Every once in a while a breeze finds its way to our shady lane. It gives a chill down the back of my neck as my biology makes the most of evaporative cooling. But the shade will not be with us much longer. Up ahead we can start to see the greening of the roadway accompanied by the clear blue sky above. The grassy road suddenly turns to oil treated gravel as we intersect a country road. We might have driven here and begun our trek from this point if only there was a reasonable place to park. But that's okay; at least we know where we are.

 Twenty yards to the east is a concrete bridge. Two lane, gravel surface and cast concrete side railings that almost look too fancy to be this deep in the forest. I'm pretty sure that the creek beneath the bridge loosely marks the boundary for the eastern edge of Hoosier National Forest. I guess it’s fitting to gussy-up the entrance to federal land. Could be worse - could be a guard shack. (I love this country.)

 That same structure, which I see as some sort of sudo-monument, Richey apparently sees as one more fixture in the playground that is this countryside. Such that as we approach the bridge, he jogs 3 or 4 steps toward the side railing and bounds the 30 inches or so to land - pretty as you please - atop the concrete balance beam. With hiking stick across his chest presumably for balance he continues on across at a normal pace. Not a care in the world. Now if I was to try that, I just know things would not be so nonchalant. No - this 30Lb backpack would shift just as I lit atop the rail or I'd jump up 28 inches instead of 30 - either way I'd end up as a big pile of chalant 20 feet below in the bed of that creek. Just the thought of it brings another chill to the back of my neck but for other biological reasons.

In a manner more befitting my sanity, I move to the edge of the bridge. Looking out and down at the creek below, I can hardly believe my eyes. We fully expected the water level to be down, but I did not really expect the depth to be absolute zero! The creek bed is bone dry. What was once it's muddy bottom is now a dry, reticulated skin of earth. If it wasn't for the high volume of rocky blemishes and its khaki color you would think you where looking onto the Salt-flats of Bonneville. This is weird. I've been fishing in this creek. Where are the fish? What once was a bit of an oasis for our previous treks into this area now appears to be completely devoid of life. But wait... what was that movement over at the base of the bridge to my right? It appears to be almost humanoid! Yes it is. It's Richey 'The Reckless' already trampling the surface of this strange new world.

 

"Hey Mike, get down here. This is cool!", was all the encouragement I needed. I cross over the bridge and negotiate the rocky embankment beside the bridge down to where Richey is poking and prodding the dry, cracked mud. This stuff is really hard. Using my hiking stick as a pry bar and a rock as a fulcrum, I pop up a flake of this stuff. Picking up the half inch thick plate made of dirt I am amazed how really tough it is. It's almost like adobe or something. This would make a good clay pigeon for target practice. If there where a body of water here I would instinctively give this thing a skip - but that's irony for ya. 

"Oh man, this smells like crap!" exclaims Richey while holding his specimen of mud cake to his nose. "How's it taste?" I ask. He ignores. The bottom side is dark gray and apparently made of sewage. The hole it left in the creek bed is also dark gray and moist. There is a stench coming from the hole that seems to suggest that it is time to get going.

 

To be continued...

    There is a very good possibility that today was Richesnay. All the signs were there. The sudden blowing, swirling, voluminous, late winter snowfall that surely marks the coming of spring.

    While I am certainly not one to scoff at Punxsutawney Phil's prediction this year of 6 more weeks of Winter. It would be far less likely for me to turn my back on the perennial wisdom of my Grandfather. While the rest of the world seems to make bank on a woodchuck's shadow, yea or nay, we will put our faith in Richesnay.

    Richesnay does not boast the forecasting precision of "Grounhogs Day" nor does it exhibit the degree of universal acceptance. For Grandpa at least - and for us by extension - it is a truism. It is just one of those things that you have to see to believe. As far as my family is concerned, we have seen it enough to believe.

    The truism - simply put - goes something like this: "We can't have Spring until the Richesnay." If my Mother's acuteness to the conditions that constitute Richesnay are anywhere near those of my dearly departed Grandfather then we should fully expect Spring to be just around the corner. While this prediction lacks certitude it's always been good enough for us.  
   
    I awoke to freshly fallen snow this morning, on the order of 5 inches (give or take.) A blustery dusting through the course of yesterday ushered this snowfall in. However it was this morning's telephone call  from my Mother that brought with it the promise of Spring. "Do you think that this could be Richesnay?” she asks. "Oh my goodness, how could I have forgotten to be watching for it", I thought to myself.

    Richesnay. What a curious word. This word is not to be found in any dictionary I have consulted. In fact I was truly amazed to find no mention of it in any of several Internet search engine queries. If Webster was one of our clan he might have entered the following:

Richesnay [RIH-ches-nay]- The sudden blowing, swirling, voluminous, late winter snowfall that surely marks the coming of spring.

    But alas, could it be that the existence - much less the origin - of this event is destined to be lost forever to the passage of time? Is my family the last remaining people to adhere to this tradition? Or are we just so far removed from the center of the population of those that recognize this day that it merely seems that we are the only ones. What is the chance that somewhere out there is a village that finds this the perfect excuse for a big ol' barn dance or some sort of hootenanny at least? Do they get together and build a bonfire because here comes Spring? I would really like to know!

    Now if we were to ask my Grandfather about the meaning or origins of Richesnay he would tell us little more than we have already discussed. He would explain that this is how it was presented to him and his ability to discern the signs were honed through a lifetime of observation assisted by the instruction of those with a similar understanding. One would certainly think that folklore with a heritage dating back generation upon generation would show up on the research "radar" in some form or fashion. However, this does not appear to be the case.

    Groundhog Day - perhaps one of the closer related observances - can trace its roots down several pathways.  Kimberly & Albrecht Powell's, Your Guide to Pittsburgh begins to explain it as follows:
   German tradition holds that if the sun comes out on Candlemas, the precursor to Groundhog Day, the hedgehog (or badger) will see its shadow and six more weeks of winter will follow. When German settlers came to Pennsylvania they continued this tradition, using groundhogs instead of hedgehogs to predict the weather.

    I am sure there are probably those that could enter in to an in-depth scientific discussion as to the phenomenon that have led to this admittedly odd tradition of Groundhog shadow watching. However to the casual observer the whole thing seems to lack a certain logical credibility. Not to knock Groundhogs day, I'm just looking for answers. It is in this quest for answers that I have begun to speculate on the science behind Richesnay. I even feel reasonably confident that I am coming close to finding the root. I am hoping that this post may result in further discovery and confirmation of the veracity of our family tradition.

    In an investigation of this term, I have to allow that what we now know as Richesnay could well be a bastardization of another word or words to describe an idea. It is the simple promise that springtime is near at hand that has led to the survival/perpetuation of Richesnay as we have come to know it. Unlike the esoteric connection between the shadow of a hedgehog and the changing of the seasons, Richesnay has always carried the air of "as-a-matter-of-fact"ness. I think it is because we are using the weather to tell us about the weather we have always accepted that this is true because it has been shown to be true.

    My Grandpa was of Dutch extraction. A little bit of sleuthing words has revealed that the Dutch word for snow is sneeuw [pronounced snay-oo]. Further- the word snee [pronounced snay] means slice. I find it interesting that we immediately get our connection to snow. I feel like the investigation of the Dutch angle just might bear fruit. I am additionally rewarded to find out that in the lexicon of the Bawlmerese (Baltimore Natives), snow is quite often pronounced snay. I have already found enough information to be convinced that the "snay" portion of our word refers to snow. This leaves the first part or the "Riche" section. Now I'm no linguist but I'm not ready to assign the French word for rich to this portion of the word. In thinking of words that may be plugged into this puzzle I look at Rich snow, Riches snow, Witches snow, Wrenches snow, and Ridges snow. Of these word pairs it is Ridges and Snow that yeald clues that come closest to our discussion.

    So what is it about ridges and snow? I instinctively feel that something about the interaction of ridges and snow is conducive to weather prognostication. A recurring property that appears in searching this word pair is regarding snow cornices (the snow that gathers in overhanging piles on the lee side of a ridge.) So I am left wondering; when springtime is near do these cornices break away, look as though they have been sliced? (Remembering the Dutch "snee" for slice) So..."We can't have Spring until the Richesnay" may actually be saying, "We can't have Spring until the ridges slice." How about simply "ridges snow." "We can't have Spring until the ridges snow." To me this seems to make a lot of sense. Is it possible that when Springtime is approaching the March winds blow the snow from the ridges into the surrounding countryside resulting in "the sudden blowing, swirling, voluminous, late winter snowfall that surely marks the coming of spring." The application of Occam's razor - based on the information I have found available - favors the latter.

    The simple fact of the matter is that we really don't know the origins, beyond our family tree, of this phenomenon. We are curious to discover if there is some broader recognition of what we have always known as "Richesnay." It is my sincerest hope that by circulating this information I will have contributed to the continued survival of Richesnay. This is important to me because after all, we can't have Spring without it.

-mike

... So it's down the old fire road once again.

    After a short trek we come to our first fork in the road and in accordance with our plan we take the eastward path. This too is an old grass covered fire road. Only the faintest of hints suggest hikers have recently ventured before us. The two trampled parallel paths that form the trail were no doubt blazed many years ago by park service vehicles. There is no sign of recent vehicular traffic though, as the ground between the paths stands three feet tall with dried grass and brittle stalks of Queen Ann’s Lace. On either side of this road is the greedy underbrush that longs to fill in this gap. It's goal would likely be achieved where it not for the persistent erosion from the occasional bipedal wonderers, such as Richey and myself. The evolutionary leaders in the race to bridge this gap in the woods tend toward the Sumacs and Ivy bunch. But a strong showing is made by Sassafras and Goldenrod with just enough New York Ironweed to prove adept adaptation.

    Of course the grand prize for bridging the gap in the woods - on this day - would have to go to the spiders. Every so often you could tell that you were breaking through a carefully constructed trap. Were it not for our enormous size and strength we may have found our journey cut short by these creatures. Monsters intent on piercing our flesh to inject their poison that would dissolve our insides to produce their life-sustaining beverage. Even with the knowledge of dominion over these octo-peds, the feeling of a web brushing across the face still feels creepy. So creepy in fact that one finds that extending ones arm forward while clutching a 5ft hiking stick is an agreeable solution to warding off such attempts on ones life.

    As we hike down these side by side paths we notice that one of these paths seems to be more traveled than the other. Inevitably the side with the fewest spider webs is the side chosen by us big bad hikers. So as we tramp on - single file - down our 2ft aisle, cut down one side of a 12ft wide gap in the woods we are humbled with the knowledge that the other road has been closed by the tiniest of creatures. The web of the spider is now acting as a suture to close this wound that was inflicted so many years ago. Let the healing begin. Let the forest regrow.

    The path here tends toward the downhill at an ever-increasing rate. What began as nearly flat and level, easy walking is now starting to become even easier. We can see up ahead that there is a bend in the road. We know from our previous visits here that the road is doing this to avoid a very steep grade by heading south to take a more gradual approach. It will cut back north in a quarter of a mile or so - taking the easy route - to meet us at the bottom of that hill. Since we are free individuals and not governed by the same rules that must be followed by fire roads through the woods we opt to forego the gradual and experience the more direct approach.

    Now if you have ever seen someone slip, fall and tumble down a steep incline while equipped with pack and frame you will attest that it is not a pretty site. It is that very image that instills genuine caution on the part of we adventurers as - with trusty staff and step - we negotiate the descent. As any large undertaking is best tackled by divisions; from tree to targeted tree we work or way down the hundred feet (or so) hill like a couple of balls in a pachinko game (only slower.) The payout being a well-deserved break when we reach the base of the hill.

    Sure enough, when we got down, the road was there waiting. Since we were deep in the woods, the road had shed its grassy Mohawk in favor of the more mossy, dirty, Telly Savalas look. But we knew it was the same road. The same road that would lead us to Salt Creek. The same road that would lead us to our story.

To Be Continued...

   I always claimed that I new Hoosier National Forest like I knew the back of my hand. What I should have said was that I new Terril Ridge (in Hoosier National Forest) like I knew the back of my hand. However the truth would have sounded more like, "okay who's got the map!"

    Me and Richey did see alot of that area though. We did tons of overnighters and weekenders that had us trampsing all over that countryside. Flanked by Monroe Reservior on the West and North, Salt Creek to the East and to the South was the road we came in on - there was no way we where going to get lost. Sure we'd get misplaced on occasion but then again, that is what we usually tried to do.

    Our usual destination was a spot we called Greenbow Ridge. We named it that because we marked the point where you left the trail with a green nylon ribbon tied around a tree. (I'd be surprized if that ribbin was not still there - even after lo these 25 years.) On this ridge was a great plateau on which to set camp and when the leaves were off the trees you'd get a fairly nice view of the Lake.

    This particular hike finds us in late summer. We have been through a pretty long drought so the depth of Monroe Reservior is at a record low. Warnings have been issued against open burning. We have several cans of sterno so we can boil our water without the need for a campfire. We drive the 7 mile dirt road to the Hickory Ridge Fire Tower where we park the car - as always. Keeping true to the tradition - our hike begins with climbing the 123 steps to the top of the tower to watch the sun finish rising. With the threat of fire we take it as our civic duty to scan the area to look for smoke. Thankfully we see none. What we do see is forest for as far as the eye can see. With binoculars we would be able pick out far away towns with water towers and smoke stacks and such. Since we have no aid to vision with us today we look out over the rolling, hazy hills and pointing in the direction of Greenbow Ridge we decide to "get this show on the road."

    Last night we decided we would investigate Salt Creek. We figure it should be nearly dried up due to the drought and this might open some areas that are normally not very accessible. Maybe if we are lucky we can make it all the way to the foot of Greenbow Ridge by way of the creek bed. That will sure save a lot of hiking up and down hills and give us more time to explore the eastern side of Salt Creek. Maybe we'll discover some old foundations of buildings from the days when this area was farmed - the days before the reservoir existed.
   
    We've found them before. Like that old stone fireplace and chimney we came upon a couple of years ago while cutting cross-country on another of our "deep woods" short cut manuevours. Smack-dab in the middle of no-freakin'-where stood that stone obelisk as a testament to a bygone age. After just a little scratching around in the dirt, the amount of charcoal and cut nails suggested the fate of the cabin that surely accompanied this overbuilt appendage. If only we had a map with us that day. We could have marked the spot where we made this discovery. But that's okay; we have a pretty good idea where it is. Funny thing is... in the last 4 or 5 times we set out to find it again, it never seems to be where we thought we left it. It's bound to show up someday. I mean it didn't look like it was going anywhere, any time soon.

    So it's down the old fire road once again. The foundations from the buildings that used to accompany the lookout tower have their stories to tell - as we hike on by them - but we've listened enough to those same old stories, today we want a new story. Today we are going to go out and get our own story. From where is this story to come? We have no idea. When will we acquire this story? We don't yet know. But by golly by the time we pitch tents tonight we will have one.

To Be Continued...

http://www.fs.fed.us/r9/hoosier/docs/hickory.htm
http://www.topozone.com
http://www.theclimber.net/blogs/madmike/

Anyone who knows me would ask, "Why are you writing a blog on a mountain climber website?"

Fair question.

 I mean, here I am situated in the farmlands of Indiana. I would have to drive several hours just to get to some foothills. Honestly - If I did the road trip to those foot hills I would be far more likely to take pictures than to take measures to ascend.
 
 Now, it hasn’t always been like this. Let's just say I'm no spring chicken (the kids - grand and otherwise - would liken me more to an old crow) but I do dig the outdoors. While I have never ventured into mountain climbing, I have always envied those with the opportunity and wherewithal to go for it. I have done some cliff rappelling and some rather treacherous free climbing (inside caves for the most part) so I do know the taste of dirt mixed with sweat and the feeling of stepping backwards off a cliff with a rope in my hand and a lump in my throat.
 
 My adventures have generally come in the following forms: Hiking, Backpacking, Camping, Fishing, Caving, Scuba Diving, Sailing and Kite Flying to name those that most readily jump to mind. When it comes to this mountain climbing business, I can only say that I appreciate the metaphor - and who among the living does not?
 
 While my adventures have not always been epic, the memories of them are grand. As I ponder the things I could blog on about, I am struck with the notion that nothing I have involved myself in - in the great outdoors - could be classified as mundane. In fact, as I mentally review my exploits I am faced with one recurring fact. The adventure is much more memorable when things didn't quite go as planned. So I'm thinking it is probably those misadventures I remember most.
 
 It is those misadventures I intend to share with you in this space.

Stay Tuned...

Welcome to the newest member of the contributing members.

Hope you enjoy !

Ron