The Colonial Trail

Matt and I took to the splintered trails of Wissahickon Valley Park yesterday.  Around 11am the clouds broke ushering in an early spring day.  We decided to run for time today shooting for 2 hours which we hoped would translate to about 25k (15m) or half the distance of our ultra.  At 11am we hit the trail head.  As the miles fell away so did the trappings of modern society.  The first steps start on a winding paved bike path, straddled on both sides by manic freeways.  Soon this black top artery cuts its way into the forest, the grumble of automobiles are traded for the gush of rushing water, the smell of exhaust for mud and melting snow.  At mile 3 the asphalt deteriorates into gravel.  At mile 8 the trail funnels to a single track.

The Lenape Tribe called these woods their home.  Years later, Edgar Allen Poe walked these trails in search of solitude and inspiration.   And running them yesterday felt like a trip into the 19th century.   Bridges, barns, and old colonial architecture lay scattered about oblivious to the spinning hands of time.  A heavy blanket of history subtly assert itself here, creeping into and dominating your imagination.

At mile 11 we cram our last gels into our mouths.  We polish off the last of the water.  The river continues to rush on, pushed forward by the hand of spring as the melting snows swell its mass.  We blaze through shallow streams, grind our way up steep staircases of stone, slide over massive boulders.  Matt takes a tumble.  We're both bleeding and our legs are heavy.  But this is what we love.

Slowly the single track reopens to gravel.  Then gravel becomes asphalt and rushing water turns to rushing traffic.  Finally, the past becomes present.  Breathing deeply, we find ourselves on tired legs, out of the 19th century and into the 21st.

Unfortunately didn't carry my camera this time.. so photo courtesy contexttravel.com