A Snapshot and The Scoop: A Siren Song

The pups and I came across this little spring tucked deep back in the trail network of Lost Maples Natural Area and we couldn't pass up the chance to soothe our tired paws. We hadn't left camp long before, but already we were footsore and panting from the mid-morning heat. The spring seeped from a little ledge, dripping down into a pool and filtering through the rocks under our feet to join with the seasonal river that carved the canyons and hills around us. Hill Country, especially the area closer to the arid deserts of west and south Texas, is a wild place that calls to me whenever I tire of the oppressive humidity of the piney woods that I call home. I haven't been back to the hills since my visit to Lost Maples, what with the holidays, buying a house, moving, and settling in (ya know, life) but I'm about ready to end my hiatus and head back. I need to get back on the road and get lost somewhere beautiful, if only for a weekend; I feel my well-being deteriorating the longer I stay in one place. This spring just might be calling my name, a siren song that is growing harder and harder for me to resist.

Getting Out of Lost Maples

Frazzled. I woke up in the backcountry at Lost Maples State Natural Area to Ghost standing over me, hackles raised, eyes fixed on some point outside our tent over my head, a low rumbling growl issuing from his chest. Pre-dawn diffused light filtered through the mesh upper three quarters of my tent, where I had left the rain fly off and had pretty much slept in the open. I don't think even the crickets were chirrping, but I wasn't focused on them; I went from dead asleep to wide awake in a matter of seconds, as soon as Ghost started growling. I sat up quickly, jostling Callie still snuggled in my sleeping bag and banging into Ghost because he was still standing over me, peering through the dim light into the forest around us. I caught a glimpse of something big and whitish, or maybe light tan, as it scampered away into the trees. We could hear the snapping of branches as it crashed away through the underbrush, and Ghost didn't stop growling until silence returned to our part of the forest.

At that point I was pretty much ready for the day, and slowly made my way out of the tent, still sore from hiking the day before. The dogs followed, staying close by my side as I moved around camp getting things torn down and ready to hike out. Coyotes howled somewhere in the hills, their direction impossible to discern due to the echoing canyons surrounding us. Before the sun had reached our side of the little valley we had camped in, we were on our way. Our trail followed a lush, green canyon that held on to the mists of the night before, this time of year laced with the yellows and reds of early autumn. We didn't hike fast, instead enjoying the morning stillness as we passed through.

After a spring, where Callie swam and Ghost waded, and a series of stream crossings, we came to our last steep uphill portion of the trail around the same time the sun was gaining height and heat in the sky above. The climb up was brutal; no shade, loose rocks that shifted underfoot with every step, and no clear "easy" way up. We just had to go for it. All three of us were panting as we reached the top and stopped at a bench that was clearly placed for our use. In the haze of exhaustion I didn't notice the ant hill near the bench, where Callie had decided to lay down. It wasn't good. Within seconds she was covered in giant ants with huge mandibles, crying and whining as she hopped from foot to foot, shaking her paws in an attempt to get them off. Her panic caused Ghost to panic, though he wasn't in the ants, and he tried to take off running and choked himself when the leash stopped him. I had swung Callie up into the air, away from the horde of ants now rising from the earth, and was swiping the little demons away from her paws and legs as fast as I could while almost losing my balance as Ghost tried to bolt.

I cradled Callie in my arms like a baby, trying to assess the damage the ants had done. Her paws were already swollen and hot to the touch, with raw spots and little cuts covering most of her pads. There was no way she could walk on them, and I wasn't about to make her, but we still had about three miles before we hit the trailhead and my car. I slung her over my shoulders and went to check on Ghost. Somehow he had managed to stay clear of the ants, or else they hadn't gotten him as bad, and he didn't complain as I checked out his paws. He seemed fine to me, and when we set out again, Callie still over my shoulders, Ghost walked with his usually peppy puppy self.

Those three miles were some of the longest I've ever hiked. I had to keep shifting Callie from shoulder to shoulder, to cradling her in my arms, to letting her rest on top of my pack. It was slow going, and as we started to near the trailhead and the dayhikers began filtering onto the trail I got a lot of weird looks and some offers of help. It was with a lot of relief when we finally hit the cement and spotted our car. I lay Callie on the front seat before doing anything else and she immediately began licking her poor paws. I left her to it and got my gear and Ghost settled in, before slamming my car door and blasting the A/C. Lost Maples had been pretty, and I would love to go back someday, but for the time being I was more than happy to leave. It had been an interesting trip, no doubt about that.

Is Two A Crowd?

Irked. When backpacking, it is very rare if things go the way you expect. You can have the most well-laid plans and they can all go to shit in the blink of an eye through no fault of your own, or all because of a decision you made. I had been itching to get out and backpack again in the middle of September, so one weekend I threw my gear in my car, grabbed Callie and Ghost, and hit the road. My destination was Lost Maples State Natural Area, deep within the Texas Hill Country and far enough south-west to be borderline desert. I had heard of Lost Maples before and had it on my list (literally) of places to visit, but hadn't gotten around to it yet. I figured the beginning of autumn would be a great time to visit a place with maple trees.

The roads to Lost Maples will have to be left to another post, but I absolutely loved them. So scenic, taking you between hill tops and down into river valley bottoms only to bring you right back up to far-reaching vistas. They were great! And once I reached Lost Maples, tucked way back in the hill country well out of cell phone signal, I couldn't wait to start walking trails like the roads I had just left. I picked up my permit, drove to the trailhead, and prepared for an overnight in the backcountry.

Now, remember, I had never taken Ghost backpacking before. We'd camped once, and hiked a little, but he had no experience with my full backpacking routine, or my gear. He was terrified of my trekking poles at first, though eventually he figured out he needed to walk on one side of me, not in front, and he would avoid them all together. Callie, I had expected to fall right back into the swing of routine, with her as seasoned as she is as my backpacking partner. What I had not expected were the issues I had with her right from the start. It was like she had forgotten how to walk on a leash; she was all over the trail, lagging behind then running ahead, weaving back and forth, tangling her leash with Ghost's and tripping me up at the same time. I couldn't help but get frustrated, wondering if she had lost her mind with the addition of the puppy.

The hike to our campsite for the night wasn't a fun one. I struggled with both dogs, trying to juggle them and my heavy pack overloaded with water and dog food in addition to my own gear. When we finally staggered into camp I tied the dogs off to a tree and sat on a rock, staring into space while rethinking my plan to backpack. Eventually my stubbornness won and I set about making camp, but I didn't spend a whole lot of time moving; all I wanted to do was sit down and read and forget about the day's hike.

As the afternoon melted into evening and the temperature dropped enough to allow me to not sweat while sitting still, Callie, Ghost, and I hung out around camp, watching the last light on the hills above us disappear. The air was so still, without a breeze to stir it or even an airplane high above, that we could hear the whirring of feathers as raven wings beat the evening sky on the way to their roosts. It was perfectly quiet, with only the crickets and night birds beginning their nightly serenades. When it was no longer possible to read without a headlamp we crawled into the tent and settled down with some semblance of normality. Callie came and snuggled up next to me in the sleeping bag and Ghost lay near my head, both of them immediately drifting off to sleep. At least they hadn't forgotten how to do that. I kept reminding myself "tomorrow is a new day" and began looking forward to finishing our loop hike, perhaps with a chance for the dogs to swim a little bit before we made it back to the car. With those final comforting thoughts I turned off my light and let the night take me away.