Reflections on the Fifth Week of Summer – Hells Hollow Adventure
Tiger Lilies |
Wednesday afternoon, as soon as Spence pulled to the fence edging the root-rutted parking lot, I grabbed my camera case, hopped out of the car, and hustled to the head of the Hells Hollow Trail. The McConnells Mill State Park pamphlet advertised an easy half mile walk to Hells Hollow Falls. I would make the walk and get a photo of the waterfalls. I pulled the camera out of its case, hung the camera around my neck, and hung the case on my shoulder. Ready.
Just
fitting under the angled roof over the trailhead sign, a
large-framed man
studied the park map.
Spence
locked the car and ambled to the sign.
“How’s it going?”
The
man put his finger on the map,
looked over his shoulder, and said in
a rich voice made for radio,
“Are you from around here? Driving
here,
I passed
signs
for Wampum and
Wampum Underground. What’s
the
story behind that?”
Okay.
Not ready.
After
Spence explained our Wampum
ignorance,
the
fellas
chatted about
Cincinnati where the vacationer
worked as a police officer
and
had “seen it all.”
Splotches
of orange two yards behind the sign caught my eye. I
waded
through
weeds,
crouched,
and angled
my camera lens toward nodding tiger lilies. No
bugs.
Earlier,
after
Spence and I had toured the Old Mill, I focused the camera on surging
Slippery Rock Creek. A
black bug, two
millimeters
long,
crawled across the blue sky. I turned the camera away from my face to
study the lens.
No bug crawled
on the lens.
I focused again. Two bugs crawled across the sky.
Balancing
the camera case on the railing twenty feet above the
white
water―not
my wisest move―I
searched
for
lens tissue. Setting
the case on the hillside
patio
and
stepping back from the railing,
I
gently wiped the lens and focused again. Three bugs. Were bugs
hatching
inside the lens? After
unscrewing
the lens, I
swiped
it with
lens
tissue and an
air
brush. Then
I
puffed
air into the
camera innards―camera
facing the ground to enlist gravity’s help. I
reattached
the lens and focused.
Two
bugs crawled across the view screen.
“Bugs
are ruining my picture. Sheesh!”
Spence
took the camera, detached
the lens, and studied
the parts.
Handing
me the lens, he
flicked
the single reflex mirror with
his thumb then
attacked the inside of the camera with tissue, air blower, and air
brush like
I had.
I
paced the patio,
squinted at the blue sky without crawling
bugs,
and fretted
that
I
might have
to take photos with my not-as-sharp,
cell phone camera.
After
his third round of cleaning, Spence turned the camera’s
open-innards
toward the ground and shook,
shook,
shook.
Putting the camera to his eye, he said, “Got
it.” He
handed the camera back.
And,
when I peered
through the lens at the tiger lilies, no
bugs. I
got sunlight shining through orange petals. Perfect
accents to the
sunny, blue-green summer day.
When
I stood, my
stiff
knees unfolded begrudgingly.
The
vacationer’s
wife
and
two
elementary-school-aged
children
had
joined Spence and his new friend.
Bouncing
on her toes making
her pigtails sway,
the
daughter asked,
“Can
we stay when we get there?” The
thirty-something mom’s
yes
sent the girl skipping down the trail. The
dad
and older
brother
followed.
Before
joining them, the mom
stuffed
car keys into
her shorts pocket and flashed
a friendly smile
at
me. “Happy Birthday.”
Returning
her smile, I said “Thanks” then gave Spence, who
must have divulged
my
birthday status,
a
why-did-you-do-that
raised-eyebrow look.
“Come
on, birthday girl.” Spence held
his arm out as if ushering me to his side.
Hells Hollow Trail Bridge |
We
strode
into the woods
and
across a wooden bridge over
Hell
Run. The shallow six-foot
wide stream gurgled over rocks and pebbles. Cardinals
sang
birdie-birdie-birdie.
Maple
leaves and towering hemlocks filtered sunlight. Our
feet padded along the
wide,
gravel trail. Equipped
with benches placed by scenic views
of Hell Run, the trail proved easy
to follow and
easy
to tread―for
Spence and the Cincinnati family.
Half
way to the falls, my knees stung
as if attacked by a horde of angry yellow
jackets
and
my
hips throbbed.
I slowed to
toddler
pace.
Spence,
who’d
out distanced me by twenty yards before noting I’d lagged behind,
rushed back. “Are you hurting? We can go back.” He
pulled the camera bag off my shoulder and hung it from his.
I
took a calming breath. “I’ll make it. I can
rest on
the next bench.”
A
young woman sat in the middle of the next bench.
“She’ll
make room for you,” Spence said.
But
the sound of the falls―like
the simultaneous
flushing of a thousand industrial toilets―enticed
me forward. “I can make it.” I hobbled
to the top of steep, open-back, wood steps that ended
in the water.
The
Cincinnati
mom
waded. Her
husband and children scrambled up the hill on
the other side of
Hell
Run.
Did I trust my stiff knees on the stairs? “You
go first,” I told Spence in my teacher voice.
He
descended two steps then turned to make sure I’d followed.
Clutching
both
handrails,
I had.
We
slow-stepped
to the bottom.
He
splashed
into two
inches
of water then waded
to a gravel bar beside
the stairs.
I
started
at
the water, at
my hiking shoes, and back at
the water. Preferring
not to spend the rest of the day
in wet stockings and shoes, I ducked under the railing. Landing
on moist gravel and sand, I straightened
to a
side view of the falls. They spread in an arc across the stream. To
get my
anticipated
photo, I would
have to wade to the middle of the stream.
No
extra clothes in the car.
Dinner
at a restaurant to follow.
I
wouldn’t,
couldn’t
wade.
My
face must have registered disappointment because
the
Cincinnati mom
waded to me. “Are you all
right?”
Her
family crab-walked
down the
hill
to the creek.
“Yeah.
I just can’t get a photo of the falls from here. I didn’t bring
wading shoes.”
She
swiveled and pointed
to a fallen
tree stretching
three quarters across the stream. “You can hold my shoulders and
walk along the log.”
Her
son slid
the
rest of the way down the
hill and
walked, with
mud-covered
shorts
bottom,
across the log. His
confident feet angled
out.
I marveled that
he
didn’t
raise his thin arms for balance.
In
mud-free
shorts, his
sister and dad
followed with
arms out like penguin wings.
Wet,
with a tinge of green moss, the log looked precarious to me. Besides,
I’d have to wade through two feet of Hell
Run to
reach
the log. “My log crossing days are over.” I sighed and
asked for
a different favor. “Would you take the picture for me?”
She
studied
my camera. “I don’t know how
to use one of those.”
After
a thirty-second
tutorial, she took the camera and swished
to the middle of the waterfall
pool.
She
pressed the shutter release, moved a few steps, and took another
picture. After her
fifth picture,
she swished
back.
“Check them. If they aren’t okay, I’ll take
more.”
Hells Hollow Falls - photo by Cincinnati Woman |
I
squinted at
the camera’s small
view screen. Lots
of white splashing water. One
photo revealed
five separate levels of the cascading waterfall.
“This one is great.” I angled the view screen so she could see.
“Thanks.”
She
flashed a sunny smile and swished
away.
Beside
me, the edge of the waterfall trickled down rocks.
Between the trickles and the thundering main falls ran a curtain of
streaming water. The contrast and sparkles might
make an intriguing picture. Like the woman had, I took photos from
several spots.
My
smarting
knees and throbbing
hips made
me wonder if the young woman had vacated
the bench at the top of the wood stairs. With Spence following,
I limped
to the top.
The
woman sat on the bench with a young man. A
woods date, no doubt.
I
rested
my fanny against
an uncomfortable rail fence.
The
young woman jumped up. “Would one of you like to rest on this
bench? We’re done.”
Before
I could lie
that the fence worked
for
me,
Spence answered.
“She needs to sit.
I’m fine.”
The
couple ambled off, and I collapsed onto
the bench.
When
I’d
rested on a second
bench,
still deep in the woods,
the air cooled and the sky darkened. Sprinkles pinged
my glasses.
I snatched the camera case from Spence and tucked the
camera inside. Clutching the case to my chest and bending forward, I
stood. No
time
for dawdling.
Despite
crouching,
I
strode up the trail with
Spence.
Raindrops
beat
overhead
leaves like
wood sticks hitting
a snare drum.
Thunder
rumbled. Wind bounced branches.
By
the time we reached the trailhead sign, thunder crashed,
lightning
flashed,
and rain power-washed our
backs.
Ignoring
old
knees and hips, I dashed
to the car and dove inside.
Pea-size
hail hammered the windshield.
Spence
ducked
in the driver’s side door.
Fog
clouded the windshield.
Pushing
wet hair off my forehead, I made
a birthday wish for
our
Cincinnati
friends
at the falls.
May
they return as safely from their
Hells Hollow adventure as my
bug-free,
dry, waterfall
photos.
Hells Hollow Falls Side View |
A birthday adventure to be sure! Loved the photos. :)
ReplyDeleteAn adventure indeed! I'm glad you enjoyed the photos.
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