Mr. Write's Page

By and large, I’ve lived a plain vanilla life. All very ordinary.

No lofty honors or accolades, but no scandals, crimes, or embarrassing indiscretions, either.

Even my idiosyncrasies are rather tame. Friends and family know me for my minor obsessions: my fondness for hiking, my fascination with Grand Canyon, my tendency to collect things for which I have no earthly use.

In light of all that, it seems out of character that I have bloomed recently as an outlaw.

An outlaw blazer of hiking trails. Trails through the forest. Anonymously and without permission.

Specifically, over the past several years, I have cleared and marked eight or 10 miles of new pathways in various woodsy places.

I’ve done it slowly, painstakingly, and solely for my own amusement and enjoyment.

Frankly, it makes me feel a bit audacious and daring, sort of like the masked anarchist in “V for Vendetta.”

Yes, I know — on the spectrum of anti-establishment acts, clearing brush is down there at the milquetoast end.

If you’re trying to think of a medical disorder that fits this behavior, don’t bother.

I cleared and blazed every mile for a sound, sane reason — the reason trails are created to begin with: to get from where you are to where you want to be.

More to the point, I did it because I found existing trails to be inadequate.

My trailblazing career began innocently enough. Paco and I had been spending a lot of time walking the trails in a certain expanse of forest not far from Jefferson. Before long, I knew the tract quite well and, truth be told, the thrill was gone.

The tract is several square miles in size. The existing trails were a combination of abandoned dirt roads and new paths created by ATVs — all-terrain vehicles, those wretched, motorized things that make such a racket and chew up the ground so badly.

After I became familiar with the trail system, it occurred to me that in several places, the pathways came relatively close, as the crow flies. If I could connect them in key places, it would create new loops and new options for hiking.

So, armed with gloves and pruning shears, I created my first trail, from scratch. Within an hour, I had trimmed enough branches and undergrowth to clear a path 50 yards long through the virgin woods, linking the two existing routes.

I was quite pleased with myself and surprised at how easy it was.

I should point out that my trail was decidedly primitive. I didn’t topple any trees; I went around them. I didn’t saw off any huge branches; I nipped off the tiny ones. Whereas most trails go in a straight line, my trail meandered like crazy, following the path of least resistance.

But as I said, I was pleased with the result.

So pleased, in fact, that I repeated the process in another part of the forest.

And repeated it again. And again.

Within six months, I had created seven or eight new connector trails totaling a couple of miles in length.

As a final touch, I blazed each trail with a few strategic spritzes of spray paint. My tag of choice was a small blue rectangle.

The truth is, neither the pathways nor the blazes are very obtrusive. The driver of a passing ATV, for example, probably wouldn’t notice my handiwork at all. I did not sully or disfigure the woods, at least not to a degree that matters.

I suppose I could consider my labors a service to fellow hikers, but really, I did what I did for selfish reasons.

Early last year, that selfish streak erupted again, this time in Habersham County, 30 miles northeast or here, in the Lake Russell Wildlife Management Area.

The Lake Russell WMA is the home of the Ladyslipper Trail, one of my favorite local trails. I mentioned the WMA and the Ladyslipper in a post last summer.

The Ladyslipper is a loop of six or seven miles that features varied terrain, constant elevation changes, lots of creek crossings, and several panoramic views. It’s terrific.

But in spite of my affection for the Ladyslipper, it has one flaw that bugs me no end: at one point, the pathway leaves the forest and for half a mile, follows a gravel Forest Service road.

I hate to be fussy, but I don’t like walking on gravel. I don’t drive to the  mountains to walk on gravel.

Nevertheless, I hiked the loop regularly for years, and I simply endured the unpleasant half mile. Then one day, I had an epiphany.

Here you are on a gravel road that was cut through the woods years ago, I said to myself. That same woods is mere yards away.

You have become an experienced maker of trails. Apply your skills here, and you won’t have to walk on the gravel ever again.

The logic of my argument was inescapable.

A few days later, I was back, and I set about the task of making a pathway that would bypass the offending stretch of gravel.

I began my work at the north end of the gravel stretch. On the right side of the road, I created my “trailhead” in a stand of young loblolly pines that were easy to trim.

Once inside the woods, I followed a deer path a short distance, trimming as I went along. I pressed ahead, staying more or less parallel with the gravel road.

A few hundred yards later, the stand of pine trees gave way to hardwoods. That was ideal. The terrain under the forest canopy was open and easy to cross. I was doing very well — but the daylight was almost gone. I called it a day and went home.

A week later, I was back to continue the project. This session was more difficult. The hardwoods ended at the top of a hill, and on the far side was a graveyard of fallen trees.

It was a mature pine forest that had succumbed to fire and insects. From the air, the area would look like a spilled box of pretzels.

Working my way through the deadfall took three or four daytrips. If I could manhandle the fallen trunks out of the way, I did. If not, I changed course. My route zigzagged across the hilltop.

Finally, the expanse of deadfall was behind me. I was standing at the beginning of a long, narrow valley under a solid canopy of young hardwoods.

The valley is simply beautiful. Ferns and soft grasses predominate. A small stream flows along one side. I christened the place Fern Valley. No trail-clearing was necessary.

Several hundred yards later, the valley reached a clearing. By sheer luck, it was my precise goal: the south end of the gravel road.

I was so pleased with myself.

On subsequent trips, I cleared the pathway a little more, trimmed a bit here, moved a log there. After I was satisfied, I blazed the entire length with my signature blue rectangle. I had officially gone public.

That was six months ago. Have any hikers followed the new route? Would they understand its reason for being? I have no idea.

Is the Forest Service aware of its existence? Would they care? Probably not.

And none of that matters. What matters is that henceforth, I can hike the Ladyslipper Trail and bypass that awful gravel road.

So, that’s my mea culpa.

Since then, I’ve built other trails here and there, all relatively short, most serving as connector trails. I also have some ideas for future projects. It makes for an odd, and oddly satisfying hobby.

That’s the good news. The bad news is, now I am stuck with the added burden of trail maintenance.

The gravel road (left) and my trailhead (right).

A section of my bypass trail.

Paco in Fern Valley.

Tool of the trade.