Take a Hike: Branigin Peninsula
The sun had disappeared and the only sounds were the creatures of the woods and our bumbling footsteps. "Goddammit," I hiss as my foot strikes yet another root. I’m carrying two daypacks; the skin on my neck chafes where the straps intersect. I stumble forward blindly through the woods, walking with my head twisted behind me and my shoulders faced forward.
The reason for my blind gait is a German Shepherd named Luke, who I fear might be dying. He collapsed early on in our journey back from the lake. His owner, George (whose bag I’m carrying), has carried him over over his shoulder for the past hour.
Fortunately, Georgie stands well over 6-foot, and is built like a brick shithouse; he handles Luke with ease. Georgie has a larger-than-life personality and rarely shows signs of distress. He’s kept his cool, despite him being at the tail end of an acid trip presumably gone bad, and we've still got another hour's hike in the darkness ahead.
—
This all began as a day hike and nothing more. The trip was designed with approachability in mind. Georgie, it should be said, is an experienced hiker and traveler, having toured a large part of this country's scalable terrain, most of Colorado's 14ers, the White Mountains of New Hampshire, and the Great Smoky Mountains included. In the planning stages of our excursion (which will likely be the last chance to go out before winter arrives) however, Georgie admits that he is out of shape. He's put on weight since his prime walking days, and hasn't wandered out since a small-sized event you might have heard of *cough COVID-19* took over our lives. The idea of launching a full-blown expedition south through Kentucky dissipates. George and I both agree that a more casual trip will suit us better.
The Amy Weingartner Branigin Peninsula Preserve, as seen from above.
And so our decision is made. We will be going to the Branigin Peninsula Preserve, an inlet on the local recreational hub Lake Monroe. It looks like it’ll be a nice casual stroll through the woods.
Our other partner, Nate, is new to the activity. As Georgie and I trade experiences in the mountains (though I mostly just marvel at his tales) he listens, occasionally poking with jokes or asides of his own. As we make plans we arrive at the prospect of camping overnight, something which Nate confesses to never having done. This inspires immediate shock from Georgie; his eyes become saucers.
Nate immediately shoots down any notion of sleeping outside—he much prefers the warm confines of his apartment, he adds emphatically. While in ideal conditions I'd take Georgie's side and opt to stay overnight at a campsite, I can't help but be glad for Nate's immediate rejection of the idea. It's late October, and the low will be in the 30s that night. And I am pathetically underequipped, a result of having just moved to Indy. Our decision is made then; a day hike it shall be. What could go wrong?
—
I park at the trailhead and we exit our stagecoach, my trustworthy hand-me-down '08 Volvo. Georgie is just beginning his spiritual journey, the physiological result of a soaked bit of paper with a cartoon banana drawn on it. I do not partake, for reasons such as getting-us-the-hell-home. Though Georgie does his best to convince me otherwise; "We'll be back in, what, 10 hours?" he estimates, glancing down at his Garmin watch. "You should be good by then." I somehow disagree and decide to stick to a Hershey's bar and jar of peanut butter as my lone vice. Nate also turns down his best friend's offer, sticking to what he knows best: wax (derived from cannabis). Georgie is seemingly disappointed. My only sober companion is our canine friend Luke, who we've brought along to defend us against the Preserve’s ravenous squirrel population; and he could probably use the exercise.
Fitted with an ungainly combination of hiking, skating, and fishing gear, we disembark, ambling into the woods at a leisurely pace. Little do I suspect that our slow descent will soon leave us stranded in the dark, with two backpacks slung across my shoulders and a German Shephard on top of Georgie's, and only a bike flashlight to light our way.
—
The hike itself is pretty straightforward and free of much elevation change. When in Indiana. We have no luck fishing at our turnaround point; it appears that all of the fish in Lake Monroe are either mocking us or are actively avoiding the cannabis smell above. Or perhaps it’s the cause of some weird spiritual frequency Georgie is transmitting. No matter; we shelve our fishing gear and turn instead to propping up our hammocks.
We mostly talk shit over a late lunch, suspended in our makeshift tree perches. One time when we all manage to shut up a brief yet precious moment of silence drapes over us. The sound of the waves lapping and the wind rustling through the trees harmonizes, momentarily striking a heavenly accord. But the moment dissipates the moment a foreign noise (perhaps a fart) interrupts it. Our shit-talk resumes.
An hour passes. The sky turns a deep blue. I watch in amazement as Georgie takes a second hit from Nate's vapor rig, one of his signature wax bombs emptied from its chamber. Georgie turns yellow before he's relieved of his duty. He coughs viciously and wobbles on his feet for a second, and I'm afraid that he'll collapse. But then he just blinks and steadies himself, smiling before he resumes normal conversation. I shake my head in amazement, gently swinging in my hammock, lips smeared with chocolate.
Darkness approaches, signaling that it's time for us to leave. Luke and I wander off into the brush to relieve ourselves. Or at least I do; Luke joins anyway, though not to mark his territory. He is on the hunt.
As I straddle the trunk of a maple tree, I see Luke toying with a gathered pile of leaves. He pokes his jaw in and out of the pile snappishly, dipping down on his haunches to inspect the thing of curiosity. His focus sharpens and he pounces, jabbing aggressively at the leaves.
I finish peeing and stomp through the brush to investigate my sober partner's obsession. Just as I reach him Luke turns around and faces me, chomping down happily on something. "What are you doing?" I tease playfully. I bend over and discover his target; a toad covered in nasty warts. It is undergoing the initial stage of digestion: chewing.
"Hey!" I shout, snatching at him. But it's too late; Luke trots off to enjoy the rest of his meal.
I sigh and turn back towards our disappearing camp. My companions are readying themselves for the walk back. I claim my things and wrap our trash in a neat bundle. Luke returns gleefully, his master unaware of his midday snack. When I report his dog's behavior to him, Georgie giggles. "Did Boogins catch a froggy?" he asks, patting him on the back. Luke grins up at him.
The sun is almost gone. It colors the lake a dull-orange, reminding me of the ocean somehow. The late autumn chill invades the air. I wipe my nose against my sleeve and tighten my pack. Paraphernalia and fishing rods secured, we begin our return, Luke bouncing joyfully along the water's edge.
—
"How much further do we have," Nate complains from the rear. I huff to myself and say nothing, focusing instead on the terrain ahead.
A few times along the way we pause to rest. Georgie slides Luke gently from his shoulders, laying him flat on the ground. "Want some water, boy?" he asks gently. But Luke's already had plenty; hydration is not the issue. I unscrew my own water and have a sip. Georgie nudges Luke to his feet. "Luke," he commands in his master tone. He comes to his feet and slowly trots forward.
We feed Luke encouragement: C'mon, you got it! That's it! He lasts about 2 minutes before settling back down, panting rapid-fire and again refusing to move. "An hour ago you were fine," Georgie sighs, covered in sweat and distress. I nod curtly.
"Dude ate a frog like a savage."
Georgie shakes his head and looks down at me. "You don't think frogs are poisonous to dogs...?" I shake my head. "Doubt it." I fetch my phone and try Googling it, anticipating that I won't have cell service anyways. My suspicions are confirmed.
Georgie huffs and bends over. He straddles over Luke then grunts and hoists him up over his shoulder, like a fireman carrying an old lady. "Dude, let's go," he says urgently, stomping forward. I restart, steadying the bike light behind me to help protect Georgie—or Luke—from unseen foot traps.
We encounter no one that might offer some wisdom on our canine friend's sudden state of collapse. Luckily though George's reinforcement seems to energize Luke, and his condition improves ever-so-slightly in the final stages of our escape. About 21/2 hours after leaving the Lake, we reach the parking lot. Georgie sets down Luke and grabs him by the collar. "C'mon, Boogins," he speaks down encouragingly, grasping him by the collar and trotting alongside him. Luke manages to keep up with him.
I unlock the car and pop its finicky trunk. We fit our gear into the back of the SUV, forming a makeshift cushion for Luke to lay against. Georgie offers him food from a Tupperware he brought along; Luke turns it down and immediately lays on his side.
We pile into the car, famished and tired from the day's drama. Georgie hops beside me in the passenger seat. "Is he gonna be OK?" I ask, nodding back towards Luke. All of my worries thus far have been focused on him; the thought of a pet dying in my trunk, with its owner (maybe) still tripping on acid next to me, sends shivers down my spine.
Georgie flubs his lips. "He's just being an asshole." Given George and Luke's seemingly uncanny ability to communicate, I take his word for it. I turn the ignition and the car rumbles to life.
—
The gravel path towards the trail ends and we cruise along some woods-lined roads towards Bloomington. I yawn and glance down at my car's clock. It's 9PM (Even though it reads '10PM'—Daylight savings is a real pain-in-the-ass). "I'm gonna grab some gas before we head out—" I announce before yawning contagiously. "—Fuck me. And a coffee," I add.
"Yeah man, I could use a little snack myself," Georgie adds, booting up a Pokémon emulator on his phone. I nod faintly. I'm still not sure whether his trip has ended or not; his standard jovial mood seemed unchanged throughout the hike, even in its darkest moments.
We get into town and I dart towards the first gas station I see. As I pull into the turn lane Georgie cranes his neck out the window. His eyes widen. "Yo, Nate." He nudges back towards his friend, practically humming in his seat.
Nate glances up from his phone. "Wha—oh, T-Bell?" he murmurs. George's spotted a glowing Taco Bell outpost in the opposite direction. Nate pauses and scratches his chin, considering the proposition. I hold my breath. Then he seconds the notion, nodding once decisively. "Dude, I ain't even gonna lie: Taco Bell sounds fire right now." Georgie looks over at me devilishly.
I squirm at the thought of scarfing down a CrunchWrap® Supreme after Luke's near-death experience. I glance back in the rearview mirror towards where he lays and sigh. But I let better judgment pass by; I flip my blinker and merge into the opposite lane. "They better have coffee," I grumble.
Image cred: https://sycamorelandtrust.org/preserves/amy-weingartner-branigin-peninsula-preserve/
