This poem is about the weight of stolen creativity, systemic inequality, and the silence forced on those most marginalized. It’s a reckoning, a declaration, and a visual picture of frustration and resilience.
“End game”
Paying artist who live in poverty
for published
creativity.
K
N
O
W
I
N
G
history stole from the likes of us. ..
Those most used to
others
taking… figurative
remote
Controls
L
I
C k
I
N
G
mute.
Voiceless &
left
to
suffer in
i
l
e
n
c
e
.
Misery, I guess,
doesn’t get company
unless it’s
misery experienced
By
one
Significantly more
P.R.I.V.I.L.E.G.E.D.
than
the
likes
of me or you.
a fate I
wouldn’t wish
on an enemy.
A life stuck to never escaping
poverty
Look at that!
they
a
k
e
the boot off their neck,
press it
into yours
and still claim
they’re a
victim
’cause OHHH-nooooo,
look,
he thinks human worth
works on
hierarchy…
Bet
I
get the
LAST
A
U
G
H.
-An Axton N.O. Mitchell original
In the end, survival isn’t close to quiet. Justice isn’t near polite. The final laugh isn’t soft, but it’s deliberate, loud, and well-overdue. This poem is a reminder that even when history and systems try to erase us, our voices, our work, and our defiance endure.
Ben Shapiro is a figure known for his aggressive debating style and political commentary. However, beneath the loud persona lies a consistent pattern of misogyny that permeates much of his public discourse. His treatment of women is not simply a matter of ideological difference. But it is a devaluation of their lived experiences, reinforcing harmful stereotypes and dismissing genuine social struggles.
One glaring example is his reaction to Cardi B’s 2019 song “WAP.” Instead of engaging with the cultural impact or significance of the song. Benny chose to mock female sexuality, expressing confusion over basic female anatomy by suggesting that natural bodily responses were signs of illness. This public display of ignorance was not just embarrassing; it reflected a deeper discomfort with women’s autonomy over their own bodies.And to that I say, “Sorry you never got your wife’s pussy wet, Benny boy.”
Beyond isolated incidents, Shapiro routinely diminishes feminist concerns, framing issues like the gender wage gap, domestic violence, and reproductive rights as emotional exaggerations. In his narratives, women’s experiences are often reduced to tools for debate rather than reflections of systemic inequities. When discussing abortion, Shapiro approaches the topic with philosophical hypotheticals, sidestepping the urgent realities faced by pregnant individuals lacking access to healthcare. His logic-driven rhetoric is a guise that masks the real human cost of policies affecting women’s rights.
This pattern of rhetoric does more than provoke controversy, it contributes to a social climate where women’s voices are delegitimized and their struggles trivialized. By positioning himself as “too logical” for feminist discourse, Shapiro reinforces a toxic environment that blames emotion rather than addressing entrenched sexism.
Understanding Shapiro’s misogyny is essential for recognizing how media figures shape public perception and normalize disrespect towards women. His words have consequences, contributing to broader cultural issues of the gender inequalities women face.
Here we document and provide space for those targeted by voices like Shapiro’s to share their truths and challenge the narratives that silence or diminish them.
Hiking Journal: Cuyahoga Valley National Park and Nelson’s Ledges State Park. Rocks, Trails, Laughs, and a Sunset Swim
Today I hiked Cuyahoga Valley National Park… starting with the shorter trail to Brandywine Falls. The waterfall had a lot less water than typical I think but it was still a pleasure to see… The trail was lined with a boat load of fossils as a lot in Ohio are.
Brandywine falls
Next, I explored the ledges area inside Cuyahoga Valley, where massive, moss-draped rock formations rose like ancient towers around us. I ran my hands over the rough stone… feeling the weight of time pressed into every crack and crevice
.
Ghost pipe
I yelled the classic line “Jack, paint me like your French girls” at my buddy Jack… exactly like in Titanic… sprawled out on a rock under a ledge. It was ridiculous and hilarious… so I did it again… on a tree limb at Nelson’s Ledges State Park. My friends Jack Trisha and I laughed so hard at those moments… pure, wild fun that cut through the whole day.
We drove to Nelson’s Ledges State Park next and took the loop trail… exploring Devil’s Hole and Devil’s Icebox. The cave was cold and dark… a welcome break from the sun. Moss covered the giant rocks thickly here as well … and webs sliced across the surfaces like delicate art. One web even contained a mushroom it was too cute. Oh yea I spotted a frog in Devil’s Icebox… well it actually scared the shit out of me diving into the water in the dark. I
The waterfall there was anticlimactic… we ended up on the top and we walked across it, which i had gotten amped about the sound must have echoed through the rocks. When we got to the bottom I was searching for a view or the bottom everywhere but all I found was a giant rock to perch on. Far above, I spotted a tiny trickle of water… so small it felt like nature was trolling me.
After the hike, we ended up driving to Euclid beach to rockhound and finish the day swimming in Erie… the water cool and cleansing after the long day on the trails. We watched the sunset paint the sky in fiery colors… a perfect close to an intense day of exploration and laughter.
Paint me like one of your French girls
All day long I kept filling my pockets with rocks… smooth ones, jagged ones, colorful ones… little trophies from the wild. I even twerked on a ledge because sometimes you just have to own your weirdness in the woods.
Honestly the whole day felt like natural therapy for body and soul.
Twerking
The day started with wild joy. You know the kind that fills your lungs and makes your chest ache with laughter. I was yelling and joking with Jack, doing dumb poses like my usual goofy self sprawling out on rocks and trees. Those moments were pure freedom… a break from everything weighing on me. The trails, the waterfalls, the smoke drifting through my lungs… all felt like a balm. For a while, I was untouchable… fully alive in the moment.
But living with BPD means the pendulum swings fast and hard. Just as I felt that raw joy, a wave of grief would crash in without warning as usual. On the drive home, the joy shattered. I cried for nearly half the trip. I wanted so badly to tell my mom about the day… about every rock I picked up, every waterfall I saw, every ridiculous pose I pulled. She’s been gone almost four years. She loved the outdoors as fiercely as I do. I could almost feel her walking beside me on those trails, but I couldn’t tell her any of it. That silence hit harder than any fall.
The grief wasn’t just sadness… it was a stabbing loneliness wrapped in frustration and helplessness. It tangled with memories of her voice, her laughter, her love for nature. I replayed moments in my head, wishing I could share the day’s wildness with her, the funny moments, the stunning views, the tiny frog in the Devil’s Icebox. Instead, I had to carry it all alone.
That’s the cruel edge of BPD… the intensity of feeling everything all at once. The joy and pain live side by side, sometimes so close you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. I laugh out loud and then dissolve into tears minutes later. It’s exhausting and relentless but also part of what makes me who I am. I just know she would have ate the ledges up. And that makes me feel as if I’m losing her all over again each time. Instead of just whatever grief is I feel the entire weight repeating itself again and again each time I go through these “waves.”
Even with the crushing grief, there’s a stubborn hope. Hiking those trails, swimming in Erie’s water, watching the sunset… it all grounded me. It reminded me that life keeps moving… that moments of wild joy and deep sorrow can coexist. That I can survive the rollercoaster, even when it feels like I’m drowning.
I carry my mom with me on every hike… in every rock, every ledge, every waterfall. She’s the silent witness to my wildness and my pain. Not being able to tell her feels like a wound that never will heal. But maybe that’s why I keep going back to the trails… to feel close to her again, to live out loud, to be unapologetically myself.
This day was everything. It was loud laughter, sharp grief, and a fierce refusal to stop moving forward. That’s the truth of living with BPD and loss. It’s messy and raw and brutally beautiful.
Peace isn’t some distant, fragile dream…it’s stitched together from everyday moments and rituals that quietly steady me when everything else feels like it’s spiraling. I find it in the calm that comes when I intentionally slow my mind, pulling back from the noise that threatens to swallow me whole. It’s in the deep breaths taken during those rare stillnesses, a soft reset that slices through chaos and invites clarity to settle in like a whispered promise.
I usually find peace first by quieting the storm inside my head…finding a natural calm that softens the sharp edges of stress and noise. It’s not about escaping reality… it’s about slowing the mind enough to breathe, focus, and reset. This calm haze settles the chaos, giving me space to think clearly and find balance when everything else feels overwhelming. Without it, peace would feel like a distant, unreachable luxury. Especially for someone like me, juggling ADHD, other diagnoses, and whatever else life throws my way. THC has been more medicine than anything else. Simply a way to calm down in more than one way, grounding both mind and body when the noise gets too loud, when I can’t regulate my emotions, or even when my brain cannot seem to calm itself.
There’s an unshakable kind of peace in the steady presence of something… or someone, that grounds me without needing words. The kind of quiet loyalty that pulls me from the abyss of my thoughts and reminds me I’m not facing the storm alone. That steady heartbeat beside me, the simple warmth of shared silence…it’s a reminder that calm doesn’t always have to be loud or flashy. Sometimes, peace is just the steady pulse beneath the noise.
Moving through nature is my way of hitting reset, step by sweat soaked step. The world outside reminds me how to be resilient, how to keep moving. With every crunch of leaves underfoot and a fresh breath of air filling my lungs…I’m reminded that peace grows slowly, like roots digging deep into the earth. When the city’s weight presses hard…the wild offers a refuge. This is a place where I can rebuild myself, piece by piece and step by step.
I hunt for hidden treasures. A few quiet gems buried beneath dirt and time. This slow, focused search pulls me into a mindset of curiosity and patience, drowning out the mental chatter. Finding those small pieces of beauty in unexpected places is like stealing back peace from a noisy world, holding it in my palm like a secret victory no one else could see coming.
The work of my hands when polishing, shaping, crafting… pulls me into the moment with a clarity no other practice can match. The hum of tools, the steady pressure turning rough edges smooth…it’s meditation made tangible. A reminder that transforming raw chaos into something shaped and controlled is its own kind of peace, earned with every steady spin or careful cut.
Writing and journaling let me wrestle the storm inside onto the page, turning tangled thoughts into something I can hold and understand. This act of creation is both a shield and a weapon… helping me reclaim control when life feels anything but. Words become the map through dark forests, a way to find footing when the ground shifts beneath me. Without this…peace would slip like sand through my fingers.
Let’s be real…peace isn’t always sacred. Sometimes, it’s petty. It’s in those sharp, satisfying moments where I call out bullshit, get the last laugh, and watch karma unfold like clockwork. These moments aren’t trivial; they’re survival tools and ways to reclaim power when the world tries to crush it. Petty shit keeps me sharp and my boundaries solid. That’s peace with a bite.
Watching karma take its course gives me a peace rooted in faith… not in miracles, but in balance. Knowing the universe holds justice in its own time frees me from carrying bitterness or vengeance. It’s the quiet trust that lets me focus on growth and keep my eyes on the work ahead, leaving grudges to dissolve in the background.
Peace is also that last laugh, the quiet but fierce victory when the noise finally dies down and I’m still standing. It’s not arrogance; it’s validation. And it is the proof that persistence pays off. That grin when I know I’ve outlasted the doubters, when my story is mine to own. That moment grounds me, fueling a peace that’s both hard-earned and unbreakable.
But peace isn’t just personal…it’s collective. Helping to be the change I want to see roots me in purpose beyond myself. Lifting marginalized voices, pushing for real transformation, and building community are acts of peace that extend outward. This ongoing fight feeds my resilience and connects me to something greater, a calm fire burning steady through chaos.
In a world that often refuses to acknowledge true identity, the fight for respect becomes both necessary and personal. This poem, Fight Me, channels raw anger and resilience, addressing the pain of misgendering and the courage it takes to stand up for oneself. It is a declaration against erasure and a demand for dignity.
Fight Me emerged from a deeply personal betrayal: a moment when someone who is and will be in my life regardless of my disdain for her shared my transgender identity without my consent, exposing me to misunderstanding and disrespect. This poem captures the complex emotions that follow: anger, frustration, and the fierce need to reclaim power.
It confronts those who dismiss or invalidate gender identity, calling out their hypocrisy and challenging them to face the consequences of their words. The staggered layout emphasizes moments of tension and rupture, visually reflecting the disruption of identity and respect.
“Fight Me”
I bet you that these useless,
big-mouth bitches
would not
still be calling me a girl
the moment I tried to raise
my fist
to fight them
woman
o to
m
a
n
They wouldn’t mind having some respect
for my gender identity
while referring to
me as a
scary,
violent
man…
as if they
weren’t asking for this
by insisting I’m a
f
e
m a l e
to begin with.
Fight Me stands as more than a poem… it is a testament to resilience in the face of invalidation and betrayal. It challenges readers to recognize the power of respect in honoring gender identity and the cost of denial. Through unapologetic defiance, it demands that voices like mine not only be heard but fiercely respected.
But she isn’t. She’s Vivian Jenna Wilson, a trans woman whose identity Elon Musk has repeatedly refused to acknowledge publicly. This denial is not just personal; it is part of a broader, troubling pattern of control and erasure.
Sources close to Musk reveal he has taken an engineering approach to reproduction — using sex-selective IVF techniques to ensure his children are assigned male at birth. Vivian herself has spoken out, describing how “her assigned sex at birth was a commodity that was bought and paid for.” This chilling statement underlines a disturbing mindset that treats human identity as a product to be designed, not an inherent aspect of a person’s being.
When Vivian came out as transgender, instead of supporting her, Musk went as far as to claim she was dead. This act of deadnaming and erasure is more than insensitive — it’s a deliberate effort to erase a trans person’s identity, coming from one of the world’s most influential figures.
Musk’s pattern of erasing trans identities extends beyond his family. His public statements about pronouns as “aesthetic nightmares” reveal an outright dismissal of trans experiences. More alarmingly, under his ownership, Twitter has repeatedly deadnamed trans users, suppressed trans voices through algorithmic shadowbanning, and failed to implement meaningful policies against transphobia on the platform. This institutionalized erasure amplifies the harm done by personal denial, leveraging corporate power to silence marginalized communities.
This is not an accident or a misunderstanding — it is a deliberate and harmful approach with profound consequences. Trans people face higher rates of mental health challenges and violence, and erasure from powerful figures like Musk contributes directly to these risks.
Erasure and deadnaming by influential individuals and platforms are forms of violence that perpetuate stigma and discrimination. They deny the legitimacy of trans identities and make public spaces unsafe for trans people. Musk’s actions and the policies enforced on Twitter under his leadership create a hostile environment that affects millions of users worldwide.
Vivian’s story is emblematic of larger issues about power, control, and visibility. When billionaires weaponize their influence to erase trans identities, it sends a dangerous message: that trans people’s lives and experiences can be ignored, denied, or invalidated if it suits the powerful.
But resistance grows too. Communities, activists, and allies continue to fight for trans rights, visibility, and dignity — calling out erasure wherever it happens. The fight for transgender justice is also a fight for respect, humanity, and basic rights.
We must keep spotlighting these injustices and push for accountability — both personal and corporate. Elon Musk’s treatment of Vivian and the trans community is just one example of how bigotry can hide behind wealth and tech innovation. Recognizing this is the first step toward meaningful change.
Friday, on my way to work, I received a thoughtful email from the editor of Magique Publishing. This is a platform that has published me. They have also interviewed me in the recent past. Our relationship has been meaningful in a rather short amount of time. I value the insight, as we have built on a working relationship with shared values and mutual support. The editor read my recent blog post about the changes I wanted my blog to inspire. He reached out to tell me that my words had gotten him thinking. He pointed out something important: many people say they want to be the change. However, few ever talk about how they actually plan to be the change. The how is what baffles most. He also asked me a direct and challenging question: how am I going to be the change?
The editor noticed something important. People are often aware of the big problems in the world. Yet, many don’t have clear guidance. Or they lack understanding on how to make a difference. We find it challenging to create impact on a small scale. He speaks about a university professor who, after leaving teaching, realized that practical “how-to” solutions for everyday activism were scarce. And wouldn’t you know he has a solution to help bridge that gap. He created a checklist of challenges. These are grouped by size and scope. People are welcomed to try them weekly or monthly. These challenges also include large spectrum goals. Examples are writing a letter to a government official or volunteering hours. They also consist of medium and small goals, like donating to a local charity or composting food scraps. He even suggested the possibility of joy-centered challenges to help people feel more connected and grounded in their communities. I love this idea of supporting each other through shared challenges and building momentum together.
That email also motivated my own self reflection on ways I’ve actually been the change and where I can do more. It is rare you meet someone able to challenge you so respectfully and with the best intentions. But the questions he proposed pushed me beyond words into concrete action. I’m sure I’ll be forever grateful for that.
In response, I’m dedicating time to developing two sets of goals organized into three clear categories: small weekly actions, medium monthly projects, and large bimonthly initiatives. One set will focus on personal goals for myself, while the other will center on community engagement, offering practical ways for contributors to get involved and create real change.
I am also keenly aware that many people speak about being the change but rarely take real, measurable steps. This gap between words and action is what I am determined to close. One key way I live this is by intentionally publishing only minority creators in all my collaborations and projects. While I do allow ally-supportive works when they add meaningfully, they must not speak over marginalized voices. No minority submitting a piece on theme will ever be turned away. I may not publish every piece in a collaboration, but I will always include at least one from a minority creator. I’m not aiming to silence more of us. I’m committed to amplifying marginalized voices and ensuring they are never overshadowed.
Though I am working steadily toward these goals, I know the work is ongoing and there is always more to do. That’s why I invite you, my readers and fellow changemakers, to consider your own goals for creating change. What small, medium, or large steps will you commit to? How will you move beyond talk and into meaningful action? I encourage you to share your goals in the comments. You can also reach out directly. Together, we can hold each other accountable. We can build a community dedicated to lasting impact.
I am deeply thankful to Magique Publishing’s editor for inspiring this reflection. Sometimes, one thoughtful question from the right person is all it takes to turn intention into powerful action. If you want help crafting your own goals, I’m here to support you. I’m also here if you want to engage your community in this conversation. Let’s make change happen, now.
In this alternate universe, I’m still me. I am thirty-three years old and a trans man in Ohio. I carry the same stubborn heart and sharp edges. The difference is the weight on my chest is lighter here.
The mornings still smell like coffee and fresh air. The seasons still move in the same Ohio rhythm. Summers are humid enough to feel like they could melt the skin right off your bones. Autumns are painted in fire-orange leaves. Winters slap your face awake the moment you step outside. But the biggest difference? In this version of my life, I wake up knowing I’m not alone in my fight.
My Mom is Still Here, and that’s what matters most to me. Here, my mom is alive. Not just alive and thriving. She’s still my best friend, my safe place, my person. She’s the one I go to with half-baked ideas at midnight. Not only that, but she laughs with me over dumb memes. She sits beside me when my anxiety tries to chew through my ribs. The one who hears all my poetry first.
We run my indie grassroots publishing company together. Her hands are always warm from holding a coffee mug, and mine are always stained with ink. Our kitchen table is permanently cluttered with stacks of manuscripts. Sticky notes are everywhere. There’s even the occasional stray pen cap that the cat tried to run off with. There’s cinnamon-scented candles burning most days, mixed with the faint metallic tang of printer ink. If you didn’t know, the idea that started this publishing house sprouted in me because of my mom’s constant reminder. She always said, “all people should be treated equally.”
She would keep me grounded when I spiral into twenty new projects at once. I would nurture her belief. We can change the world with the right words. Art in the right hands amplifies this change.
My Dad is a Ghost in the Story. My dad exists here too, but only as a background shadow. He has no voice in my life, no influence on my peace. I’ve shut that door and bricked it over. There’s no need for him in this world I’m building. He allowed my stepdad to adopt me. He chose this instead of refusing to be a dad and refusing to sign over his rights to me.
My Siblings. My two sisters? Still my anchors. We don’t always agree, but the love is steady and sure. In this universe, my estranged brothers have returned to my life. Their return is not in a perfect, movie-ending way. Instead, it is in small, awkward steps. We’ve had conversations that leave the door open instead of slamming it shut. And they learned to understand that their experience with my father is not theirs and vice versa.
Softball & School… Some things never change. I still played softball through school. I love the sound the crack of the bat makes. I love the dirt flying as I slid into base. I also love the smell of fresh-cut grass on a summer morning before a big game. I was always the loudest on the team, and I was just as fierce on the field. I still dropped out of high school. Still got my GED. But here, it wasn’t just about survival. And it was a conscious move toward freedom. I knew I could build something better outside the system that never made space for me.
Poetry & Publishing…. In both universes, poetry runs in my veins. It’s messy, it’s raw, it’s how I breathe. I still self-published my first book. Still remember holding it in my hands, heart racing because my words were finally real. Still remember the first time my work appeared in a literary magazine and thinking, This is just the beginning. I actually get to show my mom here. This is unlike in the real world, where I didn’t get my shit together before she left us.
But here, my publishing company is more than just my own platform. It’s a loud, unapologetic space for voices the world tries to silence. We focus on queer, trans, neurodivergent, disabled, Black and brown writers. We include survivors and anyone whose truth is too big for the narrow shelves of mainstream publishing. We make sure our books aren’t just printed, but seen. We send them to schools that actually care about representation. These libraries make space for more than just the “safe” stories. Our books go into the hands of readers who need them like air.
Love Without Apology…. In this world, I’m still engaged. Still in love in a way that feels like safety and home. But here, we don’t guard our love. And we live it out loud. We dream big together, and when the fight for justice gets heavy, we hold each other steady. We talk about everything, about building a life where our identities aren’t just accepted, they’re celebrated. And we are always there when it matters most. Nothing really changes in the alternate world for Kelsey and I. I couldn’t wish for them to be any better than they are.
The Change We’re Fighting For, the mission hasn’t changed: I want to be part of the change the world needs. In this alternate universe, we’re further along. Minority groups aren’t just existing, they’re thriving. Our art fills galleries, our books fill shelves, our stories are taught alongside the classics. No one questions whether we belong. We do. And the proof is everywhere.
My Mother’s Words… On the days I feel tired, her voice is there. It is steady and certain: “They can’t erase what we refuse to let go of.” “Every life matters big or small.” “Someone thinks you’re scary too and they don’t squash you.” (The latter is in reference to bugs.) Those words are stitched into my bones. They remind me why I keep building. They remind me why I keep writing. They remind me why I keep showing up even when the world tries to push back. This is what keeps me going, having to live in the real world.
But in this alternate universe, I’m still me. I’m the kid who played softball. I’m the girl who dropped out and found his own way. I’m the poet who refuses to be quiet. The difference is, here, the world listens a little closer. Here the world accepts me and others for what we truly are.
A few years ago, my partner, our friend, and I went to see the Field of Corn in Dublin, Ohio. It’s a massive field filled with giant concrete cornstalks standing in neat rows. The scale hits you right away. It’s both strange and impressive. Walking through it feels like stepping into a frozen farm, a tribute to Ohio’s farming past that somehow feels both eerie and beautiful.
This past week, I went back alone to check out more sculptures.
Watch House stood out immediately. It’s quiet but intense, almost like it’s watching you as much as you’re watching it. The structure blends with its surroundings in a way that makes you pause and think. There’s a stillness that carries weight, forcing you to be present. And the flower circle around it made me fall in love even though if I stayed any longer I am sure a bee would have gotten me.
Watch house
I went to see Chief Leather Lips next. This is a powerful sculpture honoring the indigenous people of the area. It has a silent strength, reminding anyone who stands before it of the history buried beneath the ground. It’s solid and dignified, a quiet demand for respect.
Chief Leather Lips
At the Dublin Arts Council, I saw several other sculptures.
The Snail caught my eye first. Its smooth, rounded form shows patience and slowing down. In a world that’s always rushing, this little sculpture is a reminder to notice the small details we usually miss.
Snail
The Tree of Life is massive, its tangled branches and roots twisting into one another. It represents connection and resilience. How everything in life is linked and how strength can come through struggle.
Tree of Life
Beside it stands the Sanguine Standing Stone, a spooky, haunting head sculpture. The face is rough and intense, like it’s pulling deep emotions to the surface. It feels like it’s staring right into your soul, forcing you to face things you’d rather hide.
Finally, Jaunty Hornbeam is a wild, unpredictable figure. It looks like it’s caught mid-dance, awkward and unplanned. It’s messy, human, and a sharp contrast to the more natural pieces around it. It feels like a celebration of being weird and real.
He’s pretty cool he’s just misunderstood
Dublin also has Free Art Boxes scattered throughout town. These are like free little libraries but filled with art supplies. You take what you need, leave what you can. I hit three of these boxes and grabbed everything I needed to start making wildflower magnets.
I stopped at ten free little libraries between Newark and Dublin. I left QR code bookmarks there. Each bookmark has free copies of my ebooks and zines attached. Sharing my work matters to me because someone might pick it up and actually connect.
This trip was about connecting to Dublin, its people, and the quiet creative energy that keeps the city alive. If you’re near Dublin, Ohio, you should check out the Dublin Arts Council sculptures. You can also visit a Free Art Box. Another option is to grab a book from a free little library. You might find something that sticks with you.
Permits, Towers, and Thorns – Hiking Boch Hollow, Little Rocky Hollow, Ash Cave Fire Tower, and Saltpetre Cave in Hocking Hills
Hocking Hills is more than its famous trails. The big three most people favor are Ash Cave, Old Man’s Cave, and Rock House. Hidden across the region are secluded preserves and secret waterfalls. There are also caves that are a little more remote and harder to reach. Yesterday, my bestie, the baby, and I set out to explore three of these off-the-beaten-path gems. We visited Boch Hollow State Nature Preserve, which is home of Corkscrew Falls. We also explored Little Rocky Hollow State Nature Preserve and Saltpetre Cave State Nature Preserve. And a fire tower to add to my list of climbed and conquered.
Luna, my usual hiking companion, stayed home since our three of the stops were strictly no pets allowed. I promised her I’d bring home plenty of pictures (and maybe some trail snacks).
Corkscrew Falls is one of Hocking Hills’ most striking hidden waterfalls. Located inside Boch Hollow State Nature Preserve, it’s only accessible with a free ODNR permit.
The short 0.2-mile trail delivers instantly. A spiraling cascade drops into a jade-green pool. It is framed by mossy sandstone and shaded by a dense forest canopy. The quiet here is unmatched, thanks to the limited access. Though I definitely spotted 4 human footprints in the stream. It is good to point out that we should stay out of the water and on trail as directed. So we don’t ruin it for the rest of the population.
Boch hollow corkscrew falls
Stop 2: Little Rocky Hollow State Nature Preserve (Permit Only)
A one-mile entrance trail leads to this remote preserve. The last stretch drops steeply into the hollow. Cool air and dense greenery make the hike feel like stepping back in time.
This is one of those Hocking Hills hikes where you won’t hear much beyond your own footsteps. The terrain is rugged but rewarding.
Stop 3: Ash Cave Fire Tower – Tower #5
My fifth tower climb brought in sweeping views of the Hocking Hills region. From the top, green ridges roll endlessly into the distance, broken only by patches of sunlight. The climb was steady, the breeze constant, and the view was worth every step. 3 fire towers done in Ohio, 1 in North Carolina, and a smoke stack climbed in Mount Vernon.
We ended the day attempting to reach the Saltpetre Caves, but the trail was choked with thorny vegetation. Every route seemed blocked, and after enough scratches and laughter, we turned back.
Even without seeing the caves, this stop added to the day’s adventure. It also added to the list of places I’ll return to better prepared.
This hike was a mix of hidden waterfalls, quiet preserves, and challenging climbs. The day started at the secluded Corkscrew Falls. It continued with the sweeping views of Ash Cave Fire Tower. This journey proved Hocking Hills’ beauty extends far beyond its most famous trails.
