Journals of recent hikes, including accessibility, who went, kid- and dog-friendliness, weather, and nearby trails or other nearby cool spots. Posts layer photos with trip-specific moments, reflections, and thoughts. Other journals show past adventures and past nature spot reflected on based on a prompt or thought, some photos maybe added when available.
Actually, no. Let me explain how I got here first:
I just came off a 12-hour shift.
Got my shoe peed in while giving a shower 2 hours exactly before clock out time.
Had to finish my shift with pee sock, pee leg, pee vibes.
Drove my bestie and coworker 35 minutes in the opposite direction so she could start her vacation. Since she worked last night for me.
Dropped off another one a mile from my house.
And I still had to go feed 4 cats, one dog, and the neighbor, coworker, and or buddies cats before I even changed clothes.
And yet?
I’m still about to chase waterfalls.
Why?
Because this week is STNA Week, and I’m an STNA.
Because I’m a caregiver, a poet, a creator, a walking paradox of exhaustion and excitement.
Because I owe this moment, this daylight treasure hunt of stops to myself.
This is the Loop-de-Loop of Watersong:
A full-day road trip from Newark to Cleveland and back, with:
Waterfalls 🌊 Forests 🌳 Overlooks ⛰️ Trails under 1 mile 🥾 Dog-friendly stops 🐾 And photo ops so good they might just heal something you forgot was broken.
📍What You’re About to See
This is a build-your-own experience. You can:
Start closest to your house Do just a few or go full loop Spread it out over two days or crush it in one maybe just save it for a better time or send to a friend who’d love it.
This is the fastest and softest way to refill your soul when you only get two days off work, you write to survive, and you hike to breathe.
I clocked out at 6 a.m. sharp. Another twelve-hour overnight at the nursing home. That kind of quiet that isn’t restful, just constant. Oxygen machines humming low, the soft shuffle of slippers down the hall, someone crying quietly two doors down. You carry it home in your bones.
But this morning was different.
I had Saturday night off. That’s rare for me but, I’d gotten my shift covered to go to the No Kings protest. Before that, though, I needed to move. Shake off the weight.
So I drove 35 minutes home, changed, got Luna ready, and hit the road again. For an hour and eleven minute drive to Hocking Hills. I played Stevie Nicks and music from that era the whole way. I tapped my fingers to the beat on the steering wheel. I left the windows down and let the wind and exhaustion fill the silence.
The Trail
We hit the Rock House Trail around 8 a.m. The trail is only 0.8 miles one way, but the drop is steep. Narrow paths. Stone stairs. Roots like ropes knotted across the dirt. Luna walked ahead, tail high, tuned in. I let her lead. I wasn’t in a hurry to return to anything.
Then the cave appeared.
Rock House.
A cavern carved into sandstone long, tall, ancient. 200 feet across, 25 feet high, with arched window-like openings that let light in sideways, soft and slow. Inside, everything goes still. You don’t just walk into the cave, you arrive. You become part of its silence.
PIGEONS!
Except for the pigeons.
A few families live there now. You can hear them cooing, echoing from inside the cave and outside the walls, like voices trapped in stone. It was surreal. Luna didn’t bark. She didn’t pull. She just stood and listened. So did I. You have to.
There are ovens carved into the walls, like something out of another life. Maybe people baked bread there. Maybe they hid. Maybe they prayed. This place has always belonged to those who needed it. For a few minutes, that included me.
We took the rim trail up and out. It was steeper, louder, full of light—but I welcomed it. Something in me was lighter too.
One last stop before home: donuts.
There’s a new place beside the Hocking Hills Diner everyone’s been hyping for their maple bacon donuts. Of course, they were already sold out.
The lady who owns the donut place told me to call ahead next time. She’d put some back just for me because I live an hour and eleven minutes away.
So I got a s’mores donut and a Buckeyes donut instead. I sat in the car with my boots still muddy. Luna curled beside me. I ate them like they were the thing I came for all along.
And maybe they were.
What actually happened next:
I missed the No Kings protest. My Lexapro and Wellbutrin look the same, and I ended up taking two Wellbutrin and no Lexapro by mistake. I stayed in bed all Saturday and Sunday. I called off work and slept until Monday. Then I went back to my shift.
Sometimes plans shift without warning. Sometimes the body demands its own kind of protest.
2 miles. 86 degrees. No lighter. Just two blunts and no flame. Thanks to My pee brain of course I’d forget that part.
It was me, my work bestie, and my dog. There was also a not-even-two-year-old who baby-ran the whole damn trail. She ran like she was on a personal mission from the earth.
We went to Glenford Fort Preserve. It’s a sacred hilltop rooted in Native history. A 2,000-year-old Hopewell earthwork with a mile-long stone wall and a mound in the center. You don’t need a sign to know it’s ancient. You can feel it in your ribs.
We weren’t loud. Just there. The land didn’t ask us to be anything else.
There were giant rock formations the size of houses. Some had trees growing out the top like they’d been there since the beginning. Everything was mossy and green even though it hadn’t rained. Dry but not dead dry. One part of the trail was randomly soaking wet. Caught me off guard. Like drinking a Sprite thinking it’s Diet Coke. When you reach for your partners cup holder on accident… jolt.
I bent down to flick a tick off my leg. I found a druzy quartz between my feet. It was stuck in orange stone. A little shimmer just chilling there like it had been waiting. So I picked it up. Quietly. It felt right.
No Lighter One Job!
Seven waters. One backpack. A toddler, a dog, two adults stoned off nothing but vibes, and a trail that felt older than language.
I forgot the lighter in the car. We had no fire. Just movement. Sweat. A baby who refused to slow down.
And the whole time, I kept thinking about the people who built that place. Who gathered there. Who shaped stone on purpose. Who climbed that hill before it had a name.
I had just finished reformatting my very first e-book,
the one that started everything. I didn’t change much, just softened it visually, made it feel more like me again. A small act, but somehow it felt like reclaiming the beginning. I also cave it a whole new book cover.
With a little light left in the day, I grabbed Luna’s leash. That’s all she needed, no words, just instinct. She was at my heel in seconds.
We climbed into the Honda, just the two of us, and headed out.
Roughly thirty-five minutes to Dublin. It’s one of those drives that doesn’t feel long if your heart is quiet enough.
Stop One Indian Falls- Dublin, Ohio
We hit Indian Falls first.
It’s not huge, but I’ve been wanting to check it out, so it felt like a good place to start.
We did the little loop around. Luna sniffing everything like it was her first time outside in her life. Of course, I had to let her get in the water for a second. Which meant, obviously, photos were required. Wet dog, sunshine, that kind of magic. Her joy’s contagious.
Stop Two: Hayden Falls Dublin, Ohio
After that, we drove maybe four minutes down the road to Hayden Falls.
This spot didn’t have any of those “no swimming” signs, so people were actually in the water this time. Wading in. Laughing. It looked inviting. Like, deeply inviting.
Had I dressed for it, I probably would’ve been in there too.
Everything was green. Not just leaf-green, sopping, dripping, glowing green. The kind that fogs your glasses and soaks your socks straight through your boots.
The air held its breath, thick with steam. It was like the earth hadn’t quite exhaled yet. The moss seemed to visibly grow as the rain fell on. Mist clung to tree trunks and hovered over the path like it was hiding something special beneath.
The Wet Dog
Luna’s white toes turned the color of coffee grounds in minutes. The thick slathers of mud clinging to her paws like the trail didn’t want her to leave. She didn’t mind. She never does. Just trotted ahead like she was born to be messy and bossy.
The Wet Man
My glasses were useless, fogged, streaked, dripping. I gave up and pushed them to the top of my head. My hair was plastered to my skull. It was heavy and soaked. It felt like it wanted to grow roots right there in the air.
Clothes clung like skin. Everything I wore needed wrung out. My shirt, shorts, even my damn socks. Still, I kept walking.
The Mud, The Ferns, & The Quicksand?
The mud didn’t just squish, it slurped. It claimed every step like it wanted to keep whomever dare step there. Every footfall was a question: You sure you want to keep going?
Yeah. I was sure. Though I thought for certain, all my childhood fears of sinking-sand were about to come to ahead.
Puddles mirrored the sky but blurred it, like even the clouds were dizzy from the downpour.
Ferns unfurled like they’d been waiting on the storm. You could smell the worms and the wet wood. The mushies finally pulling up after a dry spell. The whole forest was sweating. So was I. But the trail felt like a baptism. A cleansing. A mud-soaked reentry.
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We started off seeing 8 sheriffs with one car pulled over. Then our route was detoured two times for the same wreck. We were 20 minutes behind schedule.
Luna, my seven-year-old American Pit Bull Terrier, and I hit the 1.6-mile Mambourg Park Loop in Lancaster, Ohio. It’s a smaller trail with just about 144 feet of elevation gain. However, it’s enough to wear us out in a good way. The trail starts wide and grassy. Then, it narrows as it climbs and gets more forested. It’s just the kind of walk Luna loves. There were plenty of squirrels and bunnies for her to try and chase.
Early on, we climbed some wooden steps, then crossed a small bridge over a creek. The sound of the water felt peaceful, especially with the light drizzle falling around us. Just off the trail, a small stream carved quietly through the edge. Little pretty rocks were scattered all around. Rocks, I was trying to ignore because, well, I already have enough at home for my Etsy store.
The air was thick with humidity, so muggy you could practically cut it with a knife. And, yeah, Ohio trails always get me with those spiderwebs, catching me every few steps. Luna didn’t care; she was busy watching every little rustle.
Lit.
About halfway through, I lit a joint… so you can consider the trail “lit.” It’s how I unwind. I take it all in. The buzz mixes with the fresh air and quiet sounds around us. Right as I extinguished the joint, we detoured off trail for a barking jack Russell terrier. Luna doesn’t do loud dogs and, Luna typically isn’t a loud dog. Don’t get me wrong she has dog friends but, they have all been introduced methodically.
Appalachia & Folk Lore
This area is part of Appalachia. It is a region steeped in rich folklore. It has haunting legends that have been passed down for generations. These stories were originally told around campfires and kitchen tables. They were meant to entertain, teach lessons, or warn travelers in the woods.
Dog Man
One well-known tale is Dog Man. It is a mysterious creature said to be part dog and part man. Dog Man roams the forest edges at night. Locals say his howl is eerie and unnatural, a warning to stay on the trail and not wander too deep.
Tall Guys
Then there are the Tall Guys. They are shadowy, elongated figures. These figures are said to stand motionless among the trees, blending perfectly with the trunks. Some say they’re spirits of ancient guardians or lost souls trapped between worlds. The Tall Guys are silent watchers. Spotting one is considered an omen. No one is quite sure if it’s good or bad.
Just don’t Whistle!
A common warning passed through the hills is don’t whistle in the woods. It’s believed whistling can summon malevolent spirits. It may attract the attention of the “haints” (ghostly beings). These beings follow the sound and may lead travelers astray or cause misfortune. Whistling breaks the natural silence of the forest, inviting unseen dangers.
Do NOT Look in the Trees!
Similarly, you don’t look directly into the trees, especially at twilight or nighttime. The woods are said to hide spirits called “tree watchers” or “shadow folk” who observe silently. Locking eyes with them is thought to invite their presence, which could bring bad luck, fear, or worse. It’s safer to keep your gaze low and avoid challenging the unknown.
The Wampus Cat
Other stories include the Wampus Cat. This fierce, cat-like creature has glowing eyes. It is said to prowl the forests at night, stalking anyone foolish enough to be out alone. It’s sometimes seen as a guardian of the wild, punishing those who disrespect nature.
The White Lady (LMAO!)
On a gentler note, there’s the tale of the White Lady. She is a ghostly woman dressed in white. She appears near certain creeks or clearings. Said to protect travelers from harm and guide lost hikers. She disappears without a trace once the danger passes.
Melungeons
A legend specific to this part of Appalachia involves The Melungeons. They are a mysterious group of people with a complex heritage. This heritage blends European, Native American, and African ancestry. For centuries, the Melungeons lived in the remote hills and hollows, often on the outskirts of mainstream society.
Folklore says they possessed secret knowledge passed down through generations. This knowledge included herbal medicines, ancient rituals, and a deep connection to the spirit world. Some believe they served as guardians of the forest. They were able to communicate with the unseen forces that roam the Appalachian woods.
Local tales whisper that encountering a Melungeon could bring both protection and a test. They were said to recognize those who respected the land and its spirits and offer help or healing. But for those who were disrespectful or ignorant, crossing their path might bring misfortune or strange happenings.
Their isolation and secrecy fueled many rumors. Some say they practiced old-world magic. Others believe they had ties to ancient European mystical traditions. Others claimed they could disappear into the woods like shadows, slipping between the seen and unseen realms.
Much about the Melungeons remains a mystery. Their legacy adds a rich, enigmatic layer to Appalachian folklore. It reminds hikers that these lands hold stories beyond what meets the eye. Here, history and myth intertwine deep in the hills.
Up up up up up!
As we pushed on, it got steeper, uphill, uphill, uphill. Luna’s panting grew louder. Her energy was fading. It’s funny because she started out wild. She ended up just as wiped as me.
The trail opens up at the end. Or it opens at the beginning, depending on how you look at it. It leads into a spot that reminded me of childhood afternoons. I used to spend those afternoons watching BMX races or riding little ATVs. My mom’s friends created a trail off to the side of the wheeling trail in the woods. We would race bikes or ATVs there.
We wrapped up around 7:31 PM, sweating more than I expected in the muggy air. Luna and I jumped into the car, blasting the AC full blast. It’s 74 degrees out, and we’re already plotting our next hike.
Yesterday, I took a trip to Cedarville, Ohio. My companions were two close friends, Luna, and one of my friend’s toddlers. It was my first time exploring Indian Mound Reserve. We took about two hours with stops. The drive itself was peaceful. We had the kind of conversations that set the mood for a day of adventures and recharge. The weather hovered around the mid-50s with an on and off drizzle. It was not enough to drench us. However, it was just enough to make everything smell like clean earth and wet bark. The kind of rain that makes the greens greener and turns even ordinary trails into something soft and cinematic.
I shouldn’t plan or control the map.
We planned to do the 2.5-mile Rim Trail, but thanks to some confusion on AllTrails, and my attention span didn’t help matters. So, we ended up doubling back and weaving in circles until we’d clocked over 4 miles. Despite the detour, it didn’t feel like a mistake, just part of the adventure. The trail wound us through a vibrant forest. Red and purple flowers began to bloom. These were early declarations of late spring. Waterfall views made the mud and missteps worth it. The whole area hummed with the sound of running water, and it followed us nearly the entire hike. There’s something about that like being gently reminded to keep flowing forward, no matter how tangled the path becomes.
The trail itself was a bit rugged in parts, especially after the rain. Tree roots snaked across much of the path. The muddiness made for a comical dance. This was especially true since I had worn my etnies. I rarely wear hiking boots. I slipped or slid numerous times. Each slip reminded me that I probably need to actually wear my boots. Still, I wouldn’t change it. There’s something about feeling the ground fight back a little that makes me feel more alive.
We crossed numerous wooden bridges and steps, weaving over and across the large creek that cuts through the park. Some of the trails we passed weren’t even marked in AllTrails yet. This tends to happen in less populus areas. My little unofficial footpaths and secret side trails waiting to be explored another day. The water access points were everywhere. With so few people on the trail, it felt like we had the whole preserve to ourselves. That kind of quiet is rare. It is broken only by the babble of water and the chatter of a toddler discovering nature. This is especially true even in Ohio’s backwoods.
Even though I wasn’t alone, the experience was still refreshingly personal. There’s a rhythm I fall into on hikes like this, a balance between noticing everything and thinking about nothing. It’s where I process things I don’t have words for. I watch Luna splash, sniff, and smile. Then, I remember why I do this. The road and the forest matter to me in ways that a house or a routine never could.
I’ll eventually return to Cedarville to explore the other trails and waterfalls. This first visit was only the rim of what’s possible there. I want to hike them all, but honestly that’s nothing new. There’s something sacred in learning a place like that. One muddy mile at a time.
Prompt 16 gave me pause. What’s one small improvement I can make in my life? I sat with it for longer than expected, not because I didn’t have answers, but because I had too many. They all seemed to circle back to the same thing: time. Or more specifically, how little of it I give to the things that actually fill me up.
I stretch myself thin between shifts at the nursing home. I write almost daily and try to grow Poeaxtry’s reach. I also manage projects and collabs that matter to me. I love it all. I want to be the person who shows up for everyone. I’ve realized lately that I don’t always show up for myself. So, I made a promise. I will take more time for the parts of life that make me feel present. They should not make me feel just productive. I am not a machine. I do not have to be productive every moment I am awake, and I need to remind myself of that.
Now we are at Rising Park in Lancaster, Ohio
That’s how Luna and I ended up back at Rising Park today, just 40 minutes from home. It’s one of our go-to spots. Though the steep trail can be done in under a 30-minute lunch break, it never feels rushed. The incline kicks up fast. Before we know it, we’re at the overlook. Lancaster, Ohio spills out below us in a quiet sprawl of rooftops, trees, and tiny cars. Every season here has its own version of clarity. Today did not disappoint. It was a perfect 67 degrees. The breeze added a pleasant touch. The green had its full May glow, and the smell of rain clung to the air.
This park has always felt like a reset button. Something about the climb clears my mind. By the time we reach the top, both Luna and I have shaken off the heaviness. We didn’t even realize we were carrying it. She runs a little harder here, ears flying back, like she knows this place was built for exhaling. While I breathe deeper here too. It’s not because I’m out of shape. I just lost 60 lbs. It’s because the view forces you to slow down and take it in.
Reminders from Today
Today reminded me that recharging isn’t selfish. Giving myself a few hours to move and reflect is healing. Being somewhere beautiful with my dog is one of the most grounding things I can do. Small improvement? Maybe. But the kind that shifts everything else a little closer to balance. It’s insane what a small amount of time with the trees can do for my whole vibe.
