Walking/Hiking Trails – Page 13

Tower Grove Park

These people are ridiculous. I get it, I really do. It’s the first truly spring like day of the year, with bright sunshine and soft warm breezes. I want to be out as much as anyone, and it’s a huge, beautiful city park, with plenty of room for social distancing.

They are not social distancing.

Some are of course, maybe even most,

but there are groups tossing footballs, couples holding hands, gatherings of picnickers on blankets and crowded into pavilions.

I’m all for a walk on this gorgeous day.

Managed right, it’s even well within safety guidelines.

Wander a quiet tree lined trail.

Bask in the scents of the blossoming flowers and trees.

Rest in the shade on a rustic bench and listen to the chorus of birds.

But please,

for the sake of yourself,

and us all …

Keep a six foot distance.

Truman Park

It’s warmer today, and brighter. My winter coat flaps open and feels intermittently like a mistake, until a sudden cool gust makes me glad to have it.

Birds call, dogs bark, voices drift lightly above the background drone of midday traffic. The sky is a patchwork of blue with occasional brushes of sunshine.

Fifteen minutes they said. I’m somewhat skeptical. I tried this before in January. This trail is supposed to connect to Saint Stanislaus, I never found it when I looked before, but it was later in the day, and the sun was setting early, so my chances seemed better today.

Follow the red blazes and 15 minutes of steady hiking should get me to the paved connecting trail. I mentally adjusted that to at least 20, since there’s nothing steady about my endless discovery of a new photo op.

It’s actually there! One startled toddler, running ahead of his parents, and several somewhat scary sets of muddy railroad tie steps, and I emerge from the woods and onto the trail.

Swampy low lands and the half flooded trail hum with the drone of frogs and the clatter of the woodpeckers dinner bell.

The sunshine is steady and warm by the time I walk back, and the coat is now tied around my waist.

The park is filling with walkers and bird watchers and a teenager kicking a ball around.

Mostly still distant, we smile and nod and move on in our quiet worlds.

McDonnell Park

It’s thickly overcast and wintry cold on Covid lock-down day 2. The park seems oddly populated. Several cars, carefully spaced, dot the various loops. Scattered walkers and occasional joggers wander the trails. We mostly keep our distance and choose different paths.

Birds are everywhere. They call from the trees and peck at the ground. Camouflaged against soggy cast-off leaves of fall, I can’t even see them, until they suddenly flutter in mass irritation to the nearest trees as I pass.

A sudden drizzly rain dots a puddled hollow.

While springs glows fearless in all it’s defiant glory

Riverwoods Trail

The river side of the trail is open, at least a good part of the way. I don’t know when was the last time it was. The Missouri River hugs the banks and splashes over in random puddles. It brushes just beneath the edges of the bridge, completely drowning the banks of the summer fishing hole.

The nearly apocalyptic look of the tangled brush and tumbled limbs seems somehow appropriate on the first day of official 30 day lock-down of the county.

Scrambling up ledges and ducking under branches to skirt the puddles, we make it about half way around before it’s just too thick to go on.

I was really a little unsure about coming out today. They did say walking was fine, but did they mean only a neighborhood park?

Brand new signs, that both welcomed and warned, answered the question for the handful of carefully distant co-visitors we met.

Spring marches on, caring nothing for the fears and questions we hold.

It flows in with the river and the scent of fresh air and the promise of life renewed.

Hellebusch Park

Beautiful sunshine sparkling on the water. It’s still cold and I’m huddled into my coat, but green fields, robins, and tiny blooms promise it won’t be long now.

Cypress roots, creepy cool, mysteriously wander the edges of the pond.

Tiemeyer Park

It’s cold and overcast, with temperatures dropping as clouds settle in. At first it hardly seems different than the last time I was here in January.

But spring slips in, with a greening field, a puddled playground and the delicate blossoms of the red maple tree.

It’s really pretty pleasant within a few minutes. There are more people out than there were yesterday. Of course, it was pouring rain most of the time I was out yesterday.

A few dog walkers, a jogger, some park service employees. Everyone conscientiously social distancing, but friendly just the same.

McNair Park Spring

Spring break and the world is on lock down. It’s pouring rain as I pull into the empty parking lot. A semi-water proof winter coat is plenty warm enough. I tug up the hood, tuck my camera inside the front flap, and splash down the hill to the path.

Unless your local officials or personal health professionals say otherwise – Please Follow Their Recommendations – parks are a wonderful place to ride out the social distancing.

There’s fresh air, wide spaces, beautiful soothing scenery and sounds, and any random groups of people are easily skirted.

I only see a couple of other walkers today. The rain is slowing and I push off my hood. The day brightens, although not into anything that could referred to as sunshine.

It sounds like an aviary when the trail winds down the hill and into the woods.

An endless variety of birds call from the treetops and brush while the rain swollen stream rushes and roars along its banks.

Spring slips in, heedless of our confusion and upended lives. A breath of normalcy, in a world that may not feel normal again for months.

Busch Memorial Conservation Area

Spring; in tiny delicate hints whispering behind piles of leaves and twigs

Abandoned bunkers and rusted street lights line an old gravel road off of Lake 33. The whole area is dotted with little lakes and ponds and trails. The skies are warm and turquoise blue. It feels like early summer, but still looks at first glance like deep in the fall.

Knee high, half -hidden spring is slipping through the brush, ready to burst into bloom.

Hickory Canyon

Along a twisty road a few tiny signs admit to the existence of the park we’re searching for. The GPS announces complicated coordinates and informs us we’ve arrived.

There’s no path, no parking lot, and no hint of welcome, so we slowly travel on.

Before long the road widens into a tiny single line of parking spaces on either side. Twin paths lead into the woods with a wooden sign at each to trace the way.

It’s peaceful and pleasant, and shockingly green in spite of the frozen creek and forest of bare branches. Everywhere are tiny start up pine trees glowing in the afternoon sun like the middle of July.

The trail winds down into a horseshoe canyon, heavily frosted with curtains of ice. A whisper of running water hints at the slow melt that occasionally sends a crashing sheet into small pools at the base of each cliff.

Rugged and twisted and carved by time and water and wind, the trails are nearly silent, free of the sounds of machines and even the call of birds today.

Pere Marquette

The river is high and spooky still on the drive along the bluff; a shining mirrored glass of cliffs and skeletal trees.

The trail at first is freshly graveled and silty soft. It gently sinks when I stop for a picture of crusted snow in a crevice of a tree, a hint of the mush to come.

It’s starting to feel almost warm, and I’m reconsidering my thick winter coat as we climb the stone steps and the narrow trail to the top of the ridge. But it the breeze is blowing and it’s gently cool under mare’s tail skies at the top. Brilliant sunshine sets off the brush in glowing bronze.

From the overlook deck, frozen backwaters sparkle and flash, explaining the stillness of the river.

It’s a thickly muddy slide back down the river view trail. More foot traffic? A couple more hours of warming sun? A hidden run off stream? I have no idea why this side is so much muddier, but the best strategy seemed to be a scrambling acceptance of scrapping and laundry to come.

Sunset glow and clouding skies shift the pre-spring breezes back to mid-winter chill.