The following is an excerpt from the book On the Trail With My Kids: From the Ohio River to the Mighty Mississippi. Further information, including the synopsis, can be found on the Amazon link above. The excerpt is taken from the fourth segment of the journey on the River to River Trail (R2R), after arriving near mid-day in the small town of Herod, Illinois. It was late December 2020.
There, right in front of us was a small refrigerator replete with food, drinks, propane, first aid equipment, feminine hygiene products, and even spiritual guidance for any hiker who cared to partake. Eureka! Little did Pastor Steve and his wife Becky know (until I sent them an email about a week later) it was just what the kids needed. Having done nearly six miles, we were just about halfway to our planned campsite for the night. It was Tuesday late morning, and we were in downtown Herod, population somewhere around 350. With two stop signs and Highway 34 running right through the middle of town, Herod was the perfect place to escape pretty much every urban nuisance, other than limited post office hours (which were even more limited in Herod). As if the religious, historical humor about Herod wasn’t enough, we were in the heart of Pope County.
While we tried to soak up the sun and avoid the cutting breeze, I looked over to see Matthew and Charlie smiling broadly as they swung back and forth on a seesaw swing that was way too small for them, but fortunately sturdy enough to handle their weight. We all erupted with laughter.
After about 20 to 30 minutes, with a goal of arriving in camp at least an hour before sunset, we took off across Highway 34 and immediately turned left after a small bridge on William’s Hill Road, the route to the highest point (1064 feet) in Southern Illinois. As we began what would be a roughly two-mile walk down the road, the sun glowed overhead, its rays cutting through the crisp air. The paved road eventually turned to rock, just after a solid climb to the junction that eventually led to the high point. Long hikes on the R2R rarely remain on the same substrate, often going from dirt to rock to pavement in just a matter of a few miles. Already I had begun to appreciate the way that the trail quickly went from complete solitude in the middle of the forest to a paved tour of small-town Americana.
After about two miles, at mile 29.7, the R2R dove into the woods, officially entering the One Horse Gap area. During the road portion of our hike on the road, Elliott fell back, and I knew that the crew was tiring and looking forward to getting to camp. Within a few hundred yards, we hit our only major creek crossing of the day, and with the mercury still hovering around freezing, we looked fervently for a way to stay dry. Not far off the trail, we found a large log spanning the stream. The kids quickly made short work of it, but we dads surveyed the area to see if there were any other options than testing our 40-plus-year-old balance, especially since a fall would mean a polar plunge into more than three feet of water. Finding nothing overly promising, Mike (the fireman of the group) finally convinced us that the log was reasonable, and we slowly, deliberately made our way across with no mishaps as the younger crowd looked on in anticipation, laughing about how careful we were trying to be. Maybe we weren’t that old after all.
Following a climb up a ridgeline, our crews began to separate, and we found ourselves at a confusing junction on the map where Bengham Ridge Road came to a dead end. In trying to come to grips with what appeared to be a discrepancy between the map and the trail signs, we waited for Mike, Kaylee, Dave, and Elliott to emerge. Finally, after what seemed like an extended absence, we heard them coming down the trail and learned that they had unfortunately gone hundreds of yards down a creek bed only to realize they were off course. From this point forward, all agreed we needed to stick together as we closed within a mile of One Horse Gap, one of the (many) signature areas of the R2R. Known for its high bluffs, Native American history, and outright beautiful scenery—including a valley the locals call the Promised Land—this particular area is a geologist’s and hiker’s dream. We finally arrived around sunset, ascending through a narrow, roughly 1.5-meter gap within an enormous rock face to get to our campsite for the night. Just to our east were beautiful, varied rock outcroppings, with the Promised Land lying below, where the dripping of a tiny waterfall could be heard. We had arrived, and everyone was ready to rest their worn legs and dive into all the well-earned, culinary delights having backpacked around 13 miles, the longest any of the younger crew had ever done in one day.
Immediately, Charlie rigged up his hammock and made it clear that he was done moving for the night. Like a true friend, Dawson began bringing him food, as if to make amends for what was undoubtedly more difficult of a hike than Charlie had expected or been promised. Camp began to take shape, the fire started crackling, and the weary souls among us seemed to catch a second wind under the clear, crisp skies of the waning year. Despite being on top of a enormous rock face, all had been able to find reasonable spots to pitch a tent. Given that the temps had risen to nearly 40 degrees after a subfreezing start, it felt almost balmy on top of the massive stone.
The pandemic had been raging for more than eight months, and back home, the nightly news and early morning shows were filled with stories of fear, sorrow, and the occasional glimmer of hope. Masks were standard fare wherever we went, and it was almost impossible for an hour to go by without some kind of reference or mention of the pandemic. The world seemed almost on hold, stuck between the reality of what had already occurred and the fear of what might be coming. Yet perched high on this ancient stone, it seemed like we had finally reached a place that was unaffected by all of it.
With the last full moon of the year, also known as the Cold Moon, brilliantly rising in the east, and only a breath of wind to shift the crackling fire, the dark, still wilderness was suddenly filled with youthful jabs and childish shenanigans. The dads, myself included, vacillated between laughter and admonitions, as we tried to keep all valuables and human limbs out of the fire; we also prepared for an early departure from camp the next morning with the forecast calling for moderate to heavy rain starting at 7 AM.
In the morning we found that, for once, the weather forecast was exactly right. The rain drops started to fall right at seven o’clock. Our kids would later describe the six-mile slog to the vehicles at Bethesda Cemetery, mile 40.2, as the most miserable part of the entire trail. Personally, with temperatures around 50 degrees, I thought it could have been a lot worse. But like any good adventure, and life in general, sometimes we need the rainy days to remind us just how good the sunny ones are. A walk in the rain also reminds us that the comforts of our age are a luxury that our ancestors, who lived their lives more exposed to the elements, didn’t have and that they were more resilient and tougher for it. My kids didn’t seem to appreciate the inherent lesson. But, I hoped that someday they would, and that experiences like this one would increase their grit and gratitude for all they had.
For now, the last rays of the antepenultimate day of the year gave way to the soft, enveloping moonlight, so illuminating that headlamps weren’t needed, and we enjoyed those spoils before the rain. After having what seemed like a five-course dinner and the campfire classic of s’mores, we all thought that the feast was done. Then, Dawson pulled a large sirloin steak out of his bag and proceeded to unveil onions, peppers, red potatoes, and even multiple spices. We were astounded. Laughter was followed by a collective groan, as more than one of us indicated that we couldn’t eat another bite. Dawson didn’t seem phased, and after the steak and fixings began to simmer, and as the aroma filled the air, most of us reconsidered and found room for a sixth (or seventh) course.
It was a moment and a steak that would live on in trail lore for years to come; the legend of Dawson had only grown. Never had it seemed there would be a more unlikely place and time to unveil the quintessential American food of celebration. Or maybe it was the most likely place of all, as no doubt we were celebrating some of the best life had to offer―creature comforts and fine-dining where you’d expect to find neither—so we ate our fill.
Matthew’s Take: It was a cold start to the hike, and it didn’t help that it seemed to take forever for the adults to drop off the car. We played around throwing rocks into a frozen pond. Zach also ran into a spiky tree causing much pain. The start of the hike seemed very slow and cold, but as we got going I remember how we warmed up and it became much more enjoyable. It was definitely one of the coolest hikes, and the switch from the woods into a town and back into the woods was really neat. The food that night was really good, and I was definitely very full. Charlie stayed in his hammock the entire time. It started raining that next morning exactly when it was predicted to, according to the weather app which never predicts it right. Although the hike out was a bit chilly and very rainy, it definitely made for great memories. I remember getting back to the car, and the boys having to stand outside in the cold rain waiting for the girls to change inside, which made for a lot of protesting. All in all, it was a great segment.
