How the Road Less Traveled Led to the Surprise Discovery of a Breathtaking Hidden Cove

by Mark Miles

Sometimes the road less traveled leads to a genuinely breathtaking surprise. I was reminded of this in April when I went hiking at Occoneechee Mountain, which — if you haven’t figured out by now — is my favorite hiking destination in central North Carolina. I’ve been going there on a monthly basis since the summer of 2015, so there’ve been plenty of opportunities for me to discover the hidden nooks and crannies within its limits. Yet somehow I managed to miss the most breathtaking sight of all in the course of the past twenty-two months.

In my defense there’s a good reason for this. The hidden cove I discovered isn’t adjacent to any of the official trails; you actually have to venture off the main trail in order to find it. It’s not terribly far from the main trail, but it’s far enough that the spot is entirely occluded by the surrounding terrain.

Original prints from this blog are now available for purchase on a limited basis for collectors and enthusiasts.

I found this out when I reached the fern grove on the north side of the mountain. I was headed up the staircase that leads toward the quarry when I saw a path veering toward the west. I’d seen it before but had never paid much attention to it. For some reason on this occasion I decided to follow it and see where it led.

There wasn’t much to see at first. The westward trail ran along the edge of an embankment where the land sloped steeply upward to my left and downward to my right. Because the trail was unofficial and therefore not maintained by park officials, the vegetation was thick and gave me more than my fair share of smacks and slaps. Though the distance I covered wasn’t more than a tenth of a mile, I was seriously considering turning back due to the discomfort.

Yet something nudged me onward subconsciously, and I found myself wondering if my regret would be greater from finishing what I started or turning back too soon. So I continued through the vegetation and kept my fingers crossed.

Then I noticed a rock formation to my right. It was probably ten feet wide by fifteen feet tall, though it was covered by vegetation and dead leaves which obscured its features. I didn’t think much of it until I passed it and noticed the trail in front of me veering sharply to the left. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but my fingers were still crossed for something miraculous. Possibly for the first time in my life my expectation was surpassed with flying colors.

Rising forty feet high to my immediate left and jutting outward over my position was the most breathtaking rock formation I’ve ever seen at Occoneechee Mountain. I’m not very small, being six feet tall and in good physical shape, but I suddenly felt as tiny as an ant at a gathering of elephants. The promontory — which I’ve decided to call Sentinel Rock in the absence of an official title — was jagged and rough-hewn, which may have indicated that it sheared away at some point in the not too distant past. This added concern to my amazement, but I quickly disregarded it as I stepped into the hidden cove which looked as if it came out of a fairy tale.

To the right of Sentinel Rock was a gorge which had been hollowed out by a tiny stream gurgling gently over the surface of the rock. I can’t be certain, but it appeared that the stream originated at this very location. It’s strange to say, but this may have been the first time in my life that I’ve actually seen the birthplace of a stream.

Above and to the left of the stream was something else very curious. About thirty feet from the outermost edge of Sentinel Rock was a strange opening in the side of the rock face that almost looked as if it could’ve been the mouth of a cave. Now I was really excited. Apart from a cave in the Appalachian Mountains which I visited a very long time ago when I was a kid, I’ve never seen the mouth of a cave before. I’ve certainly never stumbled upon one inadvertently.

After very carefully picking my way up ten feet of steep moss-covered rock to make a closer inspection of the opening, I came to the conclusion that it was instead a sizeable crack which had been hollowed out by erosion and came to form a pocket in the side of Sentinel Rock. Regardless of its depth or adjacency to a cave, it was still fascinating and gave me the opportunity to more closely examine the area.

After I’d finished my cursory inspection of the crack in the rock, I decided it was time to head back to the main trail. Very suddenly and for no apparent reason, I found it difficult to breathe. Possibly from a combination of excess pollen, inadequate ventilation in the enclosed microclimate, and physical exertion from climbing the slippery rock face, I experienced an asthma attack — which for me is virtually unprecedented. For forty-five seconds I could barely take more than a shallow gasp of breath. Combined with the fact that I was attempting to descend a slippery rock face with abundant moss that gave little protection in the event of a fall, I was momentarily flummoxed.

By the time I made it back to the trail, however, I was breathing normally and thanked the mountain for allowing me to see something so utterly surprising and breathtaking. Not for the first time in my life I was reminded of the words of Robert Frost:

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Image Credits:

1. Fern Grove in Spring (Mark Miles, 2017)

2. Staircase to the Westward Trail (Mark Miles, 2016)

3. Roots Entangled in Rock (Mark Miles, 2017)

4. There’s No Mistaking Sentinel Rock (Mark Miles, 2017)

5. Birthplace of a Stream (Mark Miles, 2017)

6. An Entrance to…? (Mark Miles, 2017)

7. The Pocket in the Rock (Mark Miles, 2017)

8. View from the Top (Mark Miles, 2017)

9. The Path Less Traveled (Mark Miles, 2017)

References:

Frost, Robert, “The Road Not Taken” from Mountain Interval (New York City, NY, USA: Henry Holt and Company, 1920), accessed May 4th, 2017.

List of Rock Formations,” Wikipedia, accessed April 18th, 2017.

Finding Musical Inspiration among the Rock Formations at Occoneechee Mountain

by Mark Miles

Inspiration is a funny thing. It comes in many shapes and sizes, can arrive at any hour of the day, and needs no invitation apart from a receptive mind and a willingness to create. It can show up at a museum, in a forest, by a river, at your workplace, or in bed while you sleep at night. It can nag away at your insides until you feel sick and restless, compelling you to find a way to express it meaningfully. And when you do, it can be one of the most rewarding experiences of your life.

I’ve been reminded of this since I started composing in September of last year. When I first considered following in the footsteps of Beethoven and Mozart, however, I was absolutely terrified. “Who am I to think I have the skills to create music that could ever live up to the standard they set?” This thought crossed my mind many times, and I still grapple with it from time to time. It turns out, though, that all I really needed to overcome my initial hesitation was an experience of profound inspiration.

That experience came to me when I first visited Occoneechee Mountain in the summer of 2015. Seeing the rock formations there — many of which were formed hundreds of millions of years ago when central North Carolina was much more volcanically active — planted a seed in my mind that ultimately took a year to bear fruit. But bear fruit it did.

Before I get to that, however, I’d like to share the rock formations themselves to give you a sense of how incredible they are and how easily they could fill anyone with a sense of profound inspiration. (For the record, I was unable to find official names for any of these rock formations in my research for this article. So, in the absence of official names, I’ve come up with my own unofficial names, which are hopefully amusing and memorable.)

Elephant Rock is a tor (a free-standing rock formation that juts directly out of the surrounding terrain) that sits on the northwestern edge of the Mountain Loop Trail before the trail reaches the Eno River. Like many of the other rock formations near the mountain, it appears seemingly out of nowhere, towering fifteen feet over the trail and exerting a magnetic pull on anyone with an ounce of curiosity. The weight of the rock is so massive it can almost be felt simply by looking at it. Staring into the grey and green textures along its flanks, it wasn’t hard for me to understand how similar sites were used by our ancestors as places of worship.

Gumdrop Rock is another tor that can be found a little further along the Mountain Loop Trail. It’s not as imposing or grandiose as Elephant Rock, but it has its own kind of quiet sublimity. Standing roughly eight feet tall and ten feet wide, it makes even some professional athletes look dainty by comparison. Nonetheless it’s one of the smaller rock formations at Occoneechee Mountain and may be overlooked because of it.

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Sentinel Rock is a promontory (an abutment of land bordered on two sides by water which has progressively eroded it over time) that may also be overlooked by the casual hiker but for very different reasons. This rock formation is reasonably well hidden from sight on the north side of Occoneechee Mountain and takes a little looking in order to find. There are trails that lead to it, but they’re not terribly obvious, and they lead through some scruffy undergrowth that smacks and whacks at every inch of your person on the way. After a bit of manhandling from the plants, however, this forty-foot marvel is a sight for sore eyes and easily the most breathtaking of the many notable rock formations at Occoneechee Mountain. To sweeten the deal, there’s even a mountain stream to the side that gurgles gently down the imposing rock face.

Overhang Rock is a crag (a nearly vertical body of rock formed by erosion and weathering over time) that overlooks the Eno River on the north side of Occoneechee Mountain. It directly borders the Mountain Loop Trail and may leave you in fear for your life the first time you pass by it. While my photo shows that the rock face isn’t quite vertical, when you’re underneath it you may think otherwise. Staring thirty feet up the side of a cliff that probably weighs more than twenty tons is nothing if not an intensely humbling experience, which is only accentuated by the twenty-foot drop down to the Eno River on the opposite side.

Reverential Rock is a boulder on the north side of the mountain which may have been formed in the landslide of 2001, when more than five thousand tons of debris crashed down the side of the quarry at Occoneechee Mountain. At the very least, it has many more edges and irregularities on its surface than many other nearby rock formations, which would seem to indicate a much more recent deposition. In any case, it’s become something of a shrine for hikers who wish to express their creativity by making small stacks of rocks called cairns, which abound at the quarry. Looking at the attention to detail in these small structures, it’s easy to see I’m not the only person who’s found inspiration in these majestic rock formations.

Despite the fact that these rocks inspired me from the first moment I laid eyes on them, it took me fourteen months before I picked up a pen and wrote my first musical composition to express that inspiration. Though it’s impossible to say for sure how the spectacle of creation must have looked when Occoneechee Mountain was formed several hundred million years ago, I nonetheless had a mental image of massive boulders being thrown around like pebbles when writing this piece. These descending boulders can be heard in the rapid downward scale at 0:12. The thought of lava being spewed and progressively building up the structure of the mountain can also be heard in the rising trajectory of the ground bass passage starting at 0:31. (Make sure to subscribe to my YouTube channel for only the best future videos.)

Though I know mere music can never surpass the mountain that inspired me to compose, I’ve nonetheless tried to capture a faint glimmer of the grandeur of Occoneechee Mountain in this piece. Perhaps just as importantly I’ve tried to create something that may help you to find your own special place in the natural world, where you can find inspiration and share it with others in turn.

Image Credits:

1. Elephant Rock Looms Large (Mark Miles, 2016)

2. Gumdrop Rock in Spring (Mark Miles, 2017)

3. There’s No Mistaking Sentinel Rock (Mark Miles, 2017)

4. The Mighty Overhang (Mark Miles, 2017)

5. Reverential Rock, Home to Cairns of All Sizes (Mark Miles, 2017)

References:

Bradley, Phil, “The (Brief) Geologic Story of the Eno River,” North Carolina Geological Survey, accessed April 18th, 2017.

List of Rock Formations,” Wikipedia, accessed April 18th, 2017.

McIver, Hervey, “Occoneechee Mountain Dedication,” Eno River Association, accessed April 18th, 2017.

Occoneechee Mountain State Natural Area,” Geocaching, accessed April 20th, 2017.

Climb to the Clouds

Hiking is always a good way for me to relax after a stressful week. Not long ago I was tempted to skip my monthly rendezvous with Occoneechee Mountain because of a hectic schedule, but I stuck to my routine and was glad I did. The landscape was barren of foliage for the most part, but the increase in visibility gave a real sense of scope that’s often lacking from the experience in summer and spring.

As usual there was a small crowd when I arrived but nothing unmanageable. I got out of my car and started down the main trail over a few hills on my way to the first fork in the path. Before I reached it, I was greeted by a pleasant southwestern exposure of the sun peeping gently through the branches.

A little further along, I reached Elephant Rock–which is not the official name but describes the formation well nonetheless–and decided that the lighting was too good to miss. I’m not generally one to take selfies on my hikes, but I couldn’t resist in this instance.

After passing by a stretch of the Eno that borders the trail for a quarter of a mile, I came to the ascent that leads to the Overlook. There are a number of stairs in this area that were put in place by an eagle scout some years ago for his community service, and they’re a welcome addition at this point.

On the way up the side of the mountain, the trail passes directly beneath a very large metallic powerline that bisects the land near the quarry. It’s an ugly sight, but I did manage to find a view of it that was at least symmetrical. Standing beneath it and staring directly upwards, I couldn’t escape the feeling that I was caught in an oversized game of tic-tac-toe.

Huffing and puffing from the steep climb that leads to the highest point on the trail, I reached the Overlook itself. The view was incredible as always, though there wasn’t the same panoply of color that I would’ve found in late October. Still it was a refreshing end to a much-needed excursion that helps to keep me grounded in my daily life. And the best part about it is that anyone with a little time, initiative and wilderness can do the same.

Photo Credits:

1. Sun Peeps through Branches (Mark Miles, 2016)

2. All Smiles at Elephant Rock (Mark Miles, 2016)

3. It’s a Winding Way to the Top (Mark Miles, 2016) Order this print.

4. X Marks the Spot (Mark Miles, 2016)

5. Winter at the Overlook (Mark Miles, 2016) Order this print.

Falsumpring

Recently the seasons have been seriously screwed. This point was brought into focus last night as I sat watching a documentary entitled “I Have Seen the Earth Change” about climatic havoc in the Arctic. It dealt with the lives of traditional reindeer herders in Norway who’ve been experiencing noticeable shifts in their way of life for decades. I haven’t been alive as long as some of the people in this documentary, but I’ve been alive long enough to notice shifts in the region where I live nonetheless.

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I can remember when the temperatures in central North Carolina rarely exceeded 60° F in the month of October, and now in the first week of November the temperatures have exceeded 80° F on more than one occasion. Insects have been living longer due to the increase in temperatures; ladybugs, honeybees, houseflies and mosquitoes are almost as active now as they were in September. There are plants which are blooming now which are supposed to have died off a month ago, including rose, cypress vine, sweet violet, and morning-glory. There are trees which have barely turned color, especially oaks, walnuts, and pecans. And yet it’s supposed to be fall.

On a hike a few weeks ago, I found this idyllic scene which would’ve suited the season wonderfully if it had been spring. The trees were green for as far as the eye could see, there was a warm breeze in the air, and the sunlight seemed redolent of new life. And yet it’s supposed to be fall.

Similarly I found this cypress vine (Ipomoea quamoclit) closing its petals at the end of the day but otherwise unruffled by the alleged arrival of my favorite season. These plants will die off with the first frost, which in this region should have happened by the beginning of October. This hasn’t happened, and these plants were taking it as an invitation to show their unadulterated spring colors. And yet it’s supposed to be fall.

The deciduous trees surrounding the Eno River have similarly been thriving in many locations. At the base of the trail leading to the quarry at Occoneechee Mountain, there was hardly a tree to be seen that didn’t look as if summer was in full force. The profusion of emerald green light and the soft rustling of leaves that were unready to depart gave every indication that summer was still at hand. And yet it’s supposed to be fall.

This Florida leaf-footed bug (Leptoglossus phyllopus) was right as rain when I found him perched on the stem of a flowering plant that clearly hadn’t given up the ghost either. These insects are commonly found in areas where citrus crops are grown, hence the association with Florida. However, this bug was not only not in Florida but was a few hundred miles north of it, and he wasn’t bothered by the fact in the slightest. And yet it’s supposed to be fall.

Another view of the Eno River demonstrates how many trees have still failed to change their colors. On this stretch the only trees to have lost any leaves were the sycamores, and even they were only letting them go with the begrudging enthusiasm of a banker parting with his own green. And yet it’s supposed to be fall.

Finally I found a stand of trees that was beginning to show signs of autumnal awakening. There were hues of red, yellow, and orange illuminating the forest with the first delicate hints of the season. Even so there were plenty of trees with an abundance of green that seemed to contradict the emerging consensus. And so, in light of this seasonal confusion–in which fall, summer, and spring seem to be equally prominent–it may be more appropriate to refer to this season not as fall but falsumpring.

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Trail Magic

July’s hike at Occoneechee Mountain was less exciting than usual because I arrived late and had to rush through the trail before sunset. Still there were some magical views as always.

At the crest of one of the first hills, I noticed how the trees at either side of the trail framed the scene as if I was walking through a doorway, perhaps even a magical one. It seemed appropriate since I always feel as if I’m entering a realm beyond the ordinary whenever I go hiking.

For some reason I’m always attracted to sycamores (Platanus occidentalis). Perhaps it’s the distinctive green, grey, and white of their bark; perhaps it’s their penchant for residing in some of the least hospitable areas; perhaps it’s their furry seedpods which remind me of q-tips. Whatever the reason, I find myself drawn to them without fail, as if by enchantment. This young sycamore had some very distinctive lichens too, one of which was a Physcia from what I could tell. Staring at it from below, I realized that a change in perspective can occasionally work wonders.

Not far from the end of the trail I turned around and noticed the sun piercing the canopy to the west. The gentle undulation of the trail provided the perfect counterpoint to the rigid vertical lines of the surrounding trees. It reminded me that magic has less to do with the supernatural than it does with a willingness to explore and appreciate the world around us.

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Late Summer Blooms

Lately I’ve been noticing the flowers. Despite the fact that the weather has been hot enough to grill a steak directly on the asphalt, I make it a daily habit to go for a walk through my neighborhood. The primary purpose of my daily walk is cardiovascular exercise–I also run twice a week–but my walking time gives me the added opportunity to observe local wildlife, primarily plants. Since I’m not keeping a rigorous pace when I walk, I can easily stop and take photos, despite the odd glance from passersby. Because I live in a residential area and not in the wilderness, most of the really attractive plants I see are domesticated. Occasionally there are wild ones that escape the attention of homeowners, and they’re especially fascinating. Below are some of my most notable plant-finds and late summer blooms from the area.

In my garden, I grow fennel (Foeniculum vulgare) which is a wonderful plant for attracting pollinating insects. The blossoms are sunburst-yellow, and the fragrance is dazzling. Whenever I pass within ten feet of my fennel at this time of year, I can tell simply by the smell. It reminds me of licorice and childhood daydreams. Perhaps it’s for that reason that I cherish it, but I’m not the only one. One of the types of paper wasps that comes to it frequently at this time of year is Polistes dorsalis. (I looked for a common name and couldn’t find one sadly.) The yellow stripes on this beautiful insect are as distinctive as the rust-brown which covers the rest of the wasp. And they’re doubly welcomed by me due to the fact that they take grubs and soft-bodied insects back to their nests to feed their young. Talk about resourceful.

At the Hillsborough Riverwalk, I recently stumbled upon this striking specimen of pokeberry (Phytolacca americana), which grows wild in this area. Despite its resemblance to grapes, it’s not edible by humans. It’s rarely lethal, but ingesting it should be avoided unless one has an extensive background in its preparation and use. It is nonetheless used as one component in the anticarcinogenic herbal supplement called Hoxsey Formula. To my understanding, it was also used by native tribes in this region as a dye due to its striking color and semi-permanence.

Red clover (Trifolium pratense) has to be one of my favorite wild blossoms. Though the leaves of the plant are fairly unremarkable, the flowers are distinctive for the spherical shape they produce. Composed of a multitude of protruding florets, the blossoms are actually many distinct flowers which share a common stem. Their color is also notable for the shade that varies from faint lavender to intense fuchsia. Finally, as if all of these traits weren’t enough to distinguish it, red clover is a nitrogen-fixer–which means that it enriches the soil wherever it grows–and produces the building blocks of coumarin–which is industrially produced as the anticoagulant coumadin.

The last of my late summer blooms is another one from my garden. I’ve been growing this rosemary (Rosmarinus officinalis) for approximately five years, and it’s one of the hardiest and tastiest plants I’ve ever come across. Admittedly the flavor is strong in large amounts, but the fragrance is utterly transfixing. It makes me think of pine forests in the spring when birdsong is in the air and the sun is high in the sky. It’s really something. In addition it’s incredibly hardy and can withstand intense heat and drought, being a native of the Mediterranean. It has a reputation for being a remarkable memory-enhancer and is quite good as a tea when steeped in hot water with honey. Finally rosemary produces these lovely blooms, which are tiny and delicate but have such character in the gently curving stamens and softly drooping periwinkle petals. As you may have guessed by now, I love these plants.

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Echoes of History

In July I made my monthly visit to the Eno Riverwalk. I paid special attention to the remains of the Saponi Nation’s traditional dwelling, sitting in a field where the structure was displayed some years ago to demonstrate aspects of Saponi culture. (The Saponi are an indigenous nation who once lived in this region but have been largely dispossessed and displaced.) I wasn’t able to see the dwelling when it was on site, but I do admire the log-posts that still stand. They’re silent reminders that there was once a time when the land was regarded not merely as a resource to be exploited but as the sacred and indispensable source of all life.

Heading west, I passed under the Exchange Bridge, which in its own way stands as a monument to the greed of colonizers who dispossessed the original inhabitants of this land, such as the Saponi. Acting primarily as a commercial thoroughfare which facilitates the pollution and degradation of the land, the bridge is a stark reminder of how much things have changed since the time when Hillsborough was founded. For the record I love the town of Hillsborough, but the history of this town and of this culture is covered in the blood and pain of native people, who are largely invisible to the casual observer.

Beyond the Exchange Bridge is one of my favorite views of the Eno. It’s easy to forget about all the history that resides in a place like this when looking at a scene so peaceful and beautiful. I wonder sometimes how much the river has changed over the course of history and how much more it will change in the future. I want the river to be healthy and whole for as long as water runs in this world, but there are so many forces in our culture that threaten the health of rivers and humans alike. I don’t know if the river will be healthy in the future. However I do know that if we want to preserve human health in the future, we have to preserve the health of our rivers and watersheds today.

Another result of the colonization of this land is the proliferation of opportunistic species such as the white-tailed deer (Odocoileus virginianus), which have become overabundant in the absence of keystone species such as the mountain lion and black bear, which were once far more prevalent in this region. I love these deer, but the damage they can do to vegetation and forests is a reminder that the history of colonization is around us at all times, even when we can’t see the people who originally lived in this land centuries ago.

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Light and Shadow in the Summer Sun

Toward the end of June, I went to Occoneechee Mountain for the sixth time this year. I’ve been making it a habit to go at least once per month, and that schedule has allowed me to enjoy the fluctuations of the seasons without becoming inured to the place by visiting too frequently. As a result, the mountain remains fresh and exhilarating to me whenever I visit.

Cresting one of the first slopes along the main trail, I came within view of the early evening sun. It was dazzling after the gloomy atmosphere of the hill leading up to it, and I stood for a few moments to soak in the moment.

After branching off on the mountain loop trail, I descended again into the relative gloominess of the forest. It wasn’t in any way unpleasant, but I have to admit I was slightly unnerved on my first few visits when the canopy seemed to become much darker much quicker than the open terrain around the mountain.

On my way up the side of the mountain toward the overlook trail, I stumbled on this beauty. Appropriately enough, its common name is Maryland meadow-beauty (Rhexia mariana), which I only found out after searching for a solid forty-five minutes on my phone through an online database. It’s a perennial with spiny stems, lanceolate leaves, four-petaled flowers, and drooping anthers. And it lives up to its name too, being one of the most beautiful flowers to be found on a western slope in the early evening, when the orange sunlight accentuates its innate magenta coloration.

To my surprise, despite arriving at the park later than I wanted, I had almost perfect timing for sunset, making it to the overlook itself within minutes of the last peek of the sun over the horizon. There were two other people there to savor the final rays of the day, and together we shared the moment on the edge of the mountain-face before going our separate ways.

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Hiking to a Place Called Gratitude

Back in June I went hiking along the Eno Riverwalk in Hillsborough, NC. I’ve been visiting this place at least once per month since February when a terrible breakup made me reconsider a lot of things. One of the things I reconsidered was my failure to make time for the activities that I love, those experiences that make me grateful to be alive. Hiking is one of those activities, and it was only natural that I decided to make it a priority on some kind of regular basis. I chose the Eno Riverwalk as one of my regular destinations because I love the scenery and because it’s reasonably close to where I live, reducing the likelihood that I’ll use distance as an excuse not to go. So I’ve been visiting this place consistently for months now and have begun to notice subtle changes along the with each season. Some of these were especially noticeable on this latest visit.

One of these changes was the abundance of foliage and flowers. As I was making my way along one of the trails, I noticed a small yellow flower growing from a bush about three feet in height. It was very pretty but was unfamiliar to me at the time. After some online searching I was able to identify it as a cinquefoil (Potentilla spp.), though the elongated drooping stamens prevented me narrowing this plant to a particular species. Cinquefoil is related to the rose family, and the clustering of petals in multiples of five is a dependable indicator of this. This correspondence with the number five also gives the flower its name, which in medieval French means five-leaf.

Another plant also grabbed my attention. It stood roughly two and a half feet in height, had long narrow leaves, and produced very odd and distinctive seed-pods. The seed-pods themselves were about two inches in length and were covered in grasping spines which gave it a very rough appearance. I wasn’t able to identify this plant, but it was one of the most interesting I came across.

Near the end of my hike, I stumbled upon a bend in the Eno River where the water pooled before continuing on its eastward course. The place was amazingly serene, and I was honestly tempted to spend the remainder of the afternoon there. I didn’t, but I did stay long enough to take a photo of this incredibly expressive sycamore tree (Platanus occidentalis). It was standing at the edge of the river and had clearly seen better days. The soil underneath it had been eroded by years of steady motion from the Eno, yet the tree remained in place and tenaciously held on to its life by a thread. Looking at the sycamore and thinking of my own relationship troubles, I couldn’t help feeling the greatest admiration for this tree which had endured so much yet retained its beauty, dignity and strength. In light of that, how could I possibly feel self-pity or despair? I have so much in life to be thankful for, and I have this sycamore to thank for reminding me of that.

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A Stark View of the Woods

image

When I took this photo at Occoneechee Mountain a couple months ago, there had recently been a prescribed burn. For two or three days much of the area was blanketed in heavy woodsmoke, and a smell that could’ve been mistaken for barbecue permeated the air. The area in my photo had been affected by it, and the charred appearance of the ground and surrounding trees gives proof of that. Despite the blackened appearance, however, most of the trees had survived, and much of the underbrush had been minimized to clear the way for new growth. With the charring of the forest came an austere majesty, highlighted by the incoming sunlight in this photo which I took on the downward slope toward the Eno River.

image

On the edge of the Eno River near one of my favorite hiking trails stands this moss-covered, picturesque boulder. I’m sure there’s a name which has been given to it by locals in the area, but I’m not aware of it. If I were to name it, though, I would call it Lookout Rock. It stands around twelve feet in height and is big enough that it can legitimately be considered climbing practice for the weak of heart. On the right edge of it, barely visible, there’s a cleft in the rock that gives access to a kind of staircase–which is probably the result of decades of humans climbing the rock in exactly that spot–which takes you to the top of the boulder itself. From the top, there’s an incredible 180° view of the Eno River, which is one of my favorites. For that that reason, if no other, Lookout Rock has a special place in my heart.