There are two ways to get to where we are going: the direct route, which takes longer because it circumvents the mountains, or the indirect route, which takes less time but plows straight through peaks and valleys. Once we determine our route (mountains, of course), we start researching interesting things to see and do along the way. We have paperwork about scenic overlooks (two -- and we stop at both, one that overlooks to the west and one further north that overlooks to the east), multiple hikes of varying difficulty, and some places to rent kayaks.
A few of the hikes are too long and too arduous considering she needs to be in concert formal attire later and I need to stuff my fat arse into a dress. This would be fine if there were a place to get ready, but the concert venue has no bathroom, so our changing room will be a public restroom stall being shared by people beaching it at a nearby lake. By the time we roll into town, we decide we have about an hour and a half, just enough time for a simple hike of no more than three miles round-trip. This crosses many possibilities off our list. It also means that we won't have time to kayak and get our butts damp in the lake, either, which would be welcome in the sweltering heat of midday.
My sister is navigating, and she starts heading away from the concert venue. We like to explore when we get someplace new, but we feel like maybe we are heading into the boonies, which is ironic because we have been in the boonies since leaving Lewiston hours ago. The car blinker goes on, and we decide to turn right at the next road and head in the other direction.
"Mingo Loop! Mingo Loop!" I start screaming.
For a moment, I'm certain my sister thinks I see Ed Ames. (For those not familiar, he played Mingo on the television series Daniel Boone.) I explain to her that there are trails to walk off of Mingo Loop Road. Score! We're where we are supposed to be without even trying. Of course, we are coming in from the wrong end of the road, so the .25 mile the directions tell us are actually 1.5 miles, which I figure out while reading a brochure we picked up at the one and only store we've seen in hundreds of miles.
We finally arrive at a golf course and pull into the grassy area marked for trail parking. We have successfully reached Mingo Springs Trail and Bird Walk. Careful trail map reading gives us three options: one-mile loop, two-mile loop, or four-mile loop. Following a brief but violent wrestling match with bloodshed, we opt for the two-miler and plow into the brush.
The trails are remarkably well-kept, and the flora are marked for informational purposes. We encounter no less than eleven different types of fern (I have the flyer) -- Sensitive, Cinnamon, Bracken, Hay-scented, New York, Oak, Ostrich, Narrow Beech, Lady, Interrupted, and Common Polypody (though I really cannot discern the differences)-- and many trees we'd never heard of, such as the Popple. I've lived in or near the woods of New England my entire life and I do not know of this tree. My sister's husband used to be a forestry major, so we will have to run that one by him later.
About halfway through we encounter a wooden tree-type bench that the landscapers must've put here for the benefit of people like us, who, after a mile or so need to sit the hell down. Truly, even though there is an occasional breeze, it is really warm even under cover of the leaves.
My sister turns to me, makes a face, smacks the sense back into me, and tells me to shut up.
We are about to go into a dark part of the woods, and I am briefly afraid that my sister might strangle me and leave me here (deservedly so), so I stick with her trees-look-like-clothing theme when I point out the gnarled roots of a tree. "Morticia's gown bottom," I say, hoping all is forgiven.
"Sure," she says and keeps trekking along at her usual pace.
Let me point out that I am in reasonably good athletic shape for a woman of my age, but let me also admit that I am markedly shorter than my sister, so she has the advantage of long legs. Not only can she hike, jog, and run faster, but I have to take 2 steps for every 1.5 strides she is taking. Not fair! If I start complaining again, though, she might roll me into the swamp. My only advantage to this is that the drought has dried up the water, so I would be rolling in any combination of the eleven ferns here along the trail.
In the end, we make it through the woods and back onto the street. I'm not going to lie about how relieved I am when I see the car. I am absolutely sweating my eyeballs out (hot flashes included), and I want nothing more than a few minutes with the air conditioner blasting me to Antarctica.By the way, the Popple tree is an Americanized misspelling of Poppel, which is the Swedish word for Aspen tree. Popple, Poppel, Poplar, Aspen -- seems they're the same or interrelated. Either way, I'm just glad that my sister didn't lose complete patience with me and tie me to a Popple or beat me senseless with one. She's a good sister that way.
