“There’s a place I want to show you,” Matt says, first thing. We drive out of town, out among the rolling hillsides. We’re headed south, past the point where the glaciers stopped carving the land flat. Even if you don’t know that the glaciers are the reason, you can feel it happen. Gradually the earth gains texture and we’re no longer surrounded by fields and endless flatness but rolling hills and lush forest.
About twenty minutes later, Matt drives us into the state park and winds along the roads to a pull-off near the start of a trailhead.
The woods seem sparse. Bare-limbed trees, whitish air, low scrubby bushes with frosted leaves.
“We’re really hiking?” I ask. “It’s like forty degrees.”
“Downright balmy,” Matt says. “Your face. You look like I’m trying to take you out in a polar vortex.”
“My people come from Georgia,” I say. “We like things warm.”
“Trust me. I won’t let you freeze.”
“Fine.” We’re here now. I’m committed. At least it’s something different and unexpected.
We climb out of the car. Okay, it’s not that cold.
Matt hefts a large backpack out of the back seat and hands me a thermos to carry. “Let’s climb.”