Trail Eyes
A different perspective on dirt and rocks
I pulled into the parking lot ten minutes early, a Thermos of tea stashed in my backpack to brace myself against the windchill of a late February morning. Before I could investigate whether the pit toilets were unlocked for the season, a familiar pickup truck joined me and soon after, two more vehicles filtered in. Our crew had assembled.
We weren’t there for a weekday hike or even to do trail maintenance; our quartet had gathered to look at a problem section of stonework and create detailed project notes that would guide crews through the rehabilitation process this spring. Instead of the typical trail tools of pick-mattocks and McLeods, we were outfitted with phone cameras, mapping software, pencil and waterproof notebook, and, of course, our trail eyes.
It’s commonly said—at least in the circles I frequent these days—that once you’ve helped build a trail, you will never look at one the same way again. It’s much harder to believe that a trail was “just walked in” when you’ve been the person moving endless buckets of dirt. Crafting sustainable tread that sheds water while being comfortable for hikers to traverse takes conscious effort. Even just one day on a volunteer trail crew will make you notice the berms along your favorite route. As you train your trail eyes further, drainage issues (current and potential) will catch your attention like a shiny object and you’ll find yourself clocking the likely spots where future hikers will be tempted to create shortcuts.
Over the past few months, I’ve been reading Robert Moor’s bestselling book, On Trails: An Exploration, with a book club of fellow trailbuilding volunteers. In it Moor writes, “Managing people and managing water, it turns out, are the twin challenges of designing sustainable trail...hikers behave remarkably like water; eventually, they will drip through almost any obstacle to follow the line of least resistance.”1 When physically building the trail, the focus is often on the water issue, but that’s because by the time volunteers are there with hand tools worrying about the outslope, someone has already done the hard work of laying out the trail to manage the people.
Before I was ever invited out on a trail assessment or scouting hike, stonework gave me a taste of the hiker management dilemma. It turns out that hikers as a whole don’t really like stone staircases and will avoid them whenever possible. I saw that truth in action on a Thanksgiving hike with my parents a few years ago. On the way to show off some stonework I had helped build, we passed through a section on the other side of the park where a different crew had constructed a set of four steps. Unfortunately, their hard work had been usurped by a social trail in less than two months. The rocks and logs placed to naturalize the downhill slope and define the trail had been nudged further and further aside until a corridor wide enough for a hiker emerged, which then became the (muddy) path of least resistance.
This reluctance by hikers to utilize steps means that stone crews need to be thoughtful about many details that don’t matter to the water droplets flowing across the landscape. The rise of the steps can’t be too tall, nor too short, and they need to be consistent throughout a staircase. The run of the steps needs to avoid that awkward length where hikers end up in an unbalanced trot with the same foot always lifting up first to the next step. Gargoyle rocks need to be placed strategically to close off alternate paths and the trail leading up to the stonework needs to be aligned to funnel hikers in the desired direction. And before the crew calls a project complete, overhanging branches and encroaching plants need to be cleared and pointy rocks jutting out of the tread need to be flattened so hikers don’t chart a new path to avoid those impediments. Sometimes it would be easier if we only had to worry about the water!
Back on that February morning, we were thinking about all those concerns and more. A decades-old maze of social trails showed us where hikers were discontented with—or confused by—the current trail layout. The sheen of ice on naturally slick stones highlighted problem steps as we paused to find solid footing. We noted erosion that caused rippling buckles throughout staircases and the pinch points where the trail was too narrow for comfort. We discussed which structures simply needed stones reset in their existing configuration and which ones would require a complete overhaul. We also imagined the various visitors to the trail—from the surefooted runner who would appreciate enough trail width to pass slower moving groups to the novice hiker who might struggle to confidently pick out which rocks are part of the trail and which are part of the talus slope.
Even flat sections of dirt require thoughtful consideration during the trail layout and design (TL&D) process. In fact, those flat sections that look like they were merely walked in by hundreds of feet stepping on the same spot can be especially tricky from a water management perspective—if there is no gentle grade to encourage water off the trail, then it will collect in pools right on it. Every potential trail layout has its own challenges and it can take many visits to truly understand all of a place’s ephemeral oddities.
A couple Octobers ago, I joined a scouting mission at a newly acquired property to see where trail might be built in the future. Crisp oak leaves and grass crunched underneath our feet, but as we stood on the dry riverbank we were already tallying up the cost of a boardwalk: “It’s going to be wet here in spring, I bet this whole area will be underwater.” Part of training your trail eyes is to go back and see if your instincts were correct and yesterday I had the chance to return to that riverbank. The ground hadn’t thawed yet and the river level was low, but the swath of flattened grasses still looked like the result of seasonal flooding to my developing trail eyes. Another visit in a month or two will hopefully show me just how high the river gets, followed by more planning visits by experienced eyes before a trail crew can move even a single shovelful of dirt on the property.
Each time I brush up against the TL&D process, I better appreciate the scope of what goes into designing a trail and gain more respect for the people who can look at a landscape and determine a sustainable—and enjoyable!—way to guide hikers through it. This work is mostly unseen, but without it, the hiking experience suffers.
It took us nearly two and a half hours on that February morning to write out detailed notes for a quarter mile of trail—an exertion that left my brain significantly more fatigued than my legs. At one point, a hiker rested at a scenic overlook while we chatted within earshot about a “goofy” step at a sharp bend in the trail. He told us he had been hiking there for decades, but I wonder if he realized that he had taken a social trail to bypass the very stone step that was the topic of our discussion.
My trail eyes definitely noticed.
Moor, Robert. On Trails: An Exploration. 2016. New York, Simon & Schuster Paperbacks, 2017, p. 238.
Great discussion of what goes into trail work. When I'm hiking other trails, I'm always evaluating their work.
Hello Alice, Thank you for being a good steward to trail building! As part of the Wisconsin Ice Age Alliance board of directors, I know how important boots on the ground really are.
You don't mention where you are in this post, but in your last photo, do I detect Devils Lake State Park? Those red rocks are unusual, and generally only in two areas of the country. Also the lake in the background, plus what looks like a sign for Balanced Rock.
In any case, it's good people like you that keep our trail connections to communities, and to each other in well sorted condition!
Thank you so much for your work!