May 19, 2015 Lynches Woods: The Tatooed Man

In the parking lot behind the Newberry Sheriff's Department, I meet a tall silver haired man with backpack leaving the entrance to the woods.  He tells me that the gravel road through the park was built in the 1930's by the Civilian Conservation Corps and that his father, in fact, helped build it.  He tells me to take the gravel road and not the woodland trails "until I get to know it".

I thank him and walk down the hill until I find a confusion of one way road signs and "do not enter" signs.
A hiker emerges to the left, leaving the woods in the opposite direction from the one way sign.  He is a man with salt and pepper curly hair wearing an old faded T shirt cut off at the arms to reveal a glorious tangle of tatoos.  He tells me that the gravel road is five miles, that there is a rise he calls, "mother mountain" and if I want to spare my body pain, I will take the opposite direction of the one way signs. "I have done it twice today", he says.

I try to do as he says, but find myself on a short loop past a big picnic shelter with eight to ten tables and back to where I started. I take the direction of the one way signs.

On the trail there are low stone arches marking streams flowing below.  These arches attest to the age of the road. And here and there are the new bridges recently constructed.  Soon I hear a heavy splash nearby and a rumpled man appears coming towards me.  I grab my phone and pick up a big stick. He does not speak English. I think he has slept in the woods. He travels on.

On my left is a cow pasture and on the faraway hill, a farmhouse and large gray barn with dull red roof. The stoic black cows are huddled together at the nearby fence.

The trail begins to ascend and I find that all along the way, I am on an upward walk through the lovely green wood with flashes of sunlight and plateaus.  It is really not strenuous. Here and there horse trails wind off into the forest. These trails do not look well traveled, but once I catch the telltale scent of horse.

As the sun rises at noon high in the sky, I leave my club (the one I was going to knock out the rumpled man with) at the first bridge for the next hiker.