroom or bath house, as I heard the workmen discussing ADA grab bar requirements as I packed myself and my stuff into the car. I guess that's where my tax dollars really go. Or was it paid for by my fee? Meh, whatever. It was an enjoyable hike, and I even met my first hiking friends!

Roan Mountain's Chestnut Ridge Trail, In the Rain

Still feeling kinda crummy after Tuesday's salt overdose recovery, I decided not to go for a hike on the 12th. So when Friday dawned cloudy and damp, I felt I didn't dare skip two hikes in a row, and headed out toward Roan Mountain. I had decided that my next hike would be Roan Mountain State Park's Chestnut Ridge trail, and no little bit of rain was going to stop me! I packed up my lighter Gore-Tex, pulled the raincoat out and over my backpack, and hit the road.


Here, once again, is my photo of the Roan Mountain trails map. What you can't see is the reverse side, which, it just so happens, describes the Chestnut Ridge Trail as "the most challenging trail in the park" (emphasis theirs).

They. Were. Not. Kidding.

In fact, I'd say it was the most challenging trail I've hiked to date. But more on that later. I was heartened, after parking my car and suiting up in my waterproof duds, to find someone else was crazy enough to be out playing in the rain; As I crossed the road to enter the woods, a soaking wet cyclist whizzed by me and waved.

After crossing the road I traveled uphill a bit on a segment of the Forst Road Trail that had me worried -- it was nearly overgrown with underbrush -- and I reached the point where the Chestnut Ridge Trail departed. By that point the trail had become easily passable, and I read the sign saying "for experienced hikers only" with glee. Of course, I quickly warmed up and had to pull down the hood on my Gore-Tex for ventilation. And pull up the sleeves. And zip the front down a bit. Yup, this was uphill all the way, and pretty long, too -- 2.3 miles just to reach the homestead, and then I had the trip back via road yet to make. Actually, the trail does eventually level out and follow a ridgeline for a while. Of course by this point I'm soaked all the way through to my socks, and have to zip and cover everything up in order to stay warm, since my speed along the muddy trail isn't exactly hasty. But prior to reaching that pleasant little stretch, it climbs (assuming the topo lines on the park-provided map are correct) roughly 600 feet in the first half mile or so.

After bumping along the ridgeline for a while, we do some more climbing, albeit in slightly shorter bursts. Still, the overall effect keeps my level of exertion plenty high. In fact, some of the climbs near or just past the halfway point were absurdly steep. Had I been wearing proper boots, I would likely have had to dig in to manage them. Since I was wearing flexy shoes that didn't restrict my ankles, I instead subjected my muscles and tendons to some pretty extreme flexion. Probably not especially good, but I came out of it unscathed. I think.

Also somewhere near the halfway point was an absolutely huge downed tree that completely blocked the trail. I finally found a way around it on the uphill side (I would've had to go faaaar to get around it on the downhill side, a prospect which did not thrill me, especially given the slippery aspect imparted by the rain), thinking that the only other way would have been to essentially throw myself over. That is, sort of lay down hugging the tree's huge bole, and hope that I could push myself over the apex without falling in the mud on the other side. An unappealing idea, to say the least.

As I approached the Miller Homestead, I had the rare experience of spotting a group of deer -- three does and a fawn -- before they spotted me. I stopped dead in my tracks, hoping that they would stay longer that way. They did see me, though, shortly after I saw them, and eyed me warily. So long as I stayed still, they stayed put. This didn't work for very long, however, since I soon became aware of my body temperature plummeting (it was probably 55 out at most, and when you're soaked and immobile...that's not very warm). Resignedly I began moving again, and they predictably made their frightened deer noise and took off into the woods.

Coming in from the trail, I approached the Miller Homestead from above. Unsurprisingly for a cold, rainy day, there were no cars in this upper parking lot, nor did I see any activity down below at the farmhouse and outbuildings. Undeterred, I headed down the hill to the farmhouse. Not only did the sign at the upper parking area say "The farmhouse is open, come on down!" but I also had seen the signs along the roadway indicating that the Miller Homestead was open 9am-5pm Wednesday through Sunday. This being Friday, I should be in luck.

Wrong answer. Apparently their hours change to weekends only at some point around the end of summer, and they're just really slow at changing their signs. Or perhaps they don't even bother with the signs. Whatever the case, the entire homestead was utterly deserted, leaving me on my own for toilet facilities (I was sorely tempted to put the "old" outhouse to its "intended" use, but decided that might be unwise. My one act of revenge was to swipe a leaf of one of the ornamental mint plants lining the road in to the homestead, and munch on it as I hiked back down the road.

And a long hike that was, given that I'm used to less, ah, refined surroundings. But it made for an easy-on-the-legs descent (there was no way in the world that I was going to try to go down that trail, and that went double in the slippery rain), and I believe it was actually a little shorter than the trail as well.

Seeing the gate that barred the road up to the Miller Homestead at the bottom, my suspicions about it being closed for more reasons than just rain were confirmed. From there I turned left and made my way back to my car, where a nice heater kept me warm all the way home.

Buffalo Mountain? Again? *whine*

Nah, it wasn't really all that bad. I hit the Buffalo trail again because it was close by and, on a Monday, timing is important. I usually have many packages to ship (all my eBay auctions end on Sunday nights), so being home in time to make it to the post office before it closes will likely often keep me close to home. Since I had already covered most of this park, and didn't mind a little extra workout since I had so little travel time, I took a bit longer path this time. Before I go into details, you might want to have another peek at the trail map; here's the link.


In truth, my intent had been to do an out-and-back to Tip Top, via the Fork Knob Trail. I got cocky, though, and did not carry my handy printout of the abovementioned map, so instead I missed my turn and wound up taking the longer way around via the Cascade Trail. Once I realized this, I laughed at myself. So many times before on trails I had found myself stressing out over the possibility of missing a turn. Often so much so that it actually ate into my enjoyment of my hike. Now that I finally had missed a turn, although I knew it meant I was in for a longer time out than I had planned, I realized just how silly it had been to stress. Put simply, no matter whether or not I miss a turn, I'm going to get a nice hike either way. And it's not as if I could get lost in this place. Truly, you'd be hard pressed to lose me anywhere, because I do so much pre-work before heading out, and also because I always carry some sort of map or guide the first time (or two) over a given trail. So I laughed at myself both for my previous stress experiences, and for being so silly as to miss a turn on a trail I knew.

The extra steps were by no means wasted, either. As I approached the cascade, I saw many pretty little yellow-breasted birds. There were probably close to a dozen of them sitting drinking from the cascade itself as I approached, but my footfalls frightened them all off into the surrounding bushes, and it seemed no matter how long I stood stock-still waiting for them to return, they would not be fooled into coming back to pose for my photos. So instead I settled for photos of a pretty plant I noticed at several places along the trail. The name of this plant, I would later learn, was Rattlesnake Plantain. How I learned that is a story unto itself, however, so I shall save it for another entry.


After taking the long way around and reaching the side trail up to Tip Top, I still wanted to follow through with my plan to make it up there; after all, what fun would the hike be if I didn't at least cover some new ground? Besides, it would only add another four tenths of a mile to my hike; certainly not enough to prevent me from making it home in a timely manner. So I headed up the side trail, and began to feel the familiar pains of hunger as I did. When I reached the top, appropriately enough, there was this picnic area.


There were also some pretty nice views, although they were somewhat obscured by foliage, especially from the point of view of my camera lens, so I won't bore you with my photos. What I will bore you with is the story of how I think I poisoned myself with salt. You see, I have a tendency, when on the trail, to obey my hunger and thirst. Just seems like a bright idea, really, when working out, to do so. So as I began my descent from Tip Top, I pulled out my bag of trail mix. Now, this was a big bag of el-cheapo Wal-Mart grade trail mix, and while tasty, is very heavy on the salt content to begin with. And this particular bag was very nearly empty when I pulled it out of my pack; I really should have re-loaded or added something more. But, woulda, coulda, shoulda, right? So I eat through all the peanut-sized and larger pieces, and am left with the dregs of the bag, which are really salty. Having been raised by depression-era parents, I am decidedly loath to waste food of any sort, even the unhealthy kind (sometimes especially the unhealthy kind). So I munch on the dregs for quite some time. Thirst of course sets in, and I drink, figuring that, if anything, the salt will help me retain water, thus aiding me in avoiding a trailside pee on the way back to the car (yes, I can, yes, I do, and yes, I pack it all out. So there). Eventually I realize that this salt load is too much for even me to finish (and I'm actually a pretty big fan of the ol' NaCl), and put the trail mix bag away, still with an ounce or two of dregs in the bottom. No worry, though, the damage had already been done.


I should mention that, along the way I ran across the above shelf fungi. They were beautiful and flower-like from a distance, though a bit gritty and sandy in appearance when you got too close. I didn't recall having seen them on my previous trip past (this was back on the Fork Ridge Trail segment between the side trail to Tip Top and Fork Knob), yet couldn't believe that they might have grown so quickly (it had only been a couple of weeks since I'd last been by). Whatever the case, though, I stopped to photograph them, so here they are.

I returned to my car, and proceeded happily home to pack up and mail all of my shipments. As the day wore on I felt less and less like myself, and at first attributed it to the slightly longer-than-usual hike. Eventually I developed a pounding headache, and had to lay down for a very long nap. The nap didn't cure the headache (even though I took two Tylenol before laying down), so I followed the nap with a couple of ibuprofen for good measure. Even the next morning I felt crummy, and the headache followed me well into Tuesday. Looking it up online, I learned that apparently it is possible to kill yourself with salt, although you'd have to consume far more than I did. Much more common (because of the lower dosage necessary) is the pounding headache to which I'd treated myself. I threw away the remaining trail mix dregs. Sometimes food really is trash. Lesson learned.

Butterflies, Butterflies, and more...

SPIDERS!!! That pretty much sums up my hike at Warrior's Path State Park on September 7th.

I had wanted to go back to Roan Mountain as soon as possible, but I was also aware that there was a big naturalist gathering going on the 7th through the 9th. Fearing a lack of solitude on the trails there, I fled north to explore Warrior's Path instead. Lucky for me, Warrior's Path does offer an online trail map, and with it I was able to decide in advance that I wanted to check out the Sinking Waters Trail. This is actually a series of loop trails that supposedly totals about 3 miles in length. Perhaps these trails were just too easy for me, or perhaps I'm getting used to walking more and more, but I would swear that these trails amounted to far less than three miles. And I even walked a little more than what is shown on the map, as I'll explain later!

Of course, my misunderestimation of the trail length could also be due to the level of my distraction along much of it. It seemed as though as soon as I would put my camera away, more photo-worthy moments would present themselves. So much so that I resorted to carrying my camera (my heavy DSLR, even) in hand for long stretches at a time; not a practice to which I am usually given, as it tends to throw off my gait, having 2.5 extra pounds swinging about out there at the end of my arm.

Actually, the first leg or so of the hike was somewhat uneventful. In order to ensure that I didn't miss any nooks or crannies of the trails, I systematically worked my way around them, taking every right turn that presented itself to me. The first thing this took me to was a little shelter over a rocky, wet area that looked like a spring, but there didn't seem to be much water flowing from it, and I haven't checked my maps yet to be sure. It was quaint, but it was also a dead end, so I retraced my path and continued on to the next right, which turned out to be the beginning of the first loop on the map.

This was probably the most challenging loop of the trail, and not only because of the, ahem, local wildlife. Shortly after making my right onto the loop, I began encountering spiders webs, and plenty of them. Most of the spiders I saw in/on them were of the smaller variety, though there was one quarter-sized one that I stopped to watch for some time; he was in the process of taking up his web, I guess getting ready to re-build it. I lamented at the time that I had to break his web and disrupt him from the process. Now I'm lamenting that I didn't dig out my camera and take a bunch of photos.

The other challenge of this loop lay in its terrain; it ascended to a ridgeline, followed it for a bit, and then dropped back down. There was also an informative sign along the ridge, about how it serves as a dividing line between types of habitat. Actually, I think this would make a great family hike, as there are several very informative interpretive signs, and they're all written in easy-to-understand language and leave the reader with questions to think about as they walk through the area. In addition, although there is some climbing to be done, it is moderate, and of course could be taken slowly if need be. Just make sure one of the big people walks in front and swings a big stick. This is what I eventually had to resort to, similar to my escapades in Winged Deer Park, in order to avoid being covered in sticky webs.

Just out of curiosity, is there any skin or other health benefit to be derived from the proteins and other compounds in spider silk?

But I digress. As I emerged from the first loop, and made my way into the second one, the hike got a bit more claustrophobic, but in a good way. Instead of open, tree-canopied trail, I was hemmed in on both sides by tall-growing flowering plants, which of course attracted many, many butterflies (and had a pleasant aroma, as well). The trail itself was often carpeted in grass, and as seen here, butterflies:

The flowers also attracted various buzzing insects, but these were of little bother to me. Perhaps I was just too busy paying attention to (and taking photographs of) the butterflies. Or maybe this is a moth.

One of the interpretive signs, I believe, made mention of how this trail had once been a major highway through the region. Although there was nothing that I noticed to specifically explain this little marker, judging by what I've seen in other countries and regions, I'm guessing it's an approximation of what the original "King's Highway" distance markers looked like.

Just for your edification, this is what most of the spiders I encountered looked like. My apologies for the blurriness, but this little guy was moving fast, and he's barely as big as my fingernail. Kudos for my camera for getting anything in focus, the way I was swinging this stick around.

After polishing off the first and second loops, the trail descends into a marshy wetland area, but the park service has thoughtfully built a boardwalk through it so that a. we humans needn't get our feet muddy and b. the animal inhabitants needn't have their habitat destroyed by our tromping feet. This "boardwalk" is actually made of plastic. A combination of plastic lumber made out of recycled bottles, and a gridwork walking path that looks (and feels) considerably more brittle (though I hope I'm wrong). Somehow the presence of plastics didn't spoil the effect of the nature walk, though.


The boardwalk had its fair share of spideriffic inhabitants as well, so there was no opportunity to stop swinging my stick. It also had a few other inhabitants, most of them looking like this furry fellow:


According to the map, the boardwalk makes a loop that ends the trail. In reality, however, there is yet another connector trail. This was broad and flat and tree-lined, and for a very short distance reminded me of the sections of the Ice Age Trail I had hiked near the Dells of Eau Claire in Wisconsin. I should've known it was landscaped. Yes, literally, mowed. You see, at the other end of this little connector trail was the park's golf course. The saving graces of this let down were the wildflowers that lined the course edge, and of course the butterflies that inhabited them (though I couldn't seem to get any "on film").

I saw the golfers, but I doubt they noticed me, as I was on the far side of one of the course's bumps. Or whatever they're called. After taking in the, ahem, scenery, I retreated, and continuing to take the right-hand options, covered the remainder of the trail system in what seemed like record time.


In addition to encountering this thistle-loving butterfly, there was also some farmland off to the right of the trail. Interestingly I noted that they appeared to be growing grapes there. I'm guessing there might be wineries hereabouts, but not being much of a connoisseur myself, I probably won't be doing any research on the matter. I ambled back to my car, and the day had warmed rapidly, so emerging from the cool shelter of the woods into my portable blue oven was a bit of a shock, but there was a cool shower awaiting me at home.

Roan Mountain, At last

I finally made it to Roan Mountain on September 5th, a lovely day. Unfortunately, it was also a day that the Visitor's Center was slated to be closed. So I at first worried that I would not be able to get a good hike in. You see, although the State Park web site mentions that there are roughly 12 miles of hiking trails, they made no trail map available online. And since my copy of Hiking Tennessee only mentions the park, and doesn't go into detail about any of its trails, I had planned to make my decision on the fly once I arrived. Fortunately, the park Headquarters was open, and was well stocked with trail maps. I decided to try the Fred Behrend Trail, because, according to the trail map, it is 2.3-mile loop trail that "climbs and descends steeply in places." Right up my alley!

Since there is no map of Roan Mountain State Park's hiking trails published online, at least none that I could find on their web site, I have photographed my own, already well-worn hard copy. Note that you can click on it, and even download it, to obtain a full-resolution version (this is also true of any of my other photos, in case you are just so enamored of them that you want to use them as your wallpaper :).


The first section of the trail, along the Doe River, doesn't do much climbing or descending, at least not until you eventually hit a switchback that takes you up, away from the river. The foliage on this side was heavy on the rhododendrons, and they all looked healthy and happy. Eventually the trail pulls away from the river, and heads up over a hilltop, and then makes an occasionally steep descent down the back side. For some reason the rhododendron and other plant life on the back side of the hill did not look like it was doing very well. I'm not sure if perhaps less rain falls on this side or what (or perhaps there are just some amazing tap roots on the other side that run to the river?), but the leaves were limp and curled and just generally looking unloved.

At the bottom of this descent is a little creek that is unnamed on the map. Here's what the creek looked like:

What I really wish I could convey to you about this creek, though, were the sounds I heard. The gentle burbling of the water, the light breeze through the leaves over my head, and yes, even the omnipresent buzzing of insects. This was the symphony of the forest, and rare were the intrusions of outside noises, such as big rigs moving around the campground. This despite the fact that a connector trail to the campground essentially followed this creekbed (in the direction opposite this photo) no more than .3 miles to the camping loops. Gotta love the acoustics of the forest!

After a wistful pause at this creek, I continued along the trail, crossed another, even less well fed creek (and its accompanying connector trail), and continued on up to the high point of the trail (about 3200 feet above sea level). Somewhere around that point, or a little before, if I remember correctly, I actually stopped in my tracks and gasped at the beauty of these shelf fungi when I came up on them. They were just so brilliant, and so perfect in their soft fuzziness, I had to take a ton of photos (of course I will only subject you to the cream of the crop here).



After topping out, the trail again descended to follow along the Doe River, at which point it was also directly across the river from part of the camping area. I almost felt sorry for the people I saw on the opposite bank, as they had only asphalt to walk on (unless they were occupying a riverside camp site). For some reason, my own feet, legs and knees vastly prefer pounding uneven trail to flat, hard pavement. They seemed blissfully unaware, though, walking their dogs or just themselves, and, like me, occasionally came down to visit the riverbank. I paid special attention as I walked, trying to determine which campsite would be best, should I decide to make a weekend retreat here some time. When I came upon this little cascade, I knew I had found it. There was a camp site right next to it, and though I walked back up the pavement once I crossed the river and noted its number, I have now forgotten it. :( I would have no trouble locating it, though, so no worries. The rushing sound of the cascades just below would offer excellent white noise, so if you happen to be planning to stop in this area, and camp in a tent like I do, you just might want to look for the site nearest this spot.


Alas, from another angle, it's not quite so pretty. A harsh reminder to me of why I actually prefer NOT to have natural beauty so accessible. If people can drive their cars to it, they're all too often the sort of people who don't mind throwing their trash any old where as well. And what a shame that is.


After my little hike and my small detour through the campground, I returned to the Visitor's Center, since, despite the fact that it was closed, I had noticed that two trails left from there, and my legs still had a good bit left in them. Also promising was the interpretational signage at the center. I LOVE old mines, and anything else ghost-town-esque, so this trail to a mine was just my kind of thing.


The trail was mostly wide and clear of debris, and surprisingly cool and shady considering it was, by now, after noon. I even startled a deer, which made its unhappy-deer-noise and bolted off into the brush. Of course, when I got to the actual mine, it was a little less than inspiring.


Essentially, it was an old hole in the ground. :) It was also a bit drippy inside, as I learned when my flash revealed what my eyes could not see in the dimness. I was a bit surprised by how abruptly it ended, but it is entirely possible that the parks department filled it in to comply with insurance guidelines.


This trail, though essentially an out-and-back, does have a tiny loop at the far end. As you return from the mine, make sure you take the high route out, rather than retracing your steps, as there is a raised viewing platform off to the left, offering you an even more commanding view of the surrounding area.

Once I returned to the visitor's center, I had another look at their diagram of what the site had looked like back when it was an operating mine. I noticed a clearing across the road, about where the drawing indicated the smeltry had been, so I took a little wander over there, too, just to see what I could see. Which was essentially nothing. So, don't waste your own tracks on it, unless you're especially fond of taking in views of tractor-tracked clay and grass bald spots.

Next up: Butterflies, Butterflies and more...