Days 67-70: Hey, Scoob

LONDONDERRY, OH —

May 30-June 2, 2024

Days 67-70:

I’m an only child. This likely lends to my tolerance for walking long distances in complete solitude. For better and for worse, I’m used to being alone with my thoughts.

Be that as it may, I don’t exhibit many of the other personality traits often associated with only children, at least not on the surface. I believe this is the result of growing up with my cousins, Amanda and Jacob. They are more akin to siblings than anything else.

Jacob and I have often been confused for being one another, for being identical twins even. Practically speaking, we are. Be it nature, nurture, or a mixture of the two, we share a near-telepathic frequency. I am tethered to his inner world in a way that is both resonant and involuntary; it merely is.

The older I become, the more valuable I understand our connection to be. When Jacob, whom I call “Scoob” and he calls me the same (a nickname inspired by Shaggy’s endearing term for his best friend, Scooby Doo), told me he was driving down from Michigan to hike with me in Ohio for a few days, I felt a joyful twang along the twine of our joint fabric.

I had just gotten off the Buckeye Trail when he pulled up in his red Ford Focus along some gravel near the Hocking Hills Visitor Center. I sat before him at a picnic table, 8 long, sweaty days without a shower.

“Scoob! Yo, yo, yo, yo, yo!” I said, as I stood and paced toward his driver-side door.

He expressed a similar sentiment as he exited the vehicle. Teary eyed with excitement, we exchanged a big old bear hug.

“That is one of the most unique smells I’ve ever experienced,” he later said, a statement holding weight considering his time spent in musky locker rooms as a D1 collegiate athletic trainer.

I hopped in his car (windows down out of mercy), and we headed to Lake Logan Inn, which was managed by an incredibly kindhearted Indian woman by the name of Mary. Her customer service went above and beyond. For instance, she generously allowed a helicopter pilot to land his chopper on the grass behind the parking lot for the evening, even though he booked a room at the Holiday Inn down the street. To no surprise, Lake Logan Inn, though modest in nature, steadily maintains 5-star reviews on the web. Mary and her inn are a true microcosm of the Midwest.

After settling into our room, I took a hot shower for the greater good of humanity. Then, Jacob and I got a bite to eat a half-mile from the inn at the Hungry Buffalo and finished the night watching the Minnesota Timberwolves get blown out by the Dallas Mavericks to close out the NBA Western Conference Finals 4 games to 1.

The next day was one of laundry, resupply, and relaxation, including a stop at a food truck called Panini Paradise, where we listened to a one-man show perform grunge hits from the 90s.

This was followed by a trip to La Cascada Mexican Restaurant for dessert and a too-good-to-pass-up photo-op in a chair large enough to seat an entire family.

The following morning, Jacob drove us 37 miles ahead to trail angel Steve’s house, which is located directly on the trail in Londonderry, where he left his car. Steve then drove the two of us back to Hocking Hills to resume where I last left off. We would do our best to walk back to Jacob’s car over the next two days. Steve kindly agreed to pick us up wherever we finished, drive us back to his house, and return me to that location the next morning, after Jacob left for home.

Hocking Hills was both beautiful and bustling with tourists. Nearly everyone there came for an out-and-back day hike, packing only eyeballs in their skulls for sightseeing and smartphone cameras in their pockets for when their eyes forgot. Naturally, the two of us stood out in contrast with fully stocked backpacks.

When we finally broke through the crowd on the other side of the park, our steps beyond the white noise of tourism covered an array of hilly road and trail sections—a much more honest depiction of my day-to-day experience for my cousin’s imagination.

As our day neared its end, a litter of surprisingly social kittens came out to visit us from behind a church right before we reached our campsite, which turned out to be impromptu and atop the trail itself due to fallen trees blocking our path to the open shelter where we had originally planned to rest our heads.

The next day consisted of more hilly road walking and the reliably soul-nourishing cadence of Jacob’s light and sarcastic sense of humor, making my pack feel 10 pounds less than it would have were I alone. All in all, we covered 20 miles before Steve retrieved us from a guardrail along a quiet backcountry road.

I’m so grateful for my cousin and to have been able to share part of this journey with him. I felt as though I embarked on an entirely new life since he had last seen me in March, and, in no small way, his trip down helped to merge the old one harmoniously with the new.

Before he departed, we exchanged one last bear hug. This time, I didn’t smell nearly as sinister.

Shortly after watching Jacob and his Ford Focus shrink into the horizon, Steve directed me to stay in the RV behind his house. The following day, I’d be back to the rhythm of walking on my own, once more looking forward to the next time I could say the words “hey, Scoob” to my cousin in person.

In the meantime, I just think them: brotherly wavelengths serving as reminders that neither of us are ever truly isolated in thought.

Unlike many only children, my best friend is not imaginary. A constant touchstone upon which my feet can be grounded, Scoob is as real as the road ahead of me.