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GLACIER NATIONAL PARK, Mont. – As I crept along through a corridor of chest-high wild weeds, my eyes darted from side to side, my heart raced and my hands clung to the canister of bear spray that hung from my shoulder. 

Walking along the Snyder Trail in Glacier National Park, I could barely see ten feet in front of me. Between the constant switchbacks, the loping hills and valleys and the foliage that choked the hardpack trail, visibility was scarce. With just over a half-mile to go until reaching Snyder Lake, this had been the furthest I had ventured into a backcountry that had reportedly seen a mother bear and two cubs just a couple of days before. One afternoon before, I had turned back after realizing that bear spray was really a necessity rather than a suggestion and now I had returned, forcing myself to complete the mission. 

Suddenly, a series of thumps echoed from somewhere off ahead. My feet froze and I cupped my hands around my ear to amplify what sounded like something whacking against a tree. There was a pause and then a few more deep thuds. I climbed atop a boulder just off the path but still couldn’t see through the ocean of lush, green vegetation. A few tense minutes after the sounds stopped, I stepped back onto the path and drove myself to keep going, spray in hand.  

I HAD REACHED MONTANA on Wednesday after two and a half long days on the road. Thirty four hours behind the wheel, with stops in Madison, WI and Circle, MT, had landed me at Emery Bay Campground, which sits just 25 minutes from Glacier National Park. A year before, during my 71 days on the road, I had been mesmerized by the beautiful navy blues and neon greens that coated the skyscraping Rocky Mountains of Glacier and in the time since, I had become obsessed with finding a way to return. 

Reaching the campground with a few hours of daylight to spare, I spent my initial night setting up and furnishing my tent before meeting four foreign exchange students – Nat from Thailand, Mo from Jordan and Raul and Ioana from Romania – who were also spending a night under the stars. The five of us christened my six-day trip with a night full of cards, stories and stargazing, but the next day my adventure would begin in earnest. 

The main goal was to put as many miles under my boots as possible and I began with a familiar trailhead. At the climax of the Going-to-the-Sun Road, the main thoroughfare through Glacier National Park, is Logan Pass. Nestled amongst the high altitude peaks and surrounded by a panorama of breathtaking views, the Logan Pass Visitor Center sees a lot of action, evident by the swath of cars continuously circling its always-full parking lot – even at 5 in the morning. 

Parking a mile or so down the road and hitchhiking my way to the visitor center, I set off down the Hidden Lake trail, the lone hike I had done in my previous visit. Although the start towards Hidden Lake tends to be jammed packed, the crowds start to thin as you head into the higher elevation and tougher terrain and soon you find yourself in a sparsely dotted track into the mountains. 

Besides the views, which I struggle to believe are even real at times, there’s another reason why this trail is so popular: the wildlife. 

Just a mere 20 minutes into my trek, I passed a crowd spectating a mountain goat, whose snow white coat stood in beautiful contrast with the green meadow speckled with purple and yellow wildflowers. Further down the line, another mountain goat, this one a mother with her youngling following in stride, walked down the path ahead of me before darting up the steep cliffside to take in the view of the caravan of encumbered travelers.

On the way down to Hidden Lake, as I carefully lowered myself down the sheer and rocky 550-foot descent, I came face to face with a big horn sheep. We both paused as we decided what to do and as I began to step up the embankment to give him the right of way, the sheep took off sprinting towards me. Jumping into the hillside, the strong-headed animal clambered past, coming within 10 feet of me before it took off up the cliffs. 

WHILE THAT ENCOUNTER certainly gave me a jolt, it was nothing compared to Grizz Country. Each step past the boulder reverberated through my body before resonating in my throat, where my heart was currently hiding. Still, I pressed along towards another blind corner. 

However, just around the bend, I spotted the cream colored helmets of the Montana Conservation Corps (MCC). The sounds, apparently, had come from them as they worked to clear debris from the trail. I had met this particular crew a day before when I ultimately turned off the trail and we shared a laugh. 

“Man, I’m sure glad it was you guys making all that noise,” I said with a nervous chuckle. 

As I passed, they informed me that the sow and her cubs had been spotted beyond Snyder Lake, up along the ridge that towered over top and that there was no immediate threat. Still, as I left, they called back a light-hearted warning, “stay safe!”

Knowing that I wasn’t necessarily alone, I picked up the pace as I cleared the last half mile. Cutting through the last few branches and weeds, a sage-colored lake encompassed by towering, jagged peaks shrouded in pine trees and low hanging clouds opened before me. Setting down my pack – but keeping the bear spray ready for action – I sipped from my water bottle and scanned the ridges high above me. 

Besides the varying red, green and gray striations and the scattered pockets of forest, there was nothing to be seen, certainly no hulking grizzly bear with two teddys trailing behind her. As my heart began to finally settle, I circled the water’s edge, continuously searching for any signs of life but to no avail. 

FINALLY, I WAS forced to leave as an afternoon drizzle began to fall from overhead. Throwing on my rain jacket and stowing away my camera, I picked up and began the four-and-a-half mile walk back. As the rain thickened and my pants and boots began taking on water, I started a half-jog, carefully stepping over moist rocks and quick flowing streams that had begun to form across the dirt path. 

But once again, the quiet chorus of raindrops was split by another sound which ran down the sloped hills and into the valley. Rather than the thumping noise I had heard before, this one resembled a muffled and sporadic chainsaw, however, its wavering pitch and intensity shook the notion of it being man-made. My jaw dropping to the now-mud ground, I spun to face the mountain, eyes darting once again to hopefully get a glance of my ‘white whale.’ But between the fog and dense thickets of pine trees that speckled the hillside, it was impossible to get a glimpse of anything with any certainty. 

I continued to search and look for a round flash of brown but as the drizzle gave way to a full on storm, I finally relented. Passing the MCC crew once again on the way back, they confirmed in just one word what had made the roar, “grizzly.” 

Awarding myself half-credit for at least hearing a bear, I continued back down the path with a big smile stretched across my face. Had I not been worried the MCC crew was following behind me, I might have even broken out into a skip. However, the new-found elation was washed away with the downpouring rain and I soon began to tire of the trail. With each step, my boots sloshed as water oozed out of the toes and my nylon hiking pants became suctioned to my legs, both of which sent shivers up my body. 

THE NEXT THREE-PLUS miles were dreary as shin splints, minor cramps and other signs of general fatigue began to set in. Looking to get out of the elements as quickly as possible, I cut back on my rests, instead swinging my backpack around my shoulder for swigs of water when needed. After close to an hour and a half, I finally reached my car in the McDonald Lodge, instantly peeling off my boots and skin-tight socks in exchange for a fresh pair and flip flops. 

Tired, sore but still holding onto some smoldering bear-born euphoria, I began the hour drive out of Glacier and towards camp, where I would be welcomed with a hot bowl of chicken noodle soup and an even hotter campfire. 

Olean Star

LITTLE VALLEY —  The 4-H Market Animal Sale Saturday at the Cattaraugus County Fair is expected to raise more than $250,000 for 4-H owners.

The auction begins at 10:30 a.m. in the show ring at the cattle barns where 29 beef cattle, nine dairy beef cattle and three coolers with dairy products valued at $250.

The auction moves to the nearby smaller animal show ring where they will auction 59 hogs, nine goats, 22 lambs, 28 broiler pairs, 13 turkeys, three pens of rabbits and numerous delicious pies.

Abbey Luzier, Cattaraugus County 4-H youth educator, said there are 130 youth participating in the Market Animal Sale with 175 animals scheduled to be sold. That compares to 157 animals that sold last year for a record $275,440.

Luzier said the 4-H youths work hard to raise their animals to show at the fair. Each year they learn more about exhibiting their animals.

Ryder Smith of Little Valley won grand champion swine honors on Sunday with his 275-pound hog Lord Farquaad. 

Kaleb Durow of Randolph won for Best Doe (Goat) in Show and is also headed for the Market Animal Auction.

Ethan Boutelle, a member of the Country Line Drivers, the Randolph 4-H club, is from Kennedy, just across the Cattaraugus-Chautauqua county line.

He won the Supreme Lamb title this year after some first place finishes in the past. He’s been showing sheep for the past five years. His neighbors at I-86 Breeders encouraged him to raise sheep.

His parents, Emma and Ray Boutelle had a dairy farm at the time. He also raises and shows Holstein cows and beef cattle and showed two of each at this year’s fair.

The 4-H/FFA Beef and Dairy Steer Show is scheduled for Thursday morning in the cattle ring.

Thursday night’s grandstand — the WNY Pro Pulling Series, is free and starts at 7 o’clock.  

On Friday, there’s an Open Dairy Show at 9 a.m., followed at 10 o’clock by the All Breed Horse Show. At 6 p.m., there is a Monster Truck Pit Party, followed by the Monster Truck Rally at 7:30.

On Saturday, the fair’s last day, an All Breeds HorseShow starts at 10 a.m., followed at 10:30 by the 4-H Market Animal Auction. A Monster Truck Pit Party starts at 12:30 p.m., followed at 1:30 by the Monster Truck Rally.

The Championship Demolition Derby begins at 6:30 p.m.

__________________________________

All Rights Reserved. Star News LLC. Eric M. Firkel.

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RAPID CITY, SD – Sunday began at 4 a.m.

Waking up before the crack of dawn, I slowly wiped the sleep from my eyes as I rolled out of bed, my mind groggy with the last bits of jet lag. Throwing on some fresh clothes, my father and I packed up a small backpack and headed out on the road. Having been there twice a day before, both in the afternoon for a first viewing and in the late evening to see the giant sculptures of our first, third, fourteenth and 27th presidents lit up against a backdrop of stars, the route to Mount Rushmore was familiar to me, even in pitch darkness. 

As we left the Rapid City limits towards Keystone, the sky began to break with a blue haze that coated the approaching granite mountains of the Black Hills. With no one else on the road, we both had ample time to scan our horizons, watching the light green prairies slowly raise into budding mountain tops. Along the way, just before the tourist traps of Keystone’s mining-town inspired street, an amber fox darted from the roadside and into the security of the pine-laden hills. 

Just like the night before, when we pulled into the National Monuments two-story parking garage at 10 p.m., the lot was empty besides a few white pickup trucks donning the National Park’s famous arrowhead logo on the side. Walking down the Avenue of Flags, we once again studied the plagues at the bases of each flag, noting the date and order of each states’ establishment – Pennsylvania, the second state inducted into the Union, beat out our home state of Connecticut by four. 

Ahead of us, the bulbous noggins which took nearly 20 years to emerge from the mountain top stared off in the distance, with pink and blue streaks beginning to crawl across their faces. George Washington led his piers in breaking the day while Theodore Roosevelt clung to the shadows cast by Abraham Lincoln. Standing above the amphitheater and directly in front of the monument, I whipped out my camera and telephoto lens before quickly adjusting the settings while my father read the names of the various foundations and benefactors which made this creation of American ingenuity possible. The only sounds around us would be the rapid clicking of my snapshots and a small choir of birds calling through the complacent morning air. 

Arriving at Mount Rushmore just before dawn, my father and I watched as the morning sun painted the figures with streaks of pink and honey. | Photo by Hunter O. Lyle

After a few moments, we were drawn back together, staring at the 5,725 foot structure and wondering how in the hell this was possible. Using hammers and steel drills and dremels, their safety relying harness ropes and rickety stairs and buckets, a crew of old-timers filled with can-do attitudes chiseled and blasted away over 450,000 tons of rock, shaping perfectly smooth busts that stand the test of nearly one hundred years. 

Visiting for the third time, there was just one thing left to do: the Presidential Trail. 

Recommended by a traveling couple named Sterling and Dee, whom we had met the day before, we decided to walk the 0.6 mile track up to the base of the cliffs. Walking past the discarded graveyards of broken stone, we made our way until we stood below each head, taking time to read the plagues that told their stories. As we passed, the sun finally broke through the clouds, illuminating the faces in a brilliant golden light that seemed to fill their stone cold eyes with life and which also warmed us from the cool breeze that had persisted since arriving in South Dakota. 

After just over a half hour, we returned to the perch above the amphitheater and once again stood in front of the former Commanders in Chiefs. In the time that had passed, the warm honey light had faded, now replaced with the pale white daylight that emphasized the granite in which they were carved. Taking one last look, we turned back down the corridor of state flags and headed back to our car. It was just past 6:30 a.m. and with our schedule full, we needed to return back to Rapid City for a bit of rest and relaxation. 

Growing up, my father and I had often traveled together. Besides the yearly family summer vacations to Rhode Island, which gave me my deep love for the ocean, we drove to New Hampshire to become small time firework smugglers, day trips to Saratoga Race Track to bet on the ponies and even a trek to Battleship Cove in Fall River, Mass. to spend a night on a submarine during my brief stint as a Cub Scout. However, in the last handful of years we have expanded our horizons to the West. First, we made our way to Wyoming for a job opportunity before he eventually met me in Colorado for a week during my cross country adventure last summer. 

After coming home from 71 days on the road, I was eager to take him out on another trip to show him what he might have been missing. Knowing that Mount Rushmore was on his bucket list – although he refuses to say he has one – South Dakota seemed like the perfect option. With that in mind, I decided to surprise him with two plane tickets for Christmas. Serving as a two-fold present, we would head to the midwest for four days that culminated in his birthday. 

We landed in Rapid City’s small, beige airport on Friday and took our first day to settle in after six hours in the air. After dropping our stuff in the hotel, we drove to Main Street’s central strip full of indigenous antique and gift shops, tourist information centers and a handful of restaurants. There, we got a late lunch at Firehouse Brewing Company, an old firehouse turned bar and grill where we enjoyed one of the best burgers I’ve ever had – it earned an 8.7 on the Lyle Food Review. Still lagging from the air travel, we returned to the hotel and nodded off for the rest of the evening.

On Saturday, the adventure began in earnest. Still battling the wind and not remembering to pack pants, the first stop was a sports outlet to pick up some pants and jackets, also checking out a pair of Ray Bans – one of my dads few rituals. But then we checked off the first box on our to-do list: Rushmore. Just over a half hour from Rapid City, I was delighted as my dad’s eyes shot open as he got his first glimpse of the Black Hills, a terrain of blunt, grey mountaintops that peaked over hills coated in pine tree forests. 

We spent about an hour at the base of Rushmore, taking in all the angles of the momentous sculptures before taking a walk through the museum to learn about the building process. My father, a construction worker and miner by trade, was blown away by the crude tools that produced such a magnificent work of art and history. 

Construction of Mount Rushmore began in 1927 and was completed in 1941. | Photo by Hunter O. Lyle

“That’s just so wild,” he would quietly mutter as he moved from exhibit to exhibit, chuckling in awe along the way. 

But then it was time to move on, checking itinerary item No. 2: Crazy Horse Memorial. 

Partially inspired as a response to Mount Rushmore, Ogala Lakota Chief John Standing Bear dreamed of a way to memorialize their own iconic heroes in stone. Writing to Korczak Ziolkowski, a Polish-American artist and sculptor, Standing Bear’s request was eventually accepted with a sense of great pride and honor. The project began in 1948 with Ziolkowski climbing over 700 wooden stairs on a daily basis as he started carving away rock by hand. 

Nearly 80 years later, Crazy Horses’ piercing stare and football-field-long left arm have emerged from the mountain. Speckled in cranes and bulldozers, the progress continues with completion hoped to happen in the next handful of decades. Just under a mile from the 564-foot warrior chief’s rebirth, we passed through the halls of the Crazy Horse Museum, looking over artifacts, portraits and written stories of Native Americans’ troubled history. Again, my father spoke in awe of both the culture and the amazing physical feats taken to accomplish Standing Bears’ vision.

Crazy Horse, who is being memorialized in stone just under 20 miles from Mount Rushmore, was a Lakota war chief who took up arms against encroaching settlers during the mid-1800s. | Photo by Hunter O. Lyle

After getting a front-row view of the monument with a bus trip, priced at just $5 a head, we once again packed back up in our rental car and headed back to Rapid City. Following an even better burger – this time at Salt Block Burgers and Brews, a 9.1 – we retired to the hotel for more research and rest, both of which would be much needed for Sunday’s adventure.

* * * * 

Heading East, there was no semblance of the Black Hills, or any hills for that matter. Taking a quick pit stop back at the hotel, my dad and I continued the Sunday fun with my most anticipated stop of the trip, Badlands National Park.

Coined by the French, Badlands got its name by the tough terrain and lack of water. However, what it lacked in the basic survival necessities, it made up for in literal awesome geological features. Covered in more than 240,000 acres of jagged spines of sandstone peaks that resembled castle ruins, Badlands is a labyrinth of caves and cliffs that surround far off buttes and plateaus way beyond the rims’ edge. From the plains that surround the highway, you wouldn’t even imagine something so naturally fascinating would be just a few miles out of view. But even before we reached one of my favorite landscapes on Earth, we were treated to another, equally amazing sight.

On my first trip to the area, I was lucky enough to see bison, albeit, just for a quick glimpse off in the distance. I was determined to give my father a chance to see these wild and majestic beasts, but I thought luck would have to be a factor to see just one. Apparently, luck was more than on my side on Sunday afternoon.

Pulling off the freeway and onto a gravel side road, we traveled into no man’s land, surrounded by a lush prairie on either side that was uninterrupted by any signs of civilization. Suddenly, to our left stood three hulking animals. The buffalo grazed just a few feet from the road’s edge, slowly moving from one patch of grass to the other and completely unbothered by our car, which we quickly pulled over to get a better view. My father, nervously excited and eyes wide, stayed in the car but I was quick to step out for some close up photos. 

On the way to Badlands National Park, my father and I stumbled upon a trio of bison who leisurely grazed upon the open prairie, oblivious or indifferent about an ensuing photo shoot. | Photo by Hunter O. Lyle

Broad shouldered and covered in a thick, patchy layer of hide, the animals strolled about while I, safely, inched closer despite my fathers’ hesitation. Under their short black horns, their stoic eyes rose to meet mine, analyzing any potential danger before giving me a pass and returning to their late lunch. After a few moments, I returned to the car.

“Aren’t they wild? I think bison are my favorite animal,” I said, double checking that my dad was impressed. “I’m so glad you got to see some.”

Little did I know what lay just a mile or two down the dirt road. 

A few minutes on, more dark specks lined the horizon and as we approached, we realized that we were rolling up to a full herd. Ahead of us, more than 50 bison covered the dirt path. While some laid in the afternoon sun, others migrated from one side of the road to the other, taking their time and unaware of the cars patiently waiting on either side. In the distance, a few honey colored calves hung close to their mothers, occasionally getting a burst of energy and darting in circles but never straying too far. 

A young calve, still without it’s thick hide or horns, keeps close to it’s mother as my father and I drove through the herd. | Photo by Hunter O. Lyle

With my camera resting in my lap, I leaned it on the window for some drive-by shots while my dad pulled out his cell phone camera.

“I have to send these to your grandma,” he said, pinching his screen to zoom in.

Slowly making our way down the road, we maneuvered past the herd in a near silence that was only broken by our astonished remarks. Finally breaking through the pack, the groups dwindled to just a few at a time but they never fully disappeared from sight as we continued towards Badlands. Just as we were seemingly getting past the awe-factor, we were greeted by another sort of welcoming party.

On either side of the road, the light green plains were speckled with tan circles that numbered in the hundreds and stretched beyond our sight. Stopping to inspect what these mounds were, quiet, high-pitched chirps announced our presence and soon after, there was a flurry of movement between the small hills. Snapping a few photos before manually zooming in on them, I walked back to the car to show my dad a neighborhood of prairie dogs, an animal that neither of us had seen before. Ringing the alarm with their tiny screams, the rodents retreated to their dens, giving us a quick look back before diving underground. 

“Two for two,” I said to my dad with an ear to ear grin. 

Prairie dogs live in complex underground burrows called “towns,” with interconnected tunnels and chambers. A typical burrow has multiple entrances and can be quite extensive, with lengths varying from 15 to 109 feet. | Photo by Hunter O. Lyle

We ventured on and from where the flora ended the breathtaking views began. Driving along the rim, we looked down at the shattered landscape painted in muted hues of tan, orange, red, purple and yellows before dipping beneath and being swallowed by the castle-like structures constructed by prehistoric volcanic ash. Every once in a while, we would stop at a viewpoint to take in a world that resembled a doomed, distant planet. 

Slowly, we made our way through the 39-mile scenic byway, eventually returning back to the highway towards Rapid City. Pointed West, Badlands once again returned to the imagination, hidden behind miles of flatlands and the midday haze. The day ended peacefully, full of conversations recounting how unbelievable this country could be. That, and another round of Salt Block burgers. 

On my fathers birthday, Monday, we laid low. Tired and not up for another long drive or two, we lounged around Rapid City. Dipping in and out of shops and wandering around bronze statues of all the 47 presidents, we perused the simple living lifestyle that was South Dakota’s second largest city – the first being Sioux Falls, located on the exact opposite side of the Rushmore State. While there was a handful or so of to-dos and attractions, there was a welcomed lack of hustle and bustle. 

In the evening, we retired to the hotel room one last time, becoming invested in a full season of Animal Planet’s Harpoon Hunters, a competition show of anglers who hunt down bluefin tuna with nothing more than a sea-worthy spear.  

At the end of it all, I asked my father if he had enjoyed his time in South Dakota and, not one to mince words, he replied, “of course,” an answer that gratefully fell on my ears. Working hard labor jobs from his late teens to present day, I could think of no man who deserved a vacation more than my role model. After all that he had provided to me, I was very happy I had built up the kind of life where I could deliver something back. 

There are plenty of states in this country that get overlooked. Sure, California has the Pacific Coast and beautiful weather, and yes, Wyoming has Yellowstone and Arizona had the Grand Canyon, but there are some places in this country that don’t advertise the true wonders in which they hold. South Dakota, with its rich history, monuments and stunning scenery, all within an hour or so drive, making it a perfect place for a weekend away, is without a doubt one of those places.

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By the time we stepped out from under the canopy and onto the sidewalk, it was about mid-afternoon. After checking the time and taking a few swings out of our water bottles, Taylor, Jon and I looked back at the Blue Hen Falls trailhead, taking a few final photos. With a three and a half hour trip back home, as well as an added stop for dinner, it was just about time to get back on the road. 

While for some a seven-hour round trip journey for a 45 minute trek may seem ridiculous, to me it served to scratch a returning itch. 

After a few dragging weeks, the weather seems to have made up its mind, deciding on warmly welcomed sun and rising temperatures over any lagging snow flurries. With that comes the urge to break from hibernation and take to the outdoors, favorably, a trail aimed up a mountain. Last Friday proved to be my breaking point. Despite a slight drizzle and soft, chilly breeze, I had to get out there, choosing the Bear Cave to Mount Seneca trail in the Allegheny National Forest to be my first expedition. 

Once on the path and encompassed by oaks and black cherry trees, the rain came down around me like a soft murmur, gently tapping on the leaves in a soothing soundtrack accompanied by the sound of my footsteps. The roughly four mile out-and-back hike, which sits about 20 minutes outside of Bradford and which is searchable on the All Trails app, takes you up and around Mount Seneca, showcasing the resurging flora in an array of green hues as well as cleverly eroded boulders. I passed over several thriving creeks and although my boots became splattered with mud, it wouldn’t stop me from trudging up the over 1,000-plus feet of elevation gain. 

As far as an initial excursion, the hike from Bear Cave to Mount Seneca served its purpose. At just under two hours, the hike was a nice ice breaker for ensuing spring and summer. However, all the while I couldn’t help my mind from straying to previous adventures, some with a bit more awe involved. 

Last summer, my girlfriend and I finally mustered up enough guts and decided to chase the dream of a cross country road trip. Through 71 days on the road, we circumnavigated the nation, seeing everything from Bourbon Street in New Orleans to the Fourth of July in Austin to Big Sky Country up in Montana. Pretty early into our trip, we realized that National Parks would be a priority. Altogether, we hit 17 parks and every single one of them were, in the most literal sense of the word, breathtaking. Even now, flashes of waltzing through the smoothly sanded canyon walls of Zion or gazing down at the sheer, 2,000-foot cliffs of Black Canyon of the Gunnison come back as photographic memories. Needless to say, while my feet were stomping around the Allegheny National Forest, my mind was wandering elsewhere. 

After the hike, I came home and got busy researching both nearby trails and nearby National Parks. While I had heard of Shenandoah National Park in Virginia, the five-plus hours to get there would probably require overnight camping and, although the days have begun warming, night still has some catching up to do. Instead, I set my sights on a NP just a little closer.

Cuyahoga Valley National Park is the eighth newest park to be established and the first one in this millenia, christened on Oct. 11, 2000. By size, CVNP is the ninth smallest at 32,571.9 total acres and follows the Cuyahoga River and Ohio and Erie Canal system. Although there are over 125 miles of hiking trails, the park’s main attraction seems to be the Ohio and Erie Canal Towpath Trail, an all-accessible walking and biking trail that covers, in total, 101 miles. Located less than a half hour from Cleveland and just 15 minutes from Akron, the park is a sliver of green that abuts the sprawling city limits. 

Just from looking at the park’s page on the National Park Service’s website, it was evident there was less flair here than at some of the more notable parks. However, I was still intrigued and my adventurous flames were stoked. If for nothing else, the trip would serve as a prelude for things to come, similar to Bear Cave to Mount Seneca. 

After picking out my intended activity, I began planning. Unfortunately, Friday’s rain was expected to hold out for the entire weekend and although I hadn’t minded getting a little wet for a jaunt close to home, the idea of driving three and a half hours back home in waterlogged clothes was unpleasant to say the least. My recreational ambitions would have to wait another week. Instead, I picked Sunday, April 27 as the departure day, which arrived with cloudless blue skies and a forecast in the high 70s. 

Waking up at 7 a.m., Taylor and I gathered our provisions: a fully-loaded camera bag with both of our bodies and a set of lenses, of which I would be carrying, a utility backpack for extra clothes, snacks and space for souvenirs, which Taylor would be rucking, and a few things to pass the time in the car. We then picked up her brother Jon and hit the road once again. 

Blue Hen Falls in Cuyahoga Valley National Park lies roughly a mile and a half down an out-and-back trail head close to the Boston Mill Visitor Center. | Photo by Hunter O. Lyle

The driving went by quickly and we arrived at Cuyahoga Valley National Park just after noon. As is always the procedure, our first stop was at the visitor center, in this case, the Boston Mill Visitor Center. Sitting dead smack in the middle of the park, the Boston Mill Visitor Center offers a prime home base to any excursion and we quickly headed inside to take a peek at the park maps as well as to get our official pin – a tradition of any NP trip. 

After our purchases, we spoke with the rangers who informed us that the Blue Hen Falls trailhead sat just on the other side of the road. We dropped off our unnecessary things back at the car and headed into the woods. 

The trail immediately starts off with a sharp elevation gain, the largest of all the trails at CVNP. However, it is immaculately well maintained in order to serve its city-dwelling demographic. While trail maintenance is essential for every hike, the wood-block stairs ebbed on the adventurous side of the journey. There would be no scrambling up rocks or searching through thickets to refind the path here. 

As we carried on down the trail, the proximity to civilization was evident. Criss-crossed by a handful of interstate highways, the doppler waves of passing semi trucks echoed down through the valley. Traversing double-lane roads along the way and passing hikers blasting music from the JBL speakers, it was blatantly obvious that the city came first and protected nature second. Regardless, my spirits were high. I was just happy to be adventuring again. 

At the terminus of the out-and-back Blue Hen Falls trail, roughly 1.5 miles from the visitor center, we reached the waterfall, a 15-foot drop that washes down onto eroded layers of shale. Over the ages, its stream has carved out a fat half cylinder, a stage that amplifies the soft cooing of falling river. Beyond the pool where the waterfall drops, a handful of families waded in the creek bed, studying the gray, blue and yellow shale over which the water reflected blinking rays of sun. 

Just beyond the falls, the chilled creek flows over an array of colored slate carved from years of erosion. | Photo by Hunter O. Lyle

Taylor and I got to work canvassing the area with our cameras while using Jon as a model. Over the next half hour, the three of us scrambled up and around the falls, taking in every angle available. Then, after taking a minute to just sit and think, it was time to head back. 

On the way, we talked about the park and the contrast between some others we had visited – although it was just Taylor and I on the summer road trip, we were able to lure Jon out to see Yellowstone NP in Wyoming and Badlands NP in South Dakota. Cuyahoga National Park was nice, its forests clean and relaxing, and it seemed to be a welcomed reprieve from city life for the locals. For what it was, we had no criticism. However, we probably wouldn’t come back for a second look anytime soon. 

Stepping back into the parking lot, we noticed a crowd gathering around the train tracks in front of the visitor center. After asking around, we learned they were waiting for the arrival of ‘Steam in the Valley,’ an 80-year-old steam train also referred to as ‘Historic Steam Locomotive No. 765.’ Operating on a seasonal basis on specific weekends, it looked like our trio was going to catch a rare draw. Cameras ready, we waited with the crowd in anticipation, occasionally stretching our necks to see if we could catch a glimpse of ol’ 765 coming around the bend. Yet, after nearly 40 minutes of waiting, we looked at each other and shrugged. Rather than stay and wait, we decided to hop back on the road and chase down a meal. 

Taking the first shift behind the wheel, I navigated us back through Cleveland and towards Erie while my crewmates dozed off. While my body was tired from the day’s travel, my mind was racing. I was right in assuming that, while Cuyahoga wasn’t comparable to a Yellowstone or Glacier National Park, but it had replaced my batteries. I was surging with excitement and ambition, all swirling around the 45 National Parks still shrouded in alluring mystery.

While some are more immediately attainable than others – a weekend trip to Shenandoah sounds feasible while a long haul to Glacier Bay all the way in Alaska will take more careful consideration – my appetite was growing. And luckily for me, summer is just about to start.