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The Lake Russell Wildlife Management Area is just 30 minutes north of Jefferson, and it features several nice trails that I hike regularly. The trails there are clean and well-maintained, and the scenery is terrific.

Furthermore, except during hunting season, when rational people don’t go anywhere near the place, I’m usually alone on the trail. I rarely encounter another hiker, or a biker or an equestrian, all day. I like that a lot.

One of my regular walks in the WMA is the Lake Russell Trail, a 5-mile loop that circumnavigates the 100-acre lake.

View along the Lake Russell Trail.

For years, hiking that trail was a sweet-and-sour experience. Half of the loop hugs the shoreline of the lake, giving you beautiful panoramas along the way; but the other half largely follows a gravel service road and routes you through the campground areas. You even lose sight of the lake.

Last year, having endured the unpleasant half for years, I took action.

First, I blazed a trail on the north side of the lake that connects the Lake Russell Trail to an abandoned dirt road that doubles back to the trailhead. That’s option one.

Second, I blazed a trail on the south side of the lake that bypasses the service road and the campground areas altogether. It took a while to clear a useable route, but it was worth the effort.

Most of my hikes on the Lake Russell Trail (the formal parts, anyway) have been uneventful. But two tales are worth telling…

Mother Goose

Canada geese are common around North Georgia because of their migration route. The local lakes are where you find these birds, especially in the spring.

One day in May back in the mid-90s, my dog Kelly and I were hiking the Lake Russell Trail. We were proceeding along the north shoreline, the scenic section where the footpath remains at lake level, mere feet from the water.

Soon, we came to a spot where the trail makes a hairpin loop, following the outline of a small inlet. On the opposite shore of the inlet, about 30 yards across from us, a Canada goose sat in the middle of the trail.

The three of us saw each other immediately. Kelly’s ears perked up. The goose’s neck went rigid. I did a double-take.

As we continued down the trail on our side of the inlet, Kelly and I were moving away from the goose. The goose relaxed.

But after we made the turn at the top of the hairpin, we were drawing closer. The goose got nervous again.

Suddenly, a second goose paddled into view on the lake, honking and flapping furiously. The father had arrived to protect his nesting mate.

I finally could see evidence of the nest beneath her — grass and feathers and other material.

Kelly and I stopped about 10 yards from the mother goose, who was frightened, but unwilling to flee and abandon the nest.

I sat down on the trail. Kelly came over and sat next to me. The two of us looked at the bird, and the bird looked back. The father goose continued to honk at us from the water.

The trail at that point on the lakeshore is on a steep slope. The footpath is only about three feet wide. My inclination was to veer off-trail and leave the poor goose in peace, but that wasn’t possible.

I stood up, as did Kelly, waiting to follow my lead. I had no idea what that would be.

Our movement made the goose more restless. She fidgeted in place, clearly fighting the urge to fly away and save herself.

“Goose,” I said out loud, “We don’t want to hurt you, but why in hell did you build your nest on the trail?”

The goose tucked her head under one wing and lay perfectly still. The second goose, meanwhile, was still honking at us.

Out of curiosity, Kelly took a tentative step toward the goose, nose quivering. She meant no harm, but the goose didn’t know that.

“Kelly, no,” I said quietly. Kelly stopped and sat down, watching the drama with interest.

Holding up my hand for Kelly to stay, I took a few slow, easy steps toward the nesting bird.

Maybe, just maybe, I thought, we can creep past her while her head is covered and she thinks she’s hidden.

Wrong.

My proximity finally became too much for the goose. In a panic, she erupted from the nest and flew away, honking in fear.

Quickly, the two geese joined forces and paddled around just offshore, honking excitedly.

The nest she abandoned contained three eggs. Kelly sniffed at them, then turned and trotted onward.

Knowing I couldn’t leave the nest in the middle of a hiking trail, I scooped it up and followed Kelly. As we departed, the geese stopped honking.

Around the corner, the trail was wider. I selected a spot and carefully placed the nest on the ground.

Whether the geese would find it, I didn’t know. Whether they would abandon it because of the human smell, I didn’t know.

To this day, I’m still puzzled. Why in the world did she build her nest in the middle of the trail? Inexperience?

The Storyteller

Several weeks ago, Paco and I set forth down the same trail, in the same direction. At about the same location, we came around a bend and saw a small metal fishing boat floating near the shore with two men aboard.

This happens all the time. The WMA is frequented by more fishermen than hikers. On most days, a dozen small boats dot the lake.

My usual habit is to raise a hand in greeting, or tug the bill of my cap, which is sort of an unspoken howdy in these parts.

This is done in silence. Fisherman get irritated if you speak. They think you are spooking the fish.

So, as Paco and I passed near them on the trail, I smiled and waved a friendly wave.

“Howdy, young man,” said one of the men.

“Good morning,” I said back.

The man who spoke was about my age, deeply tanned, and slight of build. He wore a John Deere cap and a long-sleeved shirt, which usually is a good idea in the hot sun, except that his shirt was dark blue.

The man had uttered only one phrase, but I could tell that his voice was rich and strong. Somewhere between a Johnny Cash and a Willy Nelson.

“You ever see traces of bear in these woods?” he inquired.

That confirmed it. The words flowed smoothly, easily, resonantly. His voice was his gift, and he knew it and relished using it.

“No,” I replied. “I didn’t know bears wandered this far south.”

“Oh, yeah,” said the man. “I seen their scat, and seen where they been scratchin’ on the tree bark, and where they been feedin’ — seen it many times.”

The other occupant of the boat was a younger, larger man wearing an international orange cap and a skin-tight red tee shirt that accentuated every ounce of his ample midsection.

He looked up, made eye contact with me, and shook his head slowly side to side, as if to say, here he goes again, and went back to fishing.

“Bears is smart animals,” the older man continued. “Smarter than some people I know. They’re mean, too.

“A bear is crafty, you see. He’ll sneak up on a man like you, alone, taking a walk in the woods.

“And no offense, but that dog of yours don’t look like no fightin’ dog. He’d probably be gone real quick and leave you to deal with the bear.”

Maybe Paco would turn tail, maybe not. I didn’t say anything.

The younger man looked at me again and rolled his eyes. I smiled slightly.

“I wouldn’t be too quick to doubt,” the older man admonished. “It was here at this very lake, when I was younger than Randy here, that a male black bear snatched me bald.”

Randy turned toward his boat mate. “Daddy, I’ve heard you tell a lot of stories, but I ain’t heard that one.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Daddy. “We was at the campground over by the beach — Mama and Papa and us kids. In the dead of night, that bear snuck into my tent.

“Well, I woke up, and there he stood, lookin’ at me — eyes bright, a growl rumblin’ low in his throat, the drool drippin’ off his fangs.

“I was trapped. Helpless. I pulled the blanket over my head and waited. I figured I was gone to glory.

“That bear, he swiped one big claw across the top of my head — pphhhhtt — and left me like this.”

He removed his John Deere cap and tilted his head forward. He was as bald as an egg.

“Jesus, Daddy,” said Randy with a chuckle.

“That was a terrible thing to happen,” I said, “Me, I lost my hair the old-fashioned way.” I took off my cap to illustrate.

“Yessir, the physical scars, they healed,” he said. “But that bear left emotional scars that’s lasted a lifetime. A lifetime.”

He paused for dramatic effect and put his cap back on.

“So my advice to you, young man, is to be cautious and alert out there,” he said. “Them bears is sneaky and mean, and bein’ bald already won’t save your hide.”

“I appreciate the advice,” I told him. “I will be bear aware and bear alert.”

The two men nodded and went back to fishing. Paco and I resumed our hike.