by: Matt Averill
The October day was cold, gray, and
blustery. I loaded my truck anyway with my backpack
and drove from Zionsville to Salem, Indiana, where at
a gas station I found directions to Delaney Park, the
northernmost access to the Knobstone Trail (KT). The
KT is the longest continuous hiking trail in Indiana-
a total of 58 miles passing through a rugged, forested
part of Indiana highland known as the Knobstone
Escarpment. The trail intermittently follows the crest
of this escarpment, rising to heights of 500 feet
above surrounding forests and farmlands before
plunging down to the bottom again, many times over.
From Delaney Park near Plattsburg to Deam Lake State
Recreation Area southwest of Henryville, the trail
passes through a corridor of State forest and Nature
Conservancy land that is never short on scenery.
The quest began after I read an
article in Outside Magazine that touted the KT as
Indiana's best hike. As it turned out, that fall was
an ideal time of an ideal year for me to get away, so
I challenged myself to hike the trail from end to end.
The challenge turned into an obsession and I quickly
probed for any resource that might help me plan my
attack. Unfortuntately, I didn't find much information
on the trail, excepting a crude depiction of the route
in book from the Zionsville Library. Using the sketch
as my only planning guide, I chose to hike a northerly
route along the trail from the Deam Lake trailhead to
the Delaney Park trailhead- a distance of
approximately 45 miles.
The opportunity to hike the trail
arose in late October when I had a couple of days off
work and forecasters predicted a break in the
unseasonably cold weather. Because the decision to go
was a spontaneous one (the weather was "iffy" until
the end) I told no one of my plans, and in the course
of two hours organized my backpack, gear, and other
essentials... and threw them into the Jeep only
minutes before hitting the road.
Day 1: Upon arriving at Delaney
Park, I was surprised to find that the park office,
restaurant, campground, and trailhead were completey
empty. This presented a large problem: I wanted to
leave my truck at Delaney Park and catch a ride to the
Deam Lake trailhead, but nobody was around to give me
a ride. I searched futily for someone who would like
to "earn a buck" and drive me to the trailhead. At the
deserted restaurant I found a pay phone and summoned a
Salem-based taxi to pick me up [Salem is the
nearest "town" 10 miles away].
With the taxi on the way and my
truck parked safely in the parking lot, I changed
clothes and made final preparations for an extended
trek through the woods (4 days?). My pack was loaded
with nearly 50 pounds of equipment and supplies
including a tent, sleeping bag and pad, stove and
fuel, food, cooking utensils, water filter, camera,
dry clothes, and sundries. In addition, I carried
three quarts of water because I read that stream
valleys along the KT were notorious for being bone
dry.
The taxi arrived in the form of a
white Lincoln Continental. In the driver's seat was a
man who looked (amazingly) like President Abraham
Lincoln. I chuckled to myself at the irony as I threw
my pack in the backseat and climbed in. The driver,
who was also the owner of the company, had ferrying
people around the Salem area for over a decade.
Figuring he could lend me some useful information
about the KT, I jumped at the chance to ask him about
it.
"Don't really know much about it,"
he said dryly, reaching for another cigarette from a
pack. "I once picked up a fella over near Elk Creek.
Said he was hiking to get away from his problems and
all. Other'n that, I haven't met anyone who's been on
it." At this point I began to question whether the
trail actually existed. What I mean is that certainly
a nearby resident who has driven people all over these
hills for so many years would have heard of the KT! He
continued talking about the area... "They say there's
a panther or two that lives up'n the knobs. Best watch
yerself." Hmm... Panthers, in Indiana?
Nearly an hour later, after several
missed turns (my idea) and a coffee stop (not my
idea), we reached the trailhead. Like the other
trailhead there wasn't a car or another person in
sight. I stepped out of the Lincoln and shouldered my
pack, thanking Abraham for the ride. Talking on the CB
as he threw the car into reverse, gravel flew and the
man in the Lincoln sped away to pick up another paying
customer. Ahead of me was a sign that read "Knobstone
Trail."
I entered the forest and a
transformation took place. No longer was I in a car,
at work, or even thinking about much. I was on the
trail, alone.
The cold, blustery wind shook loose
an endless rain of yellow leaves, blanketing the
forest floor with color. The timing of my hike
couldn't have been better. Trees of many sizes receded
into the background, disappearing behind splashes of
fall color and a blizzard of falling leaves. But the
newly fallen leaves, recent rain, and low foot traffic
made the trail hard to follow. It was tricky picking
out the trail. Before long I discovered that I was
only able to find my way by searching ahead for white
rectangular blazes which are intermittently (very
intermittently) painted on large trees to the right
side of the trail. This, too, proved to be tricky
because I found that there was a fungus that grew on
many of the trees and looked very much like the
blazes. It took a while, but soon I learned to
distinguish the blaze from the fungus and picked out a
path through the leaves.
I made very good time that evening,
hiking 2 miles before setting up camp at the top of a
hill near Bowery Creek. Although no water was flowing,
the gravel creek bed held large pockets of clear,
fresh water, which was a good omen for the rest of the
trip because I found that water was plentiful in the
valleys along the trail. The cool, bug-less night
allowed me to keep my tent flap open while I cooked
and read by candlelight. I fell asleep amid the
pitter-patter of leaves striking the tent and
surrounding trees on their free fall to the forest
floor.
Day 2: When the day broke, orange
sunbeams pierced the forest at a low angle, streaking
past my tent and enlightening the golden trees with a
radiant glow. Bierstadt couldn't have done better. I
rose slowly, quaffed a high-powered cup of coffee, and
broke camp. By the time I hit the trail, the sun was
blazing from a blue sky to the east, promising a warm,
sun-laden day.
At 9 o'clock I was plodding forward
through the forest in a newly acquired rhythm. As I
rounded the top of a low hill, enjoying the solitude,
I was startled as I encountered two teen-agers dressed
in camouflage. It was hunting season, and my heart
sunk deeply (scenes of Deliverance). Grateful that
they hadn't mistaken me for a deer as I crunched my
way up the hill, I greeted them pleasantly and asked
of their luck. Equipped with razor-sharp arrows that
glistened in the morning sunshine, the boys apparently
had more on their minds than speaking with a hiker.
They instead gave a simple nod as I passed their
"spot". By then I proceeded without hesitation or
fear, fully accepting their activity and trusting that
they were responsible hunters. Wearing a backpack
filled with very dense materials provided further
piece of mind.
After a lunch of Ramen Noodles and
gorp I pondered the oddities of my journy: The empty
trailheads, the taxi-driver and his panther story, and
the silent hunters. Yes, it was strange- but at the
same time I was glad the trail wasn't overrun with
hikers clambering from end to end, as I was. Solitude
and nature go well together, and that was why I was
there. The trail crossed a road and dropped into a
valley followed by a steep rise that led me into
another area of dense forest. In the distance, through
the leaves and trees, I saw a bright red object that
appeared to be lying on the trail. Figuring it was
something to do with hunting, I approached it
cautiously. The helium-filled balloon had lost its
loft and was now anchored to the ground with strands
of yarn tied to some index cards. It was a strange
sight in the middel of the forest! The cards
proclaimed that students of Castle Junior High School
in Newburgh, IN (nearly 80 miles away) had released
the balloon the previous day in celebration of "red
ribbon week". Delighted that students from a distant
school were thoughtful enough to send me a message, I
tied the balloon to my backpack and continued on the
trail, smiling.
The temperature soared to 70
degrees and I quickly became drenched with sweat. The
trail repeatedly rose to high, knobby peaks followed
by plunges into deep valleys in an area labled on the
map as Bartle Knobs. I was walking on a giant backbone
of rock complete with steep drop-offs and splendid
views on either side. Working my way along the Knobs I
occasionally stopped at a break in the trees to gaze
far below at grain silos glinting in the sunlight. A
comfortable, flat log caught my eye and I decided to
relax and have a second lunch. After the break, the
trail plunged into a deep valley and my mind began to
wander more than usual. Although I was clearly
following a well-beaten trail, I hadn't seen a blaze
in some time. I became mildly alarmed and began to
backtrack. Relieved to find a blaze after some
distance, I continued on the real trail, happy
to be making progress again. After a mile more I found
a comfortable, flat log to rest on. It was the SAME
comfortable, flat log that I had stopped at earlier! I
screamed obscenities at the forest. But it was of
course all my fault. I had followed a side trail,
neglecting to keep sight of the blazes. From that time
forward, keeping track of the blazes became a
necessary routine.
The trail dropped very steeply to
cross State Road 160 and thereafter climbed back up
into the forest. I hiked another mile or so when I was
startled by an explosion of movement in the leaves 20
feet ahead of me. Four wild turkeys had burst into
flight from a resting place along the trail. I was
excited because they were the first wild animals
(excepting squirrels) that I had seen that day. It was
good luck. Later that day I saw a skunk, deer, and a
walking stick- I was not alone after all.
The trail led me into a deeply
incised valley where I found much needed water and a
nice place to camp on a soft bed of leaves. I cooked
some spicy chili in the cool evening air and read
until dark. After sunset the forest came alive with
sound. A deer was rummaging in the immediate area,
snorting loudly, perhaps to tell me that I was camped
in his spot. I got out of my tent, and in the
moonlight snorted back. The deer, startled, darted
into night to bother me no more.
Day 3: I woke to a chilly morning
and packed up the tent. After a mile or two of hiking
I passed the New Chapel Trailhead and welcomed the
relatively flat section of trail that followed. The
trail was gradually changing character, from a dry
backbone-like quality to a terrain of lush, broadly
sculpted valleys. I followed the blazes to the brink
of a deeply carved chasm known as North Branch Valley.
Here the trail plunged into a small canyon following
steep, natural switchbacks. I stood at the brink for
awhile watching thousands of yellow leaves spiraling
downward into the lush valley below. The sound of the
leaves hitting the trees, and each other, was
mesmerizing. They landed wherever the breeze and their
aerodynamics took them- in the stream, on mossy green
logs, on the branches of ferns, or on the leafy forest
floor. I liked this valley more than any other I was
to encounter.
The trail descended into one final
valley before reaching the Leota trailhead. Here a
father and son on a day hike approached. I gave a
friendly hello and they acknowledged with what else
but a nod. I also passed a lively boyscout troop and a
couple of high school students in that mile of trail,
all of whom were hiking their way south. Once the
traffic passed, I labored up Vic Swain Hill which
afforded marvelous views of rugged terrain to the west
and north. At this point the trail was becoming
steeper and more challenging. I traversed a couple
more ridges and valleys and found a water source at
Monroe Hollow where I made camp. Exhausted, I made a
quick dinner of rice and vegetables and fell asleep
before sunset. After dark, I was awoke suddenly by a
nearby burst of coyote howls. I shot up with a racing
heart not knowing where I was or what I heard. The
cries continued. It would be impossible to sleep with
such a ruckus, so I employed the same strategy I used
with last night's deer. I howled back, and they shut
up.
Day 4: Having slept well, I rose
before dawn, made coffee, and packed the tent by
candlelight. It was warm and humid morning and I began
the final leg of the hike with the help of a
flashlight to find the blazes. Progress was slow
because in the dark I was mistaking the fungus blazes
for the real blazes. Things became easier in dawn's
light when the morning opened to reveal a gray, cloudy
sky. A warm drizzle began to fall that felt so
refreshing that I decided not to wear raingear (this
turned out to be a mistake!). After rounding the
shores of a small reservoir, I passed the Elk Creek
trailhead which marked only 15 miles to go. I was
determined to finish by late afternoon. But the hills
seemed like mountains and the going became slow as the
trail turned to mud on many of the steep, uphill
sections. The warm drizzle gave way to an icy downpour
which quickly drenched everything I had on my back and
chilled me to the bone. I put on my raincoat and a
fleece hat for warmth and stepped out onto the edge of
State Road 56. A stream of cars zoomed past, the
people inside staring at me with confused expressions.
I imagined what they were thinking... I bet that guy's
miserable! If so, they were only half right.
Physically I was miserable, but mentally I was joyful.
After all, I was accomplishing something that was, in
my mind, remarkable. The rain was just another aspect
to my journey, a different sensory experience on the
KT. The last vehicle in the stream of traffic was
rusty blue truck. As it passed, two bearded men inside
saluted me with beer cans. Without giving much thought
I saluted them back with my water bottle, crossed the
highway, and ducked back into the forest.
The rain was relentless and I
couldn't see the blazes through my steamed-up wet
glasses. But at least my feet were dry, amazingly. The
trail became more irritating with mile after mile of
steep, slippery slopes which in places were hazardous.
Water eventually found it's way into my boots and I
slogged onward with sore, squishy feet. At each road
crossing I found my location on the map to assure
myself that I was making progress. The trail then
dropped into a beautiful valley of large pine trees
and meandered among them on a soft bed of needles. I
met a woman, her daughter, and their dog, all wearing
backpacks, who were on an overnight trek to Elk Creek.
We commented on the rain and they warned me of some
mud I would encounter a mile ahead. At this point the
thought of encountering more mud just didn't phase me.
I continued along the trail and the pines gave way to
a deciduous forest that occupied a dramatic valley
with a deeply incised, meandering stream. The trail
climbed out of the valley and crossed a road where I
met two more hikers on an overnight trip. They gave me
advice on which direction to take toward Delaney Park
because here the trail branched into a loop trail. I
thanked them and chose the shorter but more difficult
route. The rain turned back to drizzle and I slogged
onward, startling a quail (a trail quail!), which in
turn startled me as it took fast flight in the
direction I was headed.
I emerged at Delaney Park sore,
soaked, but overjoyed to find my truck and a dry
change of clothes. Although I was gone only three
nights, the miles took their physical toll and I was
anxious to get home and relax. Mentally, however, I
felt stronger than ever. Throughhiking was a challenge
and an exposure to the natural diversity and scenic
beauty of Indiana's forests. Indiana's best hike
offered a wealth of interesting characters, beautiful
scenery, plenty of animals, and a tremendous physical
challenge. Free maps of the KT can be obtained from
the Division of Outdoor Recreation, 402 W. Washington
St., Room W271, Indianapolis, IN 46204.
© 1996 by Matt
Averill Zionsville,
IN