Hike One - De Soto State Park First Day Hike

Jarred awake by the ubiquitous chime of my iPhone, I fumble around the nightstand in the dark. Desperate to silence the beastly apparatus, I ignore the impulse to hit the snooze button. I’d be lying if I said that I’m not tempted to roll back over and stay cozy and comfortable in my warm bed. Instead, I slowly peel back the cover and pad across the icy-cold floor toward the heap of clothing dumped unceremoniously across the foot of the bed. It’s so flippin’ early.

Dressing quickly and quietly to avoid disturbing the hubs, who’s snoring softly, wrapped in the toasty blankets I’ve just vacated. I pour coffee into a travel mug and step outside, where sub-freezing temps greet me on a windy, dreary New Year’s Day. On any other New Year’s Day, I’d be drinking this coffee in my pajamas while watching the Rose Parade, likely eating a cinnamon roll (or two), eschewing any thoughts of healthy eating resolutions.

Instead, I’m heading to DeSoto State Park for the First Day Hike.

My first training hike. The first of fifty-two. I’m alone and feeling a little nervous, although I can’t put my finger on the reason why. My friends that planned on joining have all bowed out. One by one, they cite various reasons – too cold, too early; the usual suspects. I should know. I’ve employed them plenty of times. My husband declined the invitation to join. He’ll be spending the day watching football. So here I am, making the hour-long drive toward the park. It’s a group hike. Technically I won’t be alone. So there’s that.

Cruising up I-59, I’m lost in thought until a fake British voice – the GPS I refer to as Judy, blares over the speaker. Judy has been silent for much of the drive. But now she’s insistent. Exit in 1 mile, she screeches. Use the right lane and take the exit in one-half of a mile. There’s no one else on the road this morning. No one. Judy doesn’t care. Use the right lane and take the exit, she insists.

Okay, Judy. Relax!

I swerve over into the right lane and barrel down the exit to prove my point at the last possible moment. You’re not the boss of me, Judy, I think. Judy isn’t impressed. Probably because she is an inanimate object. I smirk while she continues calling out directions in her robotic voice.

Another right, Judy won’t be denied, leads me through Fort Payne, famous for being the hometown of country supergroup Alabama, a fact evidenced by the Alabama Fan Club building on my left.

North Alabama is beautiful, and DeSoto State Park is no exception straddling the Little River and Little River Gorge, with waterfalls scattered throughout. One of the largest and most visited waterfalls in north Alabama, De Soto Falls, checks in at 104 feet, churning the water below white. Easily reached via a short paved footpath, De Soto Falls won’t be included on today’s hike. Today we’ll visit some of the smaller and more seasonal waterfalls along with some of the park’s historical features.

Pulling up to the designated meeting spot, I spot a group of people milling about on the porch of the old Country Store. Almost forty, I’d guess. All ages and sizes look to be represented. Grabbing my six-plus-year-old Nike bookbag that one of the kids used in high school, recently unearthed out of the back of a closet and smelling faintly of cat pee, I slam the car door shut. Inside said pack is enough peanut butter sandwiches, Clif bars, and water bottles to last a couple of days. Hoisting it up and over my shoulder, I cross the parking lot, shuffling toward the meeting point.

A line forms at the restroom, and I take my place in it. I don’t have to go but may as well since I’m here. In a sea of grey, black, and brown, I’m self-conscious in a shocking Fuschia-pink jacket snagged off the TJ Maxx clearance rack last week. A coat so bright it should have come with a seizure warning. Both the color and the newness stick out like a sore thumb, announcing my status as a total newbie to the world.

Soon a ranger arrives – our fearless leader.

Welcoming everyone, she gives a brief park orientation. DeSoto State Park was developed by the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) in the 1930s. The CCC was a public work relief program and a significant part of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s New Deal.

Participants planted nearly 3 billion trees to help reforest America; they constructed trails, lodges, and related facilities nationwide in more than 800 parks. The men also upgraded most state parks, updated forest fire fighting methods, and built a network of service buildings and public roadways in remote areas over the nine years that the program existed. Evidence of their work remains scattered throughout the United States, with a heavy concentration in the American South.

Finally, she introduces herself as Brittani and lays out the route, telling us which trails we’ll be using, then performing a quick count. Surveying the group, she happily calls out, “Let’s hike.” And away we go. Heading into the pine-oak woods, we quickly fall into a single file line on a path formed of rocks, roots, pine needles, and leaves.

We wind along a hillside following the Quarry Trail through massive boulders and rock overhangs.

The trail’s namesake, the CCC quarry, is about a mile in. Cut blocks are scattered around the quarry, reminiscent of an abandoned theatre, proof of the CCC’s young men’s work in 1939 when the park opened.

Cameras click, and selfies are snapped before moving on to our first stop, the campground, complete with more restroom facilities. There’s only one toilet, and the line is long. My backpack is heavy, so I slide it off where it lands with a thump on the dirt. I munch on a sandwich and Clif bar while waiting to reduce the pack’s weight. The freezing wind howls and whips past my face.

Temps have been comfortable while on the move, not so much at a standstill.

Today’s high is in the low 30s, and it’s taking forever for everyone to use the restroom. We haven’t even been hiking long, and most of these folks are the same ones who were with me in the bathroom a mere thirtyish minutes ago. How could they possibly need to go again? And what’s taking so long? Impatient and annoyed, I take shelter behind a pavilion. I’m ready to get out of this wind, into the trees, and to get warm.

Warmer anyway.

At long last, the gang is ready to go. Most of us return to the wooded trail, but some of my fellow hikers quit, cutting through the campground and returning to the parking lot via the park road.

Not me.

Nope. I’m in it for the long haul. I won’t give up that easily, although, truthfully, I’m tempted to join them. It would take very little convincing to get me to cut the trek short and head for the house.

But we are on our way to the waterfalls. And everyone loves a waterfall. Right?

Now that the herd has thinned out, the pace is picking up. Panting but warmer, I fall in behind a fit-looking, blonde woman with a hiking stick. She introduces herself. Wendy. I explain that I’m a newbie hiker, although my rapid breathing has probably given that away. Wendy has extensive hiking experience, even hiking sections of the Appalachian Trail. Time passes quickly as we chat about her adventures.

We’ve hiked along switchbacks and up a few hills. More than once, I feel winded.

I wonder if this will be like at the Grand Canyon. Spoiler alert: It’s not! Eventually, the path levels out, and we come to a small side-trail marked with a small stone engraved Laurel Falls.

In about 200 feet, we see the falls—a beautiful overhead view from the trailside stretches before us. Layers of rock frame the two-tiered waterfall as the gurgling water surges over, ultimately collecting in a crystal clear pool below. Cameras fly out of pockets and packs to capture the moment.

Next stop is Lost Falls, a small five-foot waterfall just off the trail.

Water splashes onto a small pile of rocks before settling into another crystal-clear pool. The water looks inviting. A perfect swimming hole. Well, it would be if it wasn’t 30 degrees outside. The seasonal waterfall completely disappears in the dry season, hence the name.

Ranger Brittani points out dormant mountain laurel and rhododendrons lining the path as we walk toward the main trail, urging us to return in June for the bloom. “A riot of color,” she exclaims. “You’ll love it.” We turn away from the stream, passing through huge slabs of rock covered in pale green moss. “Deer moss,” says Brittani with a nod and a grin.

An older gentleman peels off his jacket revealing a worm navy blue Grand Canyon sweatshirt underneath. “Have you hiked it?” I ask. Furrowing his brow, he ties his head. I point to his shirt. “The Grand Canyon.” I blurt. Confused, his gaze follows my finger. He seems surprised to see what his sweatshirt says. Realization dawns on him as he shakes his head side to side.”No, god, no,”

“I’m going to. In December.” I declare, “This is my first training hike.”

A few people look at me skeptically. Maybe I imagine the skepticism. After all, I’ve made it this far without too much of a struggle. I am getting tired, though. And cold. Not hungry. But my feet hurt.

Marching on, we head into the home stretch of the hike, arriving at Cascade Falls. A bridge spans the creek, and there is a broad, wooden observation deck at the cascade.

“We’re at about the five-mile point,” Brittani announces. She seems no worse for wear.

A few hikers decide to go on to see Indian Falls.

Wendy and I decide to call it a day and head back to the parking lot. At the car, we exchange contact info. Wendy confides that she has lots of spa friends, but not many are interested in hiking or kayaking. Leaning in as if confiding a secret, she whispers, “None of the outdoorsy stuff.” We say our goodbyes, exchange contact info, and promise to keep in touch before we each head back to our own lives. Our own problems.

Cranking up the heater, I back out of the lot. Feeling accomplished yet exhausted, I’m ready to head home. I survived my first training hike at DeSoto State Park. My overloaded backpack is thrown haphazardly across the passenger seat. The remaining food and water are sufficient to survive a Zombie Apocalypse.

Judy begins barking out instructions as the seat warmer kicks in, heating my backside. Hot air whooshes out of the vents. Searching for a tissue or even a napkin to wipe my nose proves to be an exercise in futility, and I finally succumb to a quick swipe of the sleeve.

Winding back down Lookout Mountain toward the interstate, I wonder where my next hike will take me.

I should be able to plan something for next weekend. There are plenty of state parks scattered throughout North Alabama. I’ll do some research. Maybe even look into a training plan specific to hiking.

Today’s experience has already taught me a little about what to bring, and maybe more importantly, what not to bring. I’m talking to you, oversized bag of trail mix. It’s a lot to think about.

My mind thrums as I accelerate onto the freeway with a zillion questions.

I wonder if I’ll be sore tomorrow.

I wonder if I’ll grow stronger.

I wonder if I’ll complete my goal.

I wonder if I can persuade myself to like this.