I have generally avoided organized group outings whenever possible. Even when I was younger I preferred adventuring alone or with one or two close companions rather than becoming part of a loosely assembled collection of strangers moving at incompatible speeds for incompatible reasons.
Still, when a local outfitter announced a mid-October weekend backpacking trip into West Virginia’s Otter Creek Wilderness, I signed up almost immediately. At the time the area was completely unfamiliar to me. The photographs I had seen showed thick forests, narrow valleys, old railroad grades, and long stretches of creek winding through remote country that seemed older and rougher than most places I normally hiked in Ohio.
That was enough.
After a long but uneventful drive we arrived at the Mylius Trailhead beneath low gray skies that already hinted at rain later in the day. Packs were sorted out in the parking area while people adjusted boots, tightened straps, redistributed gear, and performed all the small rituals hikers use to delay actually putting weight onto their shoulders.
Eventually there was nothing left to organize, so we shouldered our packs and started uphill. The first miles climbed gradually through recovering forest heavily logged decades earlier before the area became protected wilderness. Much of the route followed old railroad grades and abandoned logging roads still visible beneath the fallen leaves. The grades made the walking easier, though the trail itself was often muddy and slick from recent rain.
As the trail climbed, the woods slowly changed character. The understory thickened in places with rhododendron and mountain laurel while higher elevations opened into darker stands of spruce and hemlock. Damp leaves covered roots and loose stone, turning even moderate descents into exercises in careful balance.
The group spread out almost immediately, which always seems to happen on trips like these regardless of intentions. Faster hikers move ahead. Slower hikers fall behind. Small temporary alliances form based less on friendship than on compatible pace. By midday the original group had dissolved into scattered clusters moving independently through the forest.
At the old Shavers Mountain Shelter we stopped for lunch and looked east across layers of distant ridges fading into cloud and autumn haze. Far away, barely visible through breaks in the atmosphere, stood Spruce Knob. The shelter itself felt weathered and temporary, perched along the crest as though it had simply endured there long enough to become permanent.
The weather deteriorated while we ate. Clouds thickened steadily and the light flattened into that dull gray illumination that usually precedes long cold rain in the mountains. After a brief detour to refill water at a small spring, we continued along the ridge before beginning the long descent toward Otter Creek.
That was where the day became more complicated. Several members of the group had begun struggling with the distance and terrain while others pushed farther ahead toward camp. I had fallen behind myself while stopping repeatedly to photograph the forest and the changing weather. By the time I caught up again, the trip leader had already moved ahead with most of the faster hikers, leaving two women considerably farther back on the trail.
I remember standing there briefly debating whether to continue alone. Rain was coming. The light was fading. I wanted badly to reach camp before dark, get my tent pitched, organize dry clothing, and settle in before the weather arrived. Instead I stayed with them and matched their pace as we continued descending through wet leaves and increasingly slippery trail.
At the time I remember feeling slightly frustrated by the delay. Looking back now, I am more embarrassed by the frustration than by the inconvenience itself.
The descent seemed endless. The trail followed an old logging road dropping steadily toward the valley floor through dense rhododendron tunnels and darkening forest. Wet leaves concealed loose rock beneath them and more than once all three of us nearly lost footing entirely. Somewhere along that section we encountered a hunter dressed head to toe in camouflage carrying an enormous rifle that seemed absurdly oversized for the quiet woods surrounding us. He asked if we had seen any bear.
I think we were more unsettled by the hunter than the possibility of bears.
By the time we finally reached the Otter Creek Trail the forest had grown dim beneath heavy clouds and approaching rain. Everyone moved quickly setting up tents while there was still enough daylight remaining to work without headlamps. Somehow the rain held off long enough for dinner and a small campfire assembled from damp wood gathered nearby.
I became mildly alarmed when one of the hikers opened a tin of tuna for dinner. Having no interest whatsoever in attracting nocturnal visitors, I made sure the empty — and remarkably fragrant — tin ended up suspended from a high tree limb along with the bear bags.
No one stayed awake very late. Sometime during the night the storm finally arrived. Rain hammered the tent hard enough to wake me repeatedly and by around three in the morning water had begun seeping slowly across the floor beneath my sleeping bag. There was very little I could do about it. I checked to make sure the camera gear remained dry, adjusted a few things pointlessly inside the tent, then lay awake listening to rain striking nylon and moving through the trees above camp. At some point exhaustion finally overruled discomfort and I fell back asleep.
Morning arrived cold and wet. We broke camp in steady rain, stuffing soaked tents and muddy gear into already overloaded packs while trying unsuccessfully to keep anything dry. Not long afterward we waded across the icy water of Otter Creek itself. Almost immediately afterward the rain stopped.
The trail out followed old railroad grades beside the creek through one of the most beautiful sections of the entire wilderness. Waterfalls spilled through narrow rock channels beside the trail while swollen rapids moved fast and brown beneath the bridges and crossings. Mist hung low through the trees and everything smelled of wet leaves, mud, and cold moving water. No one spoke very much during those final miles.
By then the trip had simplified itself down to basic movement and weather: wet boots, tired legs, creek crossings, the steady weight of a damp pack riding against sore shoulders. The usual structure of ordinary life had temporarily disappeared beneath the immediate practical concerns of distance, rain, cold, and trail.
Looking back now, I remember very little about mileage, route details, or campsites. What remains instead is atmosphere: dark woods after rain, the sound of water moving beside the trail, the exhaustion that settles into the body after carrying wet gear for hours, and the strange temporary intimacy that forms among people moving together through difficult weather.
By afternoon we were back at the trailhead removing muddy boots while ordinary life slowly reassembled itself around us. The wilderness receded quickly afterward, as wilderness always does.
But for a short time the rain, the forest, and the long descent toward Otter Creek had reduced the world to something simpler and far more immediate.