* * Walking in the rain

I just returned from a walk.  Five miles.  In the pouring rain.
Preparation was intensive, like dressing to play a football game.  From the bottom up:
I put on a pair of SmartWool socks and then my new Keen boots.  They’re lightweight and are advertised to be waterproof.  I would know soon.
I wore lined tights over my legs, then Frog-Tog rain pants.
Over my torso, I put on a poly-pro shirt, then a wool shirt, then my Mountain Gear parka.
On top, I wore a fisherman’s style hat from Columbia sportswear.
(This is starting to feel like a product endorsement!)
I parked the car at the intersection of the Huckleberry Trail and Mabry Lane, near the entrance to Warm Hearth.  This part of town was developed after municipalities decided that sidewalks weren’t necessary any more.  So walking the road to the trailhead isn’t fun, especially in the rain.
Immediately upon leaving the car, I could see how much rain had been falling since it began last evening.  The trail is paved with asphalt but there were large puddles in and beside it.  For much of its distance in the Merrimac area, it parallels Slate Creek. Wherever possible, The Huckleberry uses an old railroad grade. Trains like to hug watercourses, as the topography is easier.  The Slate is a modest creek of clear, meandering water, easily jumpable over mid-stream rocks. But on this day, it was a churning, roiling thing, with water the color of milky coffee.  Leaves and twigs rode the rapid waves downstream to the New River and the Gulf of Mexico.  Intermittent streams and gentle gullies were roiling with coffee water as well.  Water streamed off the leaves of the rhododendron.
I had no competition for the single parking space, but at ½ mile in, a runner passed me.  He had gazelle legs, uncovered, and wore only a long-sleeve shirt, shorts, and running shoes.  He looked to be a teenager. 
I crossed Hightop Road into the wooded section, listening to the rain pounce on the fallen leaves.  Between that and the churn of the creek and the spatter of drops on my hat, it was loud on my chilly ears.  Raindrops danced on the shoulder of my parka, but no water seeped inside. 
A mile into the walk, a second runner passed me, similarly dressed to the first.  He appeared to be older, surely old enough to know better than to spend this much time soaking wet.  From my outdoor experience, rain is colder than snow.   Snow gets brushed off, but rain, when it seeps through and hits the skin, transfers drastically more body heat away than air alone. 
Onward I walked.  In the Merrimac Mines section, there was nobody else around.  There were places where the trail was overwhelmed by the water, with streams an inch high flowing over it.  I could feel the fabric in my boots becoming damp, but it didn’t feel like the water was seeping in.  Just beyond the big bridge over the active rail line, I stopped at the covered shelter and had a drink from the water bottle I was carrying.  Even the metal benches under the canopy were wet, so pervasive was the rainfall.  My gear was holding up well.  I was warm and dry.
The obvious question of why I was walking on such a miserable weather day dawned on me.  The best answers I could come up with weren’t too different from why I’d do this on any day.  First, of course, is the exercise.  Everybody needs to work his or her muscles, and the infusion of fresh air is therapeutic regardless of our age or fitness level.  Second, I suppose, is the communion with nature.  Nature isn’t always pretty or fun.  But it is what it is, and we’re part of it.  Surely there were people losing their houses and possessions in floodwaters somewhere in our area.  This was my genuflection to the power of nature.
The second runner had done his turn-around and passed me again, going back to his starting point. I smiled and said hello, and he indicated he was doing fine, in spite of the graying hear matted to his forehead.  A few hundred yards later, the first runner passed, too.  His cheeks were as red as an apple.
Through the cut, I paused for a moment at the “Bob bench.”  When Dad turned 70, my siblings and I pooled some money and bought a bench in his honor. It is a sturdy thing with metal supports and 2-by-4s for the seat and back.  Some years later, a vandal smashed the wood and threw the piece with the metal plaque into the woods.  I found the plaque and salvage it. I bought and installed new wood and re-attached the plaque.  It’s in good shape now.  The original installation was 13 years ago; dad turns 83 in May.
I had planned to turn around there, but my body heat had warmed me and the rhythm of the rain beckoned me further.  I walked another half-mile and turned around where a railroad spur still reaches the Corning plant.  I was in sight of the mall, the Sears store specifically, where I guessed many people were spending the rainy day in our county’s temple of consumerism.
Back by the big bridge, I stopped to watch some sparrows play in and through the links of a chain-link fence.  A blue jay cackled in a pine tree nearby.  I leaned over to re-tie my boot and water streamed off my shoulder onto the ground.
On my way back, I thought to take an alternative trail for a few hundred yards.  A new, unpaved trail linked several remnant sites of the old coalmine that operated in the area decades earlier.  A wooden, low-level bridge over the creek was marked by the supremely self-evident sign, “Do not cross bridge if under water.”  It was still a few inches above the water, so I crossed.  Not 30 feet on the other side, a huge puddle swamped a 20-foot section of trail, so I retreated.
In the swampy areas, the rising water had caused numerous discarded water bottles to surface.  There was much trash of all kinds in the creek and near the trail, particularly where it paralleled Merrimac Road, where drivers could easily pitch their drink cans and other rubbish into the woods.  Roadside trash is disgraceful; one of our area’s most shameful characteristics.
As I approached my car an hour and a half after I left it, the puddle I’d parked near when I began had grown to surround two of the four wheels.  Slate Creek continued to churn.  My socks felt damp.  It continued to rain.
I stashed my wet parka on the back seat floorboard and started the car. As I pulled away, Creedence Clearwater Revival played on the radio,

I hear hurricanes ablowin'

I know the end is comin' soon

I fear rivers overflowin'

I hear the voice of rage and ruin'

Don't go around tonight

It's bound to take your life.

There's a bad moon on the rise...