That familiar feeling creeps back into my consciousness. The biological metronome of inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. The movement, a flash of timber at my periphery, the slow smolder of lactic acid building, the muffled stomp of human hoofs, the splashing torrent just off trail. Here it is again, the answer to that ceaseless prod... But how easy it is to forget such a simple fix?
A dull sun carries through the clouds and window waking me. Rubbing my eyes I gradually sit myself up on the couch my feet finding the woven fibers of my living room rug. Slowly I stand; there is lingering tightness in my hamstrings. I cross the 15 or so feet to my stove top and fire up the kettle. Fresh coffee beans, a potent blend, are ground and a cut of quality butter added. I can hear Matt and Tommy stirring in the room off the kitchen. The yield is a hot, high lipid brew. Just the kick we need. Tommy and Matt groggily find their way into the kitchen. I hand them each a full mug.
After polishing off two French presses, my brother and I walk the few city blocks to and load into Tommy's Nissan Xterra. In the back lay a few pairs of worn trail shoes, a running vest, and a few sweaters. The SUV is well worn, a worthy companion for this morning's mission. Dust and dirt blanket the tires and the tail lights, a small nod to the thousands of miles previously covered. The engine comes alive with a glugging grind. The morning is dark, grey and damp. Gregory Alan's The Weatherman quietly plays… "that howling wind, she’ll take everything but she’s easy on the eyes".
By the end of the fourth track, Tommy pulls the mandatory and still illegal U-turn into the trail-head lot. I can feel the morning's caffeine and remnants of last night's alcohol. Sitting on the lip of the trunk, I strip off a layer. Despite the damp air, it’s warm for December. This will be Tommy's first cruise through the Wissahickon which has been, for a long time now, a sanctuary of mine.
"Go ahead Mike, lead the way". We set off at an easy pace, quickly closing the gap between the car park and the trail head. Niggles in the knee and hip start to settle. The plan is to take a well-known route, a trail system I’ve covered many times before. A half mile down Forbidden Drive we reach a stone arch bridge blanketed in fog. Banking to the right, we take our first steps on true trail. The first quarter mile is ascent, carrying us up and away from the river. The effort wakes us up, the cool air cuts at our lungs. The gurgle of the river softens as we climb. Soon we top out with Matt taking the front. At the crest, the trail quickly arcs its way back to the river. Soon, the three of us are swiftly moving through the heavy mist, running parallel to the river, the easy dirt track slowly transitioning to more technical, challenging root and rock.
Running in a short line, we traverse a timeworn foot bridge and come into a small clearing. Opposite us, atop a modest rock outcropping sits the Toleration statue. We make the traditional class 3 scramble to the top and tag the elaborate cairn stopping to catch our breath. A leafless forest sits a hundred feet or more below us, flat light reflects off the river. Only the subtle swish of wind through the dormant trees, the birds and our breathing breaks the silence. The descent from the statue requires a low traverse and the game trail is wet and slick with fallen leaves, slowing our movement a little. We slide from tree to tree using the trucks for support until we reach the bottom, jumping the final six feet to return to the riverside trail that we had previously abandoned.
Once again we are off plummeting down this natural alley towards Devil's Pool, Matt and I's predetermined turnaround point. Tommy is training for his first 50 miler and will log more miles than us today. We splash down an antiquated trail, a former river bed, struggling for footing. A slow trickle moves through a myriad of streams underfoot. Our focus is pulled to our feet as we work to stay upright and dry. The river bed trail pulls us towards our destination. I become aware of the aural rush of Devil's Pool. Our pace quickens.
Skipping rocks into the pool I think about the time I've taken away from the trails. Why? This is what I love. Matt's skips a flat stone off the pool's surface, the rock cracking with a thud against the spring's far wall. It’s here, stomping out the miles in the woods or mountains that I feel most at ease. Matt's next toss drops heavily into the depths of the pool. Ironically, it's running here, an action with almost no practical benefits, where I am most sure that my time is being well spent.
"You want to head back?" "Yeah guess we better should". Leaving the pool behind, we begin the round trip back to the trail head and the Xterra, thankful for the dose of familiarity and the reminder of the solace and solitude offered through miles spent on trail.
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