All Scars Healed, All Sorrows Assuaged: Walking, Every Day, to a Different View, a New Perspective

Nature is always lovely, invincible, glad, 

whatever is done and suffered by her creatures.

All scars she heals, whether rocks or water or sky or hearts.

-- John Muir

Carris Hill and Chikahoki Falls

8.75 miles round-trip, moderate
Norvin Green SF, New Jersey
Through the six months since we lost Ben and-- what is it now-- six weeks since the word pandemic swept into our life-vocabulary, Brad and I have turned time and again to nature for recreation and solace, for health and healing. Footstep by footstep, I've grown accustomed to recognizing and acknowledging grief-- feeling it, processing it, coming to terms with it every day. As I've looked around and listened during these strangest of times, I've come to understand that everyone has lost something. There's a collective bereavement, a synchronous sorrow, a strange form of socially distanced mourning for all that's been lost, individually and collectively, trivial and consequential, perceived and painfully real: daily routines of work and play and education and recreation disrupted, freedom to come and go where and when and as we please denied, well-stocked store shelves disappeared... health, wealth, livelihood, and sometimes life itself, wrenched from our grasp. Indeed, it seems that our world-- so broad, so beautiful, so wise-- is suddenly confused and weary, suffused with sorrow, and full-to-overflowing with suffering-- physical, mental, socioeconomic, moral. There's a lot to think about right now- and it all descended upon us with a tortured suddenness, a fast-moving slow-motion jolt to the senses. 

Rocky Hillside, Norvin Green State Forest.

Grief: there may be a bit of getting over it and a bit more of working through it-- but mostly, I believe, it involves acceptance, absorption, assimilation. Beyond textbook descriptions that I remember and well-meaning brochures that I've received, grief has not unfolded in linear, orderly fashion: it moves in circles and spirals, a twisting, turning, many-junction path traveling from The Way Things Were through The Way Things Are to The Way Things Will Be. Journeying through grief, it seems, is walking to a different view, a new perspective. And so on this day, April 6, 2020, we lace up our boots once more and walk, literally and figuratively, to a different view in Norvin Green State Forest, Passaic County, New Jersey.

Walking the Green Trail, Norvin Green State Forest.

Named for the twentieth-century Renaissance man and excellent human being who donated the five-thousand-acre-plus tract of land to the State of New Jersey in 1946, Norvin Green boasts an impressive albeit convoluted network of trails developed from old logging roads and newer, volunteer created-and-maintained paths. There are numerous hiking iterations available in this rugged, remote forest, trails that meander, intersect, and loop through tranquil woodland, along babbling brooks, to splendid scenic overlooks.

First Visit: Otter Hole Falls.

This will be our second hike in Norvin Green: the first, a week earlier, followed a green-blazed trail from the New Weis Ecology Center off Snake Den Road to picturesque Otter Hole Falls-- a happy introduction to the forest that whets our appetite for a return visit. Today, our route will follow an amalgamation of colored blazes: yellow to blue/teal to-- somewhat confusingly-- a different yellow to white to reunion with the first yellow... a skewed, confused lollipop, if that makes sense.

Beginning: Walking the Chikahoki Fire Road.

We park in a small pullout off Glenwild Road on the outskirts of Bloomingdale. Peripatetic camera, requisite trail map, sufficient hydration, and York Peppermint Patties in tow, we pause at a heavily-signed kiosk and pass around a fire gate. The official trail veers to the left immediately but, in our eagerness to begin, we walk northeast for a stretch on the old Chikahoki Fire Road before spotting yellow blazes over yonder and joining the Wyanokie Crest Trail.

Across a Boulder Field, Yellow-Blazed Wyanokie Crest Trail.

Through hint-of-green budding trees, the sky shines brilliant blue. The air is fresh, a slight chill at this elevation, with promise to moderate as spring sun warms the forest.

Posts Brook, Wyanokie Crest Trail.

The cobbled trail travels through fine New Jersey hardwood, with several crossings of Posts Brook, a charming water feature that rises from swampland between nearby Wyanokie Crest and Buck Mountain before bubbling and branching its way through this forest. All around us, we spy evidence of a marvelously messy geologic past. Glaciers worked here millennia ago, wielding fantastic destructive and creative powers, scouring, scarring and reshaping the land, leaving a legacy of till-- boulders, cobbles, gravel, sand, and silt-- across a varied, visually captivating landscape. We arrive at a trail junction and turn right onto the double-blazed blue/teal Hewitt Butler/Highland Trail.

Quite a Climb on the Blue/Teal-Blazed Hewitt Butler/Highlands Trail.

The portion of Hewitt Butler we're traveling today involves climbing and a bit more climbing: a steady ascent, sometimes a daunting ascent-- and so we pace ourselves, placing one boot in front of the other, pausing to catch breath, to take in the blue sky above and the gray boulders below. We are climbing to a different view, to a new perspective: we are stretching our legs, filling our lungs... breathing in, breathing out, matching our breathing to the climb. It is hard work, and it is absolutely invigorating. In time, the trail narrows, passing between tightly-spaced boulders and thickets of mountain laurel and rhododendron.

The Path Narrows: Hewitt Butler/Highlands Trail Lined with Foliage.

Atop a north-to-south scarred knob devoid of vegetation, we note that the blue-blazed Hewitt Butler Trail drops off the overlook and vanishes into bramble. Following it further will wait for another day.

Peppermint Patty Time on a Pine Paddy.

Looking Northeast to Wyanokie High Point.

We pause here, sharing the traditional Peppermint Patties and a few swigs of hydration. We spot what we believe to be Wyanokie High Point off to the northeast before picking up our second-of-the-day yellow-blazed trail, the just-short-of-a-mile trek to Carris Hill.

The Yellow-Blazed Carris Hill Trail Begins.

Glacial Erratic and Pitch Pine at a Viewpoint along Carris Hill Trail.

The trail is level for a stretch, running across the shoulder of a ridge, passing through thickets of mountain laurel and blueberry bushes. The way is dotted with whimsically-shaped glacial erratics and punctuated with pine paddies, pitch pine thrusting skyward from gravel-filled cracks in erosion-resistant granite.

Looking East: Wanaque Reservoir, Ramapo Mountains, Manhattan Silhouette.

And then, as advertised, there it is: a magnificent open view to the east. In the near ground, we see thrice-dammed Wanaque Reservoir; in the middle ground, the Ramapo Mountains; and along the horizon, the unmistakable Manhattan skyline, dark blue silhouetted against robin's egg sky. Across miles and years and headlines, we think about that silhouetted skyline. Over there is where Brad spent most of his professional life. Over there, we went to plays and watched sporting events, dined in restaurants, experienced culture. Promise and problem, headiness and heartache, beauty and despair. It's all over there.  

Massam Meets Glacial Erratic, Carris Hill Trail.

We are way up here, remote and removed from the reservoir, from prominent ridges and undulating valleys, and certainly from the city. We have walked to a different view, to a new perspective. We've traveled to a place that is at once disconnected and connected, a place on the planet that rises above it all and yet tethers us to deeper understanding of the story.

Descending Carris Hill Trail.

The trail descends six hundred feet in three-quarters of a mile: we move amidst sunlight and shadow on switchbacks, dropping through boulder deposits, rugged rubble of the glacial past. In time, the Carris Hill Trail bottoms out, ending on a level rocky area after crossing a stream. It is here that we encounter... an Interlude of Confusion. We'll call it an Interlude because it was longer than a Moment of Confusion but of shorter duration than an Episode of Confusion. Our trail map and Brad's sense of direction tell us that we want to pick up the white-blazed Posts Brook Trail to travel in a generally westerly direction... sort of a right turn. Trouble is, we can't find white blazes and we see no trail bearing west/right. It's not for a lack of signage: there are placards of varying vintage, several generations of wooden arrows emblazoned with not particularly helpful abbreviations scattered across the area in question. We find a white blaze, but it has a black "L" in it. Map perusal tells us that the "L" indicates LOWER, not LOSER or LOST. This is neither the blaze nor the direction we seek. Time for a change in perspective. We retrace our steps, back across the brook and, just before the Interlude becomes and Episode, we locate a series of beautiful white blazes guiding us west, to the right. We're on our way again.

Woodland Violets.

The Posts Brook Trail parallels the brook, at times closely, at other times taking a higher line. Clusters of woodland violets grace the trail, unassuming messengers. Step with care and seek the beauty, they urge.

Chikahoki Falls.

Before long, we hear tumbling water and arrive at Chikahoki Falls. Chikahoki is drawn from the Lenape word meaning turkey land-- it's lovely here in turkey land, nice to photograph, and fun to say Chikahoki. In time, we rejoin the original yellow-blazed trail, picking our way across the cobble field and back to our beginning.

Across the Cobble Field and Back to the Beginning.

Lovely, invincible, glad: Muir observed it more than a century ago, and we feel it today. When we connect with the natural world, little fragments of that loveliness, invincibility, and gladness are conferred upon us. Clearly, I am neither a medical expert nor a political scientist. A lifetime of evidence overwhelmingly shows that I am more philosopher than physician, more poet than politician. I am, however, after nearly six decades on the planet, fairly competent at being a human being-- and every bone and muscle and instinct and fiber of my soul tell me to keep that connection with the natural world-- to keep walking-- to look and listen, to touch and taste, to breathe it all in.

Meandering Posts Brook, Wyanokie Crest Trail.

Nature engages our senses and guides us, gracefully, patiently, constantly, from The Way Things Were through The Way Things Are to The Way Things Will Be. We  see clouds scuttle across blue sky; we hear the gurgling brook near the falls; we touch a moss-cooled log, a sun-warmed rock; we breath in the cleansing scent of boot-crushed pine needles; we taste the sweet-crisp apple from a pack. We learn, and we walk on.

Directional Arrow, Carris Hill Trail.

There is a physical and psychic price to pay when we lose touch with the natural world. I'm resolved, then, to make the connection whenever and for as long as I can: to lace up the dusty, well-worn boots, to return again and again and again, to keep walking, undaunted, across this magnificent, multifarious earth, all scars healed, all sorrows assuaged, hearts filled, hope restored.

Earth has no sorrow that earth cannot heal.

-- John Muir