While looking for the falls we found a hiking trail that looked intriguing, so of course we followed it. It lead to an incredible overlook with mountain after mountain as far as the eye could see. Massive rocks, looking as if they could give way at any moment, jutted out beyond the safety of the rails enclosing the observation platform. So of course we clambered over for a photo op or two and to test the theory that having been there for untold centuries our meager weight would not send those mega boulders crashing to the valley below. Happily, or theory was sound.
The falls were spectacular. I couldn't help but let my mind wander to what it must have been like for the first person who saw them, hopefully not from a canoe at the top. The steps leading down (all two-hundred-plus)to enjoy the up-close view had been carefully planned and did not distract from the beauty. Complaints were overheard about the strenuous effort required to hike to and from and I contemplated the serious lack of pioneer stamina in this modern age. No way any of these present-day softies could hike ten miles to school in three feet of snow, uphill BOTH WAYS, and enjoy it like we had in our childhood.
We stopped for lunch at the Blackwater Falls Lodge and it was delicious. Admittedly, following our meal at the steakhouse from the night before, the bar was set low but even so, it was a good meal.
Riding in the mountains always brings a certain level of anxiety about hitting deer. They are quite stupid when it comes to crossing the road. Sometimes it seems they lay in wait until the last possible moment of safety has passed, making a headlong rush into the path of whatever poor hapless motorist is close at hand. I've hit two myself. Fortunately,for me, always from the relative safety of a vehicle. Not so fortunate for the deer.
We saw two on this day. One jumped across the road just a moment too soon for impact with the lead bike. The other was too busy eating grass alongside the road to bother with us. I jest about it but in truth, I pray about it more. Hitting an animal larger than a groundhog could be deadly for a biker, nevermind the animal he or she hits.
Physically tired but mentally rested, later in the evening we met at a table in the hotel lobby for a heated battle of Rook, a tradition we've carried on for over thirty years of vacations with these same friends. Rook is a card game one must learn to play, if only in self-defense, when living in Amish country. In our circle, it's always the women against the men, a non-destructive way to take out all our frustrations with the opposite sex.
One weekend that stands out in memory was a trip to Old Man's Cave in the Hocking Hills area of Ohio. It rained, torrentialy, most of the time. We played eighteen games of Rook, but most notably,in game after game, the women slaughtered the men. Our husbands do not remember the weekend with the same fondness as we wives. After our most recent game, on this most recent vacation, it appears the tables have turned.
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