45 minutes to our northeast is the Susquehanna River, which forms the border between Maryland and Delaware. One of the great rivers of this region, the Susquehanna is the longest river on America's Atlantic coast. Its branches drain from the mountains of upstate New York and western Pennsylvania, forming a mighty waterway that flows through Pennsylvania and Maryland to the head of the Chesapeake; it was the ancient Susquehanna River Valley that became the Chesapeake Bay when the ice caps melted and the ocean invaded, separating mainland Maryland from the Delmarva Peninsula ten thousand years ago.
On the southern (Maryland) bank of the river estuary is the Susquehanna State Park, with its network of excellent forest and riverside trails. We have hiked here before, most recently last Thanksgiving. We come here to not only admire the river, but to pay tribute to living history - two mighty trees (an American Beech and a White Oak) that date back to the American Revolution and may have been among the progenitors of their kind on the Atlantic seaboard.
On a cool October morning, the week before our Maine trip (thus marking the last Mid-Atlantic hike of our 2015 fall season), Jane and I drove up the I-95 and parked at the old water mill beside the river. We watched the sunrise color the treetops, the rocky riverbanks, and the placid river below. We walked northwest along an abandoned railroad paralleling the river, then along a footpath. A few motorboats hummed from the distant shore, carrying fishermen we couldn't quite see. Turning away from the river, the trail leads us down a wide fire road and past an old flint tower - also from the days of the Revolutionary War. Beyond the tower and across a two-lane road bridge, we turn onto a uphill path that leads into the forests south of the river.
Autumn is present in the air, and there is some gold in the canopies, but most of what greets the eyes is still green and lush. This is how mid-October looks in the Mid-Atlantic. We rarely see the brilliant flames of autumn that characterize this time in New England, but we gain in duration what we sacrifice in intensity. Fall comes more gradually here. If you neglect to hit the trail one weekend, the woods will still be where you left them. If you forget the next, then you may be left wondering what happened. Jane and I will be away next weekend, so we are trying not to make that mistake. We climb up the hillside overlooking the river, following the green trail blazes as they curve, almost hidden, through the woods. The treetops are still thick with leaves so that the sunbeams seem to reach us photon by photon, in brilliant flashes of gold light. We've only hiked here before in the late fall and winter, so both of us are quite astounded at how little we recognize the place, how little we can see through the trees.
Which is why we are both struck speechless when we round the corner and see a familiar friend. Jane walks ahead and I take the photo below; the grandfather of American Beech trees, sending its ancient branches up over a hundred feet, like Atlas holding up an absolute amphitheatre of forest canopy. We commune; walk up, touch its bark, gaze upward without any intention or hope of seeing the top. Then we move on through the forest to the south and west. We take a side trail to see the White Oak - equally tall and terribly beautiful - before returning eastward along a farm trail which takes us through a series of hay meadows. After 8 miles of walking, we return to the car and set off back toward Baltimore around noon on a Saturday. There is usually traffic.
