It was pouring rain as I entered Pokagon State Park and made my way to the Nature Center. All morning, as I made the drive from Michigan to Indiana, the sky had been a marbled blue and gray, pockets of clear sky mixed with rain clouds, and I had hoped that maybe the weather for my silly little walk would be okay. I was looking forward to seeing the trees in their fall foliage. But now it was pouring rain, and my mother’s worries had finally caught up to me. I was worried.
I had decided to go on what I would call “my silly little walk” in one of those meetings that go on forever. As I sat there, subject to the whims of a single person who somehow failed to notice that their audience was shifting uncomfortably in their seats, I started daydreaming of Pokagon State Park and what it would be like to complete the Hell’s Point Challenge, an 8 mile hike centered around the titular Hell’s Point, named that for the 84 stairs one must climb to reach the top of a structure that, millennia ago, was once at the bottom of a waterfall at the base of a glacier. Nowadays, it’s the highest spot in the park, a whopping 1,123 feet above sea level.
I had not been to Pokagon State Park in over twenty years. As a child, I used to go every summer for my family reunion, and it was the location of many hazy memories. En route to another location earlier this year, I had driven past the park and those memories came flooding back: the finger puppets my grandma had bought me, the seashells in the lake, the giant toboggan run that dominated the landscape. Googling the park later, I had stumbled across the Hell’s Point Challenge, and initially set it aside as impossible. But stuck in that neverending meeting, it no longer felt impossible. It felt like freedom.
Pokagon, however, seemed determined to ice me out. As I shuffled my way into the Nature Center, my pink raincoat on, I stood dripping on the welcome mat, waiting for the ranger on duty to acknowledge me. When she finally did, I told her I had come from Michigan for the Hell’s Point Challenge–but did she think it would be safe…? The ranger said that the rain should let up in about half an hour, and cautioned me to watch out for Trail 9, which was the most rugged trail in the park. She handed me a map, and I found myself winding my way towards the beginning of the trail. Now or never. My mom, who had come with me as emotional support, took some photos, and I reassured her that it was going to be okay. I had hiked in the rain before, and if it got too bad, I knew the route to take back to Potowatomi Inn, where we would be staying the night. I said this for her, but it was a nice reminder for myself, too. I had never done such a long walk by myself before and now that the moment was here, it did feel daunting.
The rain had cleared up while I was talking to the ranger, and I dared to hope that things would be okay. The first part of the hike was easy, a paved trail leading to a bridge constructed by the CCC during Roosevelt’s presidency. I had just made it past the bridge when the rain started pouring down again, and I put on my Madonna University ball cap to block the rain and plowed on to the second landmark, the Spring Cabin. Coincidentally, the Spring Cabin was also the last chance I had to refill my water bottle…only about a mile and some change into my eight mile hike. I took a deep breath and remembered what Jesus had said: No woman, having put her hand to the plough, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God.
I continued on.
The weather ended up clearing shortly after the Spring Cabin, and by the time I reached the third landmark it was beautiful outside and I was in a very good mood. I had seen two different types of berries, a spicebush swallowtail caterpillar, and some of the very last Queen Anne’s Laces of the season. I felt like Anne of Green Gables searching for fairies, which was a very buoyant, pleasant feeling. As I wound my way around the wetlands, which was the most beautiful part of the entire hike, I thought of the members of Madonna’s Sustainability Group, and all the knowledge they would have about the landscape. Hunter had been telling us all about which plants are edible, and I wondered if I could find a way to take all of them on a hike like this closer to home.
By the time I left the wetlands area, the sky had become cloudy, giving the landscape a distinctly gothic atmosphere. This was very fitting for the climax of the entire trail: the titular Hell’s Point. It was raining again when I reached the first of the 84 stairs and carefully made my way to the top. At this point in the trail, I could have been forgiven for thinking that it was the middle of summer; very few fall colors could be seen from the top of the treeline. I ducked back into the shelter of the trees, and headed on for the last challenge of my silly little hike.
Trail 9, the “rugged” trail, ended up being suspiciously easy. There were a few hills–nothing compared to the grueling Quarry Challenge 5k I had completed a few weeks prior–and all of them had “stairs” helpfully provided by our friends, the trees, whose roots offered support for any hikers. St. Francis, I thought, would call them Brother or Sister Tree, offering them kinship. Last year Madonna read Braiding Sweetgrass, and in the Haudenosaunee Thanksgiving Address, there was also a part in which speakers gave thanks for the trees. I thanked our friends the trees for their help summiting the hills, and went on my way. Later on, in front of the CCC Stone Dam, I saw a bench with a plaque that read, “I Am At Home Among the Trees – J. R. R. Tolkein.” It felt fitting for this trail, and if the bench had been dryer, I would have been tempted to stop and sit a spell. But as it was, my hiking boots were starting to hurt, and I was ready to start winding my way back to the Nature Center.
I wandered off of Trail 9 and ended up at Lake Lonidaw, which was named for Simon Pokagon’s wife; the plaque informed me that the lake had an Anishinaabemowin name, Ogimawkwe Mitigwaki, queen of the woods. I recognized the word kwe, which means “woman” or “female.” I wondered if, in the language of the people who had lived here and who had been forced out, lakes were considered animate or inanimate–the grammatical hallmark of Anishinaabemowin. I liked the idea of a body of water being both female and alive.
In the end, I don’t know how long it took me to complete the eight miles of my silly little walk. I deliberately didn’t look at my watch, and as I walked, I felt time slipping away. I was in the moment, certainly, but a part of me was also in the past–remembering my childhood at Pokagon twenty years ago, wondering what the land looked like when Simon Pokagon was born in 1830, and trying to imagine the landscape as it would have looked when glaciers reigned supreme and Hell’s Point was the closest spot to sea level. At one point, when I felt reasonably alone and slightly loopy from walking, I shouted, “Nanabozho!” and felt the familiar prickle between my shoulders that signals someone has spotted me. Ever the trickster, though, he remained hidden. But I had done my part, and greeted the god who gave us so much; I reminded him he was not forgotten.
When I returned to the Nature Center, tired and triumphant, I was recorded as the thirty-second participant to complete the challenge this November. As a reward, I received a sticker that says “I Hiked–I Survived” and bragging rights for eternity. My mom brought my car back (she had borrowed it, as just because I was choosing to strand myself in the woods didn’t mean she had to) and we headed to Potowatomi Inn to greet some other ghosts and remind them that they were not forgotten, either.
In the morning, when my mom and I went for a short sunrise walk, I saw several crows, all calling loudly to each other. “Yes, I see you,” I said, which I always do when I see crows. “You are so beautiful!”
Nanabozho usually takes the form of a raven or a coyote. But maybe this time he came as a crow, so he could talk to me in the old language. Or maybe it was just a crow, chattering to me about their plans for the day because they knew I’d reply. Either way, St. Francis would greet it as Brother Crow. And either way, the crow would still be beautiful.
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