Return to the Cole House

Saturday’s hike covered 6.72 miles. My friend Amanda and my friend Mark, who had never met, accompanied me, and became friends on our journey today.

Our destination was the Cole house. A place Amanda and I had hiked to a few weeks before, and a place Mark had also been to. So, I thought. I found out later, after we arrived at our destination, that he had, in fact, never been there.

At first, the sun was peeking through the clouds. The three of us, after introductions in the parking lot, all debated on wearing jackets or sweatshirts. I debated a sweatshirt or t-shirt. It was 45 degrees but felt warm because of the sun. We all dawned sweatshirts, which was a wise decision.

As Amanda and Mark got acquainted, we took the familiar horse train down toward Blue River, then turned left and headed toward our location. The further down the path we went, the cooler the air got. There was a 9mph wind, mostly blocked by the trees, but soon the warm rays of sunlight became filtered by thick, overcast skies.

Stepping into the woods is like taking a deep breath of fresh air for my soul. The towering trees, sentinels of time, create a cool, hushed cathedral, their bare branches filtering the sunlight into a dappled mosaic that dances on the forest floor as the wind moves their branches. Soft earth gives way beneath my feet, each step muffled by a cushion of fallen leaves. The air itself feels different, crisp, and clean, scented with the earthy, musky perfume of damp soil and the sweet, resinous tang of nature.

A symphony of unseen life surrounds me. Birdsong flits from branch to branch, a high, clear melody weaving through the rustling leaves. The occasional chirp of a squirrel or the distant thump of a deer adds a sense of untamed wilderness, a reminder that here, amidst the ancient trees, I am just a small part of something much larger.

There’s a sense of timelessness in the woods, a feeling that worries and anxieties simply melt away in the face of such an enduring presence. The towering trees have seen centuries come and go, and yet they stand resolute, their roots digging deep into the earth, a testament to the resilience of nature. In their shadows, I find my own worries shrinking, dwarfed by the immensity of the colorful cathedral around me.

The woods have become a sanctuary, a place to shed the weight of the world and simply be. Here, amidst the rustling leaves and dappled sunlight, I find a deep sense of peace, a quiet joy that seeps into my bones and washes away the stress of everyday life. Even if only temporarily, it’s a feeling of wholeness, of belonging to something bigger than myself, and it’s a feeling I carry with me long after I leave the woods behind.

Further into the woods, we went, as the now familiar trail didn’t seem so ominous or foreboding. There was, however, for me, a bit of mystery and slight eeriness to this hike.  

After stopping to view a small cave, passing a dry waterfall and two dry creek beds, we soon approached the abandoned Cole house. It was still muzzle-loader deer hunting season, and though I was wearing bright orange, I was still on edge. Luckily, we saw no one, nor heard any shots close by or even off in the distance.

Our first stop was the old, dilapidated barn. All three of us grabbed photographs and explored the ruins of the place. Slanting beams of gold pierced through a tapestry of weathered grain. Each knot and groove etched with the sun’s warm brush. Exploration done; our next stop was the house. The temperature noticeably dropped as a gray blanket of clouds filtered out the sun on queue.

The path through the woods felt less like a trail and more like a tunnel carved by sunlight-starved branches. I pushed through and up the hill. Leaves clinging damply to my boots. The air was thick with the scent of earth and decay. The forest whispered secrets in the rustle of unseen creatures, a counterpoint to the chatter of my friends. Every snapped twig, every distant bird call, seemed to echo with a phantom footstep.

And then there it was. The house. It loomed ahead, a skeletal silhouette against the leaden sky. Partially collapsed and fighting to stay visible as nature reclaimed it. Jagged teeth of broken glass winked from shattered windows, like vacant eyes within a skull. The silence around this place seemed absolute, a heavy blanket pressing down on the air, threatening to smother any sound we dared to make. We stood at the edge of the clearing for a moment. I realized the looming presence of this house dwarfed the three of us.

This time, I knew what to expect. I knew what to expect. I made a beeline toward the back door and slowly entered the collapsing structure. Moments later, Amanda joined me. She had chosen not to go inside last time. As we gingerly maneuvered the decrepit floor that appeared as Swiss cheese below my hiking boots. It gave us glimpses of the basement or subfloor below. Each step was sketchy, and they met most with creaking or popping below the weight of my boots. Mark shot pictures outside, Amanda and I shot some inside, before leaving the structure and heading further down the path. None of us had been this way, so without satellite coverage, we were unsure where the trail led us. After about a half of a mile, we turned around and went back towards the house. This is when I captured the picture above.

As we passed the house and made our way down the rocky path past the barn, I suggested taking the path to the left. A sign showing us we were now entering the Blue River Spur. We had passed a sign a short distance up the trail to the Cole house with the same name. My assumption was this was a quick loop and a different way for me and Amanda to go back to the Blue River Bluff trail.

At first the trail headed in the correct direction but then veered left where Amanda said, “we are going in the wrong direction” and Mark quickly followed up with “if we get lost, it’s Tim’s fault”. As we passed an enormous field, I recall my friend Stanly mentioning this field, and that there was a John Deere tractor out there “just abandoned”. We certainly could not see it from our vantage point on the trail, and none of us were willing to hike in the overgrown field to see if we could locate it, either.

Soon I was walking through a sea of gold ripples under the crisp fall sky. Birch trees, their elegant trunks stark white against the vibrant yellow canvas, stood sentinel over a field of sun-kissed grass. The blades, once verdant and green, have surrendered to the changing season. Their hue was now a rich tapestry of gold, amber, and yellow. A gentle breeze whispers through the dried-out leaves, coaxing them to dance in airy pirouettes. A silent serenade to this waning year.

The scent of wood smoke hangs in the air, a poignant reminder of cozy hearths and crackling fires. The distant trill of a lone crow underscores the melancholic beauty of the scene, a yearning for warmth and slumber amidst the encroaching chill. Yet, for me, there is a quiet resilience in this landscape. A promise of renewal whispered within the rustle of fallen leaves. 

Continuing along the path, we soon intersected the Blue River Bluff trail again and made our way slowly back to the car. It was a good hike, with good friends. I felt refreshed and energized. In the upcoming weeks, I hope to go exploring with Amanda as she wants to visit the cemeteries on the property. Maybe this will inspire me to finish my project stalled cemetery project.

Until next time,

Tim