As the hidden sun prepared to set in a grey sky Monday afternoon, my family hiked the Bluff Trail behind our house. It is a trail we hike often and one of the most popular in the region. It wanders through hardwood forests and ravines before ending on a dune over 400 feet above Lake Michigan. The trailhead is less than a mile up a seasonal road that winds south from the end of our street, and the parking lot is usually completely packed in the summer months. This night, as we hiked in the cold and the day’s last light, it was empty.
The Bluff was the first trail my husband, Tim, and I hiked when we began spending time together five and a half years ago. Tim and I were "just friends." I insisted on this at the time and for months afterward, yet I can still remember the excitement I felt driving to meet him in the empty parking lot, where his dog barked while greeting me for the first time. I brought us Two Hearted Ales I had taken from my parents' fridge, and the sun had already set when we met. Tim is more of a Pilsner man, but I didn't know that yet, and he drank it anyway. We walked to the lookout in the growing twilight. The conversation now forgotten, I remember wanting to be close to him as we navigated the old trail, steadying myself on his arm as I stepped over roots hidden in the dark.
This week, as we hiked back from the lookout, the woods slowly grew darker, and instead of my hand on Tim's arm, my hand was holding our baby against my chest as Tim alternated between racing our 4-year-old down the hills and carrying him uphill. So much has changed, and yet we return frequently to this old familiar trail.
Familiar as it was, the trail has changed over the last year. Last fall, they began a new project to make the route safer and more accessible, re-routing the steepest climb around a hill rather than up and over it. Apparently the original trail followed an old logging road, and it was never the ideal placement for hiking. The new path is a switchback that cuts into the side of the hill, reducing the problems with runoff. A year later, you can still see where the old trail was, a scar on the hill that is taking time to heal.
The next day, I spoke with my ex-husband, Bryan, on the phone for an hour and a half. Our divorce was finalized a decade ago this month; we were married when we were 23. Somehow, it had been three years since we last spoke.
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