Learning how to ride your bike and improve your riding ability should be fun, not intimidating. As a lifelong rider, I have had many ups and downs in my own personal riding career. When you are first introduced to your trusty steed, you struggle with the basics like shifting properly or knowing just how much pull to give your brakes without going over the bars. As you get comfortable and start challenging your riding, you realize there are so many things a trail can throw at you!

For most people bitten by the trail bug, it is these challenges and frustrations that bring you back to the trail time and time again. There is no better feeling than getting over that log-crossing cleanly that has cursed you for years. Carrying enough speed (and courage) to carve a certain corner like a pro. Finally conquering that climb on a solo ride that has eluded you during group rides with your buddies. Or just finding that overall balance and comfort on your bike that inspires the confidence to go out and tackle technical terrain and more adventurous trail. So, obviously, many of us have been through the paces, so to speak, in learning about our own riding limits. Unfortunately, many people succumb to putting a definitive limit on their riding instead of looking at each ride as an opportunity to improve their abilities and make personal progress.

My own personal riding achievements, challenges, and overall passion for riding my bike collided with an old childhood friend of mine about 5 years ago. Ryan Thompson and I started hitting the local trails on a regular basis and realized we shared this common biking bond. The local trails led to longer more challenging trails which led to multi-day, big-mountain excursions to Harrisonburg and Charlottesville.  When we started riding again, we each brought 20-plus years of experience to our rides from various disciplines. Ryan came with his long history in trials riding, dirt jumping, and trail riding. I came with a history of downhill, singletrack, and big mountain riding. The best part is that every ride we have together we are influencing each other’s riding in a positive way. We continue to want to push our limits and work to better our riding skills to squeeze out the maximum amount of fun from each adventure. Our passion for riding comes from wanting to learn about how to command the bike. This desire has progressed into wanting to teach others the skills needed to find this same type of enjoyment from their riding.  Our new business, RideKore, was born from this idea!

RideKore came about from a fireside chat late one night in Harrisonburg after riding epic trails all day. The passion for riding, sharing our local trails with others, and teaching people how to maximize their ride couldn’t be contained any longer.  RideKore is dedicated to growing the number of skilled mountain bike riders in the Richmond metropolitan area by providing IMBA certified mountain bike skills instruction for riders of all ages and skill levels. We are also dedicated to helping each rider find success on their own terms and at their own pace. We focus on providing our instruction in a safe, supportive, and non-judgmental environment. At RideKore we are also dedicated to our community and establishing strong partnerships with other cycling related organizations in order to create a lasting, positive impact on the outdoor community.

Regardless of whether you’re a seasoned trail rider or just getting into the sport of mountain biking. We hope you take solace in the fact that there’s a service out there to help you on the journey this wonderful sport provides. Richmond is just scratching the surface in terms of the sustainable trail systems the city has to offer and if you’re reading this then you’re already part of the revolution.

Now let’s go hit the trails!

A creek curls through Wahrani Nature Trail.

With the long days of summer upon us, it’s time to make a foray outside of the Richmond city limits. But the place I’m suggesting is only 30 miles to the east. It’s a wonderful spot that most motorists traveling the four-lane highway go speeding by, unaware of the marvels they would experience if they would become pedestrians for just a short while.

The Wahrani Nature Trail winds through a forest of a few hundred acres crowded with a grand variety of trees, plants, and flowers. Rarely is there the chance to see so many kinds of ferns, so bring along an identification guide. I’ve been able to pick out Christmas, broad beech, New York, netted chain, lady, ebony spleenwort, sensitive, walking, and cinnamon ferns, and there are still more that I’ve yet to identify.

The trail also has more than its fair share of wildflowers, so don’t forget to bring along a guide for them, too. Even before much of the natural world has awakened from its winter slumber, the procession of colors begins in March (and sometimes as early as late February) with Virginia bluebell, spring beauty, round-lobed hepatica, and trailing arbutus making appearances despite the cool temperatures. The rains of April bring showy orchidbb s, wild geranium, golden ragwort, jack-in-the-pulpit, and a member of the daffodil family—the atamasco lily. Joining the floral procession in May are Indian cucumber root, pink lady’s slippers, puttyroot, large twayblade, and wild iris—which resembles, in many ways, the cultivated garden iris. By the time the hot days of June, July, and August arrive, some of these flowers will have disappeared; yet growing next to their developing fruits and blooming into September are large-flowered leafcup, downy foxglove, cardinal flower, great lobelia, pipsissewa, and butterfly weed.

At any time of year, be on the lookout for wild turkeys, deer, squirrels, raccoons, opossums, skunks, and snakes. The nonpoisonous hognose, whose defense mechanisms can almost be comical at times, is among the snakes you are most likely to see. When first threatened, the hognose may shake its tail in the leaves, mimicking the sound of a rattlesnake. Upon further provocation, it will puff up (its other common name is puff adder), hiss, and flatten its neck like a cobra. If all else fails, the snake will simply roll over and play dead. However, it will give this charade away because if turned onto its stomach it promptly flips over on its back again.

Fossils in the marl at Wahrani Nature Trail.

History is also a part of this hike, which makes use of centuries-old roadbeds and passes by gravestones at the site of an early 1700s church. In the early part of the twentieth century, farmers dug up the land—look for pits and holes in the hillsides—to mine deposits of marl. Rich in carbonates of calcium and magnesium, and containing bits of seashells, the marl was spread on fields as a substitute fertilizer for lime.

There are (basically) four interconnecting loops that enable you to make the hike about as long or as short as you want, with the total distance being close to five miles if you were to walk every inch of trail—which you may end up doing as many of the intersections are confusingly marked and you may have to do some backtracking. Just chalk it up to the opportunity to explore a little more of the area than you had intended. If you stay to the right at all of the intersections—except one, which will be obvious—you will walk the outer loop of about 4 miles.

Part of the outer loop follows a road constructed years before the War for Independence. For decades, it, in conjunction with a ferry that operated on the York River, expedited the busy flow of travelers and supplies between Williamsburg and West Point. As a result of such heavy horse, foot, and carriage use, the roadbed has deeply eroded, yet growing on its high embankments are spring beauty, pennywort, and at least three different ferns—Christmas, netted chain, and sensitive.

In a forest of loblolly pines, the outer loop enters a small stream valley where the flowers become even more abundant. Bluets, violets, wintergreen, and pussytoes spread across the moist forest floor, while Indian pipe grows up from the roots of the trees.

Mayapple, partridgeberry, and false Solomon’s seal appear as you come onto drier ground and rise to the site of Warreneye Church, built in 1703. Only two headstones, with quite entertaining inscriptions, remain nearby to mark where the chapel stood. Local lore says that George Washington attended the church sometime in 1768, while visiting his sister-in-law at Basset Mansion (situated on the bank of the Pamunkey River to the northeast).

A cemetery contains just two headstones.

The only long-ranging view of the hike overlooks the Chesapeake Company’s loblolly-pine seed orchard, and its forest lands in New Kent, King and Queen, and King William counties. The steam plumes you see are from the St. Laurent Corporation’s pulp-and-paper mill located in West Point between the Mattaponi and Pamunkey rivers, which meet just south of town to form the York River.

I like to time my outings so that they come to an end just as darkness is starting to fall, as I’m almost always rewarded with the emotive  “Who drinks my tea!” cry of a barred owl echoing in the forest as I return to my car.

Getting there:

Take I-64 Exit 220 (about 30 miles east of Richmond) and travel close to 4 miles on VA 33 to the signed trailhead on the right.

The horrified barred owl looked on from a safe distance as the tree in which she had laid her precious things was noisily disassembled by chainsaw and rope. She squawked out her disapproval, but we were compelled to continue.

The northern red oak where she had built her nest, a dead tree now for at least two years, had graduated from shedding small dead twigs and limbs to hurling large parts of itself damagingly to the earth below. The fence at the back of the yard, already staved in once by this slowly disintegrating giant, had recently been breached a second time by falling hunks of dead tree.

The mother barred owl.

Things were getting serious. This tree skeleton was not only dangerous to the property of its owner, but was also a threat to the neighbor on the other side of the fence. It had to come down.

We didn’t know the nest of spotted owl eggs was there until our climber found it tucked into a notch 30 feet or so above the ground. A tree service, and a tree climber in particular, is occasionally in the uncomfortable and sometimes dangerous position of handing out abrupt eviction notices to Virginia’s tree-dwelling tenants. With no small show of indignation, most of these squatters, young, old, or with child, turn tail and run, jump or fly off to new homes. Far more complicated it is when the tenants have not even opened their eyes to the world outside their prenatal encasements. It’s a major weakness in the egg-birth system, I suppose, that a threatened mother cannot make a getaway with her unborn offspring in tow. The mother of these eggs continued to concentrate all of her agony into piercing shrieks as her nest was brought down to earth and taken away by strange hands.

After a few anxious phone calls my clients found a none-too-optimistic wildlife rehabilitator who agreed to take the eggs in and try to incubate them. The owl eggs were carried 30 miles away, and I never heard about them again. Meanwhile we removed the tree down to a safe height where it was no longer a threat to the surrounding humans. The drama of this 2012 spring day spun itself away in the turbulent wake of my charge-through life. I forgot all about it.

But then at a swim meet a couple weeks ago my friends who had made that desperate drive to save the owls eggs brought me the wonderful news that this spring there was a new baby owl in their own back yard! I suddenly found myself thinking about that mother again. How long did she circle the spot where she had last seen her eggs? How long did she rub her eyes, pinch or peck herself, or do whatever it is an animal does to wake itself up from a nightmare?  Her eggs were gone. Her purpose was gone. How long did this owl mourn or attempt to deny this painful past before deciding to look for new hope and purpose in the sunrise ahead?

Not long, apparently. After the season for sorrow a new season awaits. Nature forever seeks renewal, and re-birth. Nature helps me understand how to live.

By virtue of being barely more than a mile away from the grocery store I frequent, Rockwood Park on Hull Street has become my default Tuesday walk. Like many Richmond area parks, it is bordered by four-lane highways and housing developments, but with approximately five miles of trails winding through its 163 acres, it is possible to hike into its inner reaches to obtain a feeling of being in a more isolated area than it really is.

If my time is limited, I’ll begin at the nature center and follow the circular route of the 1.3-mile paved White Trail. If I have the extra minutes to enjoy myself as well as get some exercise, I’ll start on the paved Blue Trail, but in .1 mile turn onto the circuit of the natural-surfaced, 1.5-mile Orange Trail that meanders along the shore of 45-acre Gregory Pond. Several interconnecting paths make for numerous variations on the two loops.

I enjoy finding new places to hike as much as anyone else, but there’s also something comforting about visiting a place time and again and becoming familiar with its natural rhythms, as well as those of its visitors. It’s joggers, runners, and those out for a serious cardiovascular workout that I encounter on early morning walks. If I don’t make it out until mid-morning, my trail companions are groups of young stroller-pushing moms conversing with one another. Late afternoon trail users tend to be families with children old enough to appreciate a walk in the woods, while it’s joggers and runners once more as the daylight begins to wane.

However, it’s the seasonal changes that keep drawing me back to Rockwood. By now, of course, the natural world has awoken from its winter slumber and various oak, gum, beech, and hickory trees have fully leafed out. Birds have returned to the area or have passed through on their migration further north. Not long ago, I was lucky enough to catch a rare Richmond-area sight—a loon taking a rest break in Gregory Pond. The white flowers of the arrowhead plants that grow along the pond’s perimeter now add dots of white to the water’s surface. Later summer walks will be brightened by the darting antics of dozens of dragonflies.

With the acrobatic contortions they have to go through to mate, it is a miracle there ever get to be so many dragonflies. The male flies slightly behind the female, and, if she is amenable, he fastens a clasping organ located at the end of his tail into a slot in the back of her neck. This, however, places his sex organs far from the female’s, which are located at the end of her tail. In order to complete the ritual, he must twist his sex organs into a pocket in his abdomen and fill it with sperm. She then swings her abdomen up and puts the end of her tail into his pocket, thereby fertilizing her eggs. Some species of dragonflies do all of this while continuing to fly!

The hot, humid days of late summer will bring forth a plethora of mushroom species, while the mosses covering the rocks of the small streams will be at their most vibrant stage.

Woodpecker sounds will resound throughout the woods when temperatures begin to cool again, as the birds will furiously be trying to fatten up before their insect prey die off in winter. The mixed hardwood forest takes on a new appearance as the leaves begin to change in the fall, and, obviously, the rare Richmond snowfall brings a whole new look to the park.

Of course, many of these natural world changes can be observed in just about any Richmond-area park, but you have to make the effort to get out there to see them—and Rockwood Park’s proximity to a place I have to visit at least once a week makes it easy for me to do so.

Getting there: Take the Hull St./US360 exit from Chippenham Parkway (VA 150), go south on Hull St. and turn into Rockwood Park in not quite 4.5 miles.

After a slithering descent from Bon Air, after creeping through backyards, through small urban greenspaces, and beneath streets and roads, the Rattlesnake Creek finally pays its meager tribute to the mighty James River about a tenth of a mile east of the Huguenot Bridge.  If you were to start from this unsung confluence of great and small and follow the lesser tributary back towards its source, gently cascading water would lead you uphill, around a sharp dogleg right, and through a narrow 200 yard-long ravine that opens into a large, arrowhead-shaped basin where the Rattlesnake is flattened, dispersed, and in places seems to be evading the call of gravity all together.  You would have entered the unspoiled natural wonder behind my house – a place I have always called “The Lowland.”

The Lowland is really just a supersized pothole in the granite-rich, steeply sloped southern bank of the river where it passes through Oxford and Stratford Hills.  And in Richmond, where we teeter on the fall line of the James, this roughly six-acre basin can also be seen as a pothole in the easternmost edge of the Appalachian mountains. Dense with grass, underbrush, and trees, the earth has brought forth here with such vine-draped abundance that the Lowland is almost unfit for human travel.  Unfit for the travel of humans, that is, other than my two daughters and me. Ever since the first one joined me in this life experience 13 years ago, and long before they could stumble forward on their own, my girls and I have used much of our free time burrowing into the thick, green hair of the Lowland and gaining an intimate, lice-like perspective of this small depression in the earth’s scalp.

The water passing through the Lowland is either clear and gently flowing or slow and sullied, depending on which branch of the wandering creek you encounter. The earth is so flat in the center of the basin that the Rattlesnake disperses aimlessly into various small branches and forks, some of which barely or never make it back to the main flow. The earth is mushy and wet in most places at the heart of the basin, especially after rain, and in places where the solvent is moving slowly or not at all, the solute of surrounding peat is mixed into solution to create a dark, brown-black soup exuding the over-ripe, distinctive smell of stagnant, soaking earth.

Few trees grow straight and wide out of this muck, but many do grow. One loblolly pine has somehow reached majestic proportions, three and a half feet across at its base and 100+ feet tall. A nearby tulip poplar has developed a wide impressive canopy to adorn its own 100-foot+ main stem.  Both of these are probably 75-100 years old, growing straight and strong out of one small area of mostly dry earth near the center of the basin.  Most of the trees surrounding these exceptions are lank and leaning, having no apparent strategy for survival other than living for today. As long as today is calm and pleasant without too much rain or wind, they will be allowed to keep their roots in the muck. And even if the weather continues to support their growth, if they simply succeed at living and growing for too long, they will still come to pre-mature ends, leaning as they are at such unhealthy angles. The soft, shifting earth beneath their trunks will not support such cockeyed growth indefinitely.

This earth behind my house is low, and wet — really just a crotch, or a bowel of nature.  There are no clear walkways, and when traveling through the Lowland a human being is grabbed and scratched by dense underbrush, and poisoned by toxic ivy. A modern human must insist that he belongs here, and must forget what things are like in the other refined places he inhabits.  The modern human must un-spoil, or un-culture himself to travel comfortably through the Lowland.

The written law has a special name for places like the Lowland.  According to the law these are “unimproved” parcels of land.  Hmmm.

I do sometimes experience an urge to clean the place up. Perhaps I could make it more welcoming, and more convenient for human travel. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, I sometimes imagine, if there were clean, broad footpaths with smooth surfaces such that humans of any stripe could stroll through effortlessly. The fallen and partially fallen trees and dense underbrush don’t really look inviting. The Lowland is ugly and chaotic, really, if I use socially- or intellectually-derived criteria to judge its appearance. Sloppy. Unkempt. Conspicuously absent are the pretty, crystallized patterns or placement of parts with which we attempt to surround ourselves in our homes and our cities. Maybe I could clean the ugly parts of the Lowland up, thinks me, and all the chunks of wood and debris that have floated into this basin from high water events. I could sterilize the place a little, so to speak — kill back some of the poison ivy, cut back some of the prickly brush, make bridges over wet, squishy low spots. Part of me desires to mold this un-vitiated earth such that one can walk in and walk out in his Sunday suit with no fear of sullying. Yes, I must admit it. Part of me, the modern man in me, looks at this modern slice of the ancient, original garden and wants to “improve” it.  But then . . .

The girls had already been wading and splashing around in the creek for a while when one of them lost footing and was unceremoniously baptized in a deep pool at a place we call “Pumphouse” beach.  The shivering initiate emerged from the brown, pollen-thickened water giggling and goose-bumped. My daughter, Brooke, and two other girls she invited over to help her celebrate her 11^th earth year, gloried in this secular immersion of their friend as fervently as ever did the witnesses of the more religious ritual. They gloried in it and were so affected that in a matter of moments each of the squealing, giddy girls had deliberately re-enacted the accidental dunking of the first girl. The brown pool of water became a laughing swarm of wet heads, arms and legs.

I relaxed, and pulled out the phone to start recording digital images. I had been nervous for Brooke as we descended into the Lowland on the narrow trail behind our house. Could a simple walk into a wild, overgrown creek compete with trampolines, air-filled rubber structures, shopping malls, or movies in the bid for the attention and enjoyment of 11 year old girls? Would these friends of Brookes find any value in this place? Would they think that Brooke and her father were weird for bringing them here?

This birthday agenda was Brooke’s idea, and I should have trusted my younger daughter.  While I may sometimes think the Lowland needs improving, my perception is affected by my years.  I am too “improved” myself, too industrialized, too knowledgeable and modern for a proper assessment of the value of unspoiled earth. I am not as wise as I was when I was 11. When it comes to the value of the creation, I am not as wise as my young daughter.

At Pumphouse Beach a long, thick loblolly pine tree holds its ground against a perennial watery onslaught.  An electrical water pump, mounted and housed beneath a small roof against the trunk of this tree, now defunct and chewed on by squirrels, is holding onto this pine tree as a living testimony to the ingenuity of a previous generation.  It looks like something my grandfather Turner would have had on his tree had he lived near a creek. This old pine tree with its attached human relic looked on as the girls began jumping from a 3 ft bank to splash down into the murky pool.   The water didn’t look at all inviting to an old man like me on this day — muddy from heavy rain and thick with pollen and other spring droppings. Cold. Yet what was uninviting to the old man was the welcoming embrace of the original mother to these young, lilting ladies.

I sat on the beach and watched in reverential awe the interaction of un-improved nature with un-improved human nature – and I fell in love with both all over again.

Journal Entry #1

Date: March 3^rd, 2013

Sunrise: 6:30 am

Temp High: 41 Degrees

Sunset: 6:02 pm

Moon: Half Moon, Waning

Weather: Beautiful! Not a cloud in the sky

Pandora Station for the Day: Sean Hayes Radio

Books I’m Reading: John Smith’s Chesapeake Voyages 1607 – 1609 – Rountree, Clark and Mountford; Born to Run – Christopher McDougall.

Weight: 205 lbs.

“A man could be a lover and defender of the wilderness without ever in his lifetime leaving the boundaries of asphalt, powerlines, and right-angled surfaces. We need wilderness whether or not we ever set foot in it. We need a refuge even though we may never need to set foot in it. We need the possibility of escape as surely as we need hope; without it the life of the cities would drive all men into crime or drugs or psychoanalysis.”

-Edward Abbey, Desert Solitaire

My home on Presquile.

I first read Edward Abbey’s 1968 work, “Desert Solitaire,” during the summer of my junior year in college. At the time I was working for a nature conservancy outside of Blacksburg, living at the top of Mountain Lake in Giles County. I wasn’t living in solitaire like Abbey was in the book, there were people around all time, there was even a British version of “Dancing With The Stars” being filmed on site with special guest judge and American movie star Billy Zane running around.

The conservancy I worked for was part of Mountain Lake Resort, which served as the backdrop for the movie “Dirty Dancing.” Needless to say, this was a far cry from Abbey’s situation. But there was a sense of isolation living on top of a mountain, with one road in and out. There were also plenty of chances to escape society, with the Appalachian Trail running directly through our property (not that the AT is isolated these days). In any case, I was captivated by Abbey’s lifestyle and disdainful view of the world. The fact that I was studying outdoor recreation and Abbey was working as a park guide in Moab, Utah, where the book takes place, maybe I was hoping my life was headed in a similar direction. In any event, I finished the book, the summer ended and eventually graduated from college.

I spent the next couple of years falling in love with traveling, whitewater kayaking, food, beer and a woman. I bounced around for a while, working for a whitewater adventure company in Georgia; settling down in Richmond for a year; working in a restaurant and living with my then-girlfriend. I eventually ended up in California for a year and a half, working for an inclusive outdoor adventure company, (if you happen to be a college student reading this or a soon to be high school grad, the best advice I can give you is to travel. The growth, maturity and humbling element that is found in traveling is unmatched anywhere else).

The time finally came when living 3,000 miles away from family, friends, an ailing grandfather and that daggone woman (again) became too much. I decided it was time to head back to the East Coast, having no idea what I was going to do next. Luckily when I got back, I was able to find some part-time work with a new brewing company in town — Hardywood Park. I was still very interested in pursuing a job in the outdoor-recreation field, with my mind starting to shift more to the education side with some emphasis on adventure. The months went by without any luck finding a job in the field that I desired. So I did what any former raft guide would do…I was going to become an insurance salesman. My mom has been in insurance for over 30 years and this seemed like a pretty easy transition. With my dreams of the outdoor education life here in Richmond looking dim, I decided to bite the bullet and took the Virginia insurance exam (more than once) and passed. My foreseeable future was full of 9-5 days, Starbucks on the way to work and cold calls. It seemed my degree in Outdoor Education had run its course.

Big old black rat snake.

Where in the world would I find a job in Richmond that focused on outdoor adventure with a focus on science-based education!? A chance meeting over a beer would answer that question for me. While pulling one of my last shifts at Hardywood before stepping into the world of insurance sales, I ran into Ryan Corrigan, who worked for The James River Association. We chatted over a beer about my education, work experience and plans now that I was back in Richmond. Toward the end of our conversation he mentioned to me that The James River Association was creating a new position within their Education department and that the job had yet to be posted. I sent my resume over to the JRA before the end of the night.

The next few weeks exchanging emails e-mails with the JRA, getting my references together and preparing for a formal interview. The position I was applying for was unique in one very distinct way, part of the job description indicated I would spend 10 months as the sole resident of an island in the middle of the James River. And not just any island — Presquile, a National Wildlife Refuge

The day of the interview came and went. Then it was a waiting game to hear if I had gotten the job or not (if not, my knowledge of property and casualty insurance was about to get a whole lot stronger). I got a call from the Education Manager letting me know that I got the job, and I would be expected to move to the island the morning of March 4^th.

And that is exactly where I find myself at this very moment, with the sun already set, preparing to spend my first night, alone on a 1,300 acre island 20 miles southeast of Richmond on this Island Solitaire…

In many cultures, storytelling is an art form. A good story is something that has a deep impact on your psyche and becomes something that is retold for years to come. These stories often convey anecdotes rooted in humor, life lessons, and/or express a passion for someone or something. Some people feel that this art form has suffered a slow death due to modern advances in technology. While others feel that these same technological advancements enhance the ability to tell a story.

Personally, I feel that there is a happy medium that can be reached to achieve the same end result — telling a meaningful story. I have always valued the power of words and have recently been inspired by the power of media to express appreciation for the outdoors. There are a number of different storytelling formats (both pictures and videos) that have permeated the internet recently. Outdoor enthusiasts can now log in and access a multitude of information about their favorite outdoor activity. It never fails that the most powerful versions of these ‘stories’ come in the form of an internet video accompanied by a passionate synopsis of the documented adventure. These stories end up providing inspiration to many people and become common talking points among friends at the trailhead (or base camp, at the whitewater  put-in, the top of a long hike, etc.). These stories often provide people with the drive to go out into the great outdoors and create their own stories.

My buddy Ryan and I recently took up the challenge of telling a story that has occurred in our lives countless of times. Ryan and I have been meeting up to ride in the James River Park since we were youngsters. Back then our bikes were antiquated and we got abused by the terrain, before sustainable trail building was the norm and trail advocacy was commonplace. The story is simple and one that occurs with many of you on a regular basis…meeting up with a buddy (or group) to enjoy a ride or enjoy the park in your own way.

We set out to try and tell this simple story of meeting up to enjoy the outdoors. Ryan and I took a basic DSLR camera and a cheap tripod out to do some filming one Saturday to try and give people a taste of the great trails we have in Richmond. The shoot turned into an adventure in and of itself. After two hours, we realized we had only covered approximately one mile of trail.  After some lunch and a beer at Crossroads coffee shop, we refocused on telling our story and came up with some pretty good shots. We got tired running up and down sections of trail to re-shoot, laughed at each other trying to operate the equipment, and generally enjoyed playing in the James River Park for the entire day. It brought back memories of childhood when you left the house early and didn’t get home until after the sun went down.  We enjoyed spending the entire day outside. It was fun! And our story wouldn’t have been possible without the beauty of our own James River Park!

Stories like these aren’t always appreciated. Some people feel that nothing can replace the written/spoken word while others feel that this type of media enhances the ability of the listener or viewer to actually see what was experienced. Furthermore, many traditionalists feel that this overexposure of recreation places has a negative impact on the area showcased. In these cases, the more people that read about or see videos of a popular recreation spot the more people use it, further eroding the landscape as well as the mystique behind experiencing it in solitude.

Regardless of your position, the focus should always remain on enjoying the experience in your own way. It becomes less important that you document it or re-tell the joys of your experience and more about your experience and how it shapes your passion for the outdoors!

Click below to find the story  we told the other day 

http://www.youtube.com/embed/fyl46jPY4ss?list=FL3KkCs9rpG_9TuB8o4qo7QQ

I am a husband and father which means I spend a lot of time thinking about the forces that impact families. I am a runner which means I love to compete and participate in big events. I am also a life-long student of history and anthropology which means I spend a lot of time studying major happenings and dissecting the motivations that cause people to do the senseless things they do. This week, it may be understood why I just needed to write about nature.

It is critical for me to quell the confusing noise in my head from time to time. For that, I head to the river. One of my favorite places is R. Garland Dodd Park at Point of Rocks. It is one of the gems in Chesterfield’s park collection. It has many of the amenities one would expect in a suburban park: soccer and baseball fields, tennis and basketball courts, picnic shelters, restrooms and a playground. What sets it apart from other parks is its beautiful setting on the Appomattox River and its braided network of natural-area trails that follow the banks of the river and Ashton Creek.

The park’s natural area is one of the most pristine in the Richmond area and as close to wilderness as it gets without driving two hours to Shenandoah NP. The trails are enveloped by a mature hardwood forest and some boast huge mountain laurels that form tunnels of green, ivory and violet that completely encircle hikers and bikers. Along the river’s edge it is common to spot bald eagles, red-wing blackbirds and kingfishers. The trails also nod to the past, as some are nearly paved with prehistoric pottery and stone tool fragments.

It is usually difficult for me to choose my favorite part of a natural area park but, here it is pretty easy. The freshwater tidal marsh at the mouth of Ashton Creek is the kind of destination that is seen on postcards. It is accessed by a floating boardwalk that rises and falls with the water and provides the best views in the park. The marsh has broad stands of arrow arum and pickerel weed that stretch out of sight and form huge nurseries for amphibians and reptiles. I am always looking for spots with few or no modern intrusions. The only modern thing visible at this place is the boardwalk that gets you there.

This week I had an urgent need to escape modern interruptions, so I went to Point of Rocks. I took a camera with me – so there was one modern intrusion.  I am not a gifted photographer but these images are a decent representation of what I saw and I did my best to describe how it made me feel.

Where to go:R. Garland Dodd Park at Point of Rocks, 201 Enon Church Road, Chester, VA 23836       

It took less than five minutes to assemble these pieces of the past. The trails at Point of Rocks are covered with these stone flakes – the waste material from the creation of Native American stone tools. Note the flat edge where the piece was struck by another stone and the rounded bulb where the percussion traveled through the material causing it to flake off. Bit by bit, stones were reduced in this fashion to reveal the spear point, arrow head or tool in the middle.

The mouth of Ashton Creek at Point of Rocks. The confluence of the creek and Appomattox River forms a large tidal marsh that hosts wetland grasses, arrow arum and pickerel weed. The water remains shallow most of the time so predatory fish cannot reach the young amphibians and reptiles that find shelter in this nursery. The floating boardwalk undulates as you walk across it.

Yes, this is in Chesterfield County. Like I said, I am not a gifted photographer. I took many pictures of the Appomattox River and this was the best one. There are a handful of places in the Richmond area where one can go to completely escape the urban environment. This is one of them. Note the lovely lack of anything made by humans.

This was the best shot of the bunch. I caught our state tree at just the right moment – it wasn’t moving. Point of rocks has many flowering dogwoods. They are much more cooperative photo subjects than the state bird, the cardinal. I tried to snap a shot of the bird several times but it got away. The dogwood doesn’t have a choice.

Another great feature at Point of Rocks is this broad meadow – a haven for butterfly watchers. Come back in a few weeks when the flowers are in bloom and you will witness the fluttering courtship of winged lovers. I stood in this silent meadow for over 30 minutes. I did not see another person.

Many people assume that professional tree climbing is a man’s job. Tree work is dirty, physically and mentally demanding, and statistically one of the most dangerous ways to earn a living. Oh yeah, and for all that, the living earned by pruning, caring for, and removing trees tends to be a meager one.

Lohse climbs in Byrd Park

I suppose it’s hard to understand why any man would decide to climb trees for a living, and harder still to understand why any woman would take on this profession.

Why? What kind of person? 

Well, the answer has already been stated.  It is not any man who chooses to climb trees, and it is certainly not any woman. The person who climbs trees for a living is a woman or man who likes to get dirty, who likes to be physically and mentally challenged each day, and who likes the invigorating, life-affirming feeling of pitting themselves against difficult, inherently dangerous tasks.

Most importantly, the professional tree climber is a woman or man who knows that quality and excitement of life are more significant for self-realization than quantity of income. What follows is the story of just such a woman, not just any woman.

Jocelyn Lohse came to Riverside Outfitters and Truetimber Tree Service in the summer of 2010. She was brought onboard to help with the summer activities at Riverside where she helped with tree climbing camps for kids, white-water rafting and other guided river experiences, splitting firewood, and anything else that needed done in our new and growing outfitting company.

We quickly learned that Jocelyn had abundant “anything else” capability.

For a girl with a short, slight build, she attacked her work with big purpose and intent. She could handle rope, wrench, or hammer with uncommon aptitude. But don’t be misled. Jocelyn is no tomboy.  She showed herself to be equally capable with care and counseling of young children, the culinary arts, and even needle and thread.

When the summer ended and there was less to do at Riverside, Truetimber brought this “lightweight” into its fold for the off season.  Jocelyn waited patiently for her opportunities, dragging brush, hauling wood, and laughing-off crewmember’s attempts at chivalry until she began to get opportunities to climb trees with the big boys. She had been practicing in the city parks on her off time and she was ready.

Lohse competes at the Mid-Atlantic Tree Climbing Championship

Jocelyn quickly became a wonderful addition to our climbing staff.

How good did she get? Well, after swinging around in trees for only a handful of months, Jocelyn competed in her first Mid-Atlantic Tree Climbing Championship and had one of the highest scores for a female competitor that event has witnessed. At the competition, a grueling six event day testing a wide range of arboricultural skills, one always knew where Jocelyn’s group was and when she was competing because she drew the loudest applause and cheers of encouragement.

Jocelyn has now won this event the last three years, her most recent victory coming a couple of weeks ago when the competition was held in the trees surrounding the Round House in Richmond’s Byrd Park.  As the Mid-Atlantic regional champion she goes on to represent this chapter of the ISA(International Society of Arboriculture) in its international competition. In 2011 she competed in Australia, and last year she finished 10^th in the world when the competition was held in Portland, Oregon.

Congratulations Jocelyn!  We are very proud of you, and can’t wait to see how you do in the 2013 international competition in Ontario, Canada.

In all things of Nature there is something of the marvelous.  — Aristotle

Our place on earth wobbles slightly away from the sun.  The great provider’s shower of energy is distributed in smaller portions.  The air grows colder.  It’s a time to wait.

Sweet gum terminal buds

Winter is the season for hunkering down, not for advance.  The equipment and supplies for the coming offensive are concentrated in a myriad of micro-bases established at the outward limits of last year’s campaign.  These small base camps, clearly visible now that the thick, spent machinery of last year’s effort has been discarded, might be easy targets for any enemy were they not so heavily armored for protection. They gradually bulge with arriving supplies as the season of cold, wind, snow and rain progresses. One imagines there must be great excitement and anticipation inside the armored perimeter of these outposts as the days grow longer again and the early March air begins to warm. The wait is almost over. The time is coming to build on last year’s gains. The time is coming to advance. The time is coming to spring!

This is not the description of the American war effort in Afghanistan or elsewhere, although it easily could be. This is the description of what is going on in the sky between you and the upper atmosphere as the deciduous trees (those that discarded their leaves for the winter) above your head get ready for the great spring offensive. These trees are ready to add another layer. They are ready to extend, and ready to grow. And their little basecamps, better known as “buds,” are swelled to bursting at the armored scales.

But why the winter hesitation? Why all the drama. Why “deciduous?” Why not simply “evergreen?”

Terminal bud of the tulip poplar

Only the creator knows. What we do know is that the creation itself is diverse, and in one of nature’s sundry adaptations, many of our trees have developed the behavior of casting off the leaves of the previous year and entering a state of dormancy through the winter months. Their lives become a cycle of alternating sleep and growth synchronized with the cycles of the
earth as it tilts away and then back towards the sun’s life-giving radiation of energy. The oak, maple, sweetgum, poplar and other leaf-discarding trees do magical things as they participate in this cycle, changing their colors and shedding off parts of themselves that are shared with the earth to replenish its soil. They entertain with their autumn colors and falling leaves in the soft gloaming of life’s summertime party; looking most beautiful, and most giving, in the moments before sleep. Then they wait.

As spring arrives, these melodramatic trees are roused from sleep by the increased warmth of a nearer sun and erupt amazingly to transform tiny buds into large, green leaves and colorful flowers. They grow again, enriching the atmosphere with their exhalations.  Our deciduous trees make a dazzling show of it as they cycle more obviously with the earth and its position in space.

Silver maple flowers

Unfortunately, one of the most beautiful parts of the show, the buds and flowers of early spring, often go unnoticed. Small and mostly above our heads, often overlooked, are the fascinating and varied ways the deciduous trees have to protect the precious supplies in their base camps of growth. Under the outer shell or scales of terminal buds are the jelly-like cells of the apical meristem, capable when called of adding another layer of “tree” onto last year’s layer.  Trees don’t grow by stretching.  They grow by stacking layers upon layers, both in the main stem as rings of girth and in the upper canopy as added extension into the sky.

So this spring I hope you will take a closer look at the small miracle that is the transformation of tree bud into leaf and flower. In Richmond you will always know spring has arrived when the forest blushes crimson with the eruption of red maple buds. This is, in fact, the feature for which this native gets its common name.  Flowers on maple trees are small but
beautiful, almost suggesting some exotic species of sea coral.

Slow down and take a look, as I did with my daughter this weekend as she helped me gather these pictures with my I-phone.  Seeing the excitement and preparation for spring in the trees around you might just inspire your own great 2013 campaign of growth and expansion.