Note: I'm writing this more for my friends and family.

So I was hiking up the back side of Beehunter trail in the Allegheny state park, and on the side of the mountain (e.g "big hill" if you're from the west like my uncle), a large beaver waddled along the side of the slope. I could only assume he was prospecting because I couldn't find any sign of normal beaver activity. There were no chiseled stumps or fresh wood chips. But there was a lake about 500-600 yards away.

I was amused to discover that his version of scurrying was even worse than his friend the porcupine. He sort of ambled hurriedly -- like a chubby business man in a suit that's too small for him on his way to work.

I found myself cursing most of my way up the trail and throwing a great deal of sticks. The entire trail was covered in inch worms hanging from invisible strands akin to spider webs. Worse, spider webs hung in places most likely to catch my face.

The humidity was unbearable, especially for a chubby guy like me who spends most of his year hibernating behind his computer writing, programming, or playing games. I'm not a very social creature and I find that the forest gives me the best chance to reason outside life's daily calamity.

One trail in particular -- Black Snake Mountain -- I walked so often that I began to memorize it's every turn. I can tell you how badly erosion was eating at different parts of the trail, or how much greater your viewing distance was in early spring when the first snows had melted compared to the heavy and thick foliage of the late summer which makes for a rather thick and visually impenetrable canopy.

Back to the trail at hand, I'd left mister beaver and his broom of a tail behind, and I was clawing through silk worms and spider webs. The trail -- much to my dismay -- was much longer than I remembered, and as the sun would only hang for a couple more hours in the sky, I was forced to sprint as much as possible.

This wasn't particularly an issue for me, much to my surprise, because of all things angry bees seem to appear every time I stopped to take a breath.
Three thoughts occur to me frequently throughout the trail's arduous duration: a.) I've never seen bees on bee hunter trail before b.) the bees are huge, and c.) I really hate things with stingers.

Nonetheless, I decided to press on because I felt that at 4 dollars a gallon, I wasn't going home without getting my money's worth. (My mother's Scottish influence, undoubtedly).

I made my way down to a stream which marks about 1/3 of the trail. I pondered at a crayfish I discovered, and listened to the evening birds sing.

On a geeky note, I even began to wonder if I could build a ray-tracing program to simulate the trail, and then perhaps I could return with sound recording equipment to capture the pleasant music which so graced my ears.

After a minute I decided to double-back the way I'd come and head for my car. Things get darker in the forest than out in an open field, and so I decided that running along slick stones, over upturned tree roots, and fallen logs to be the wisest course of action.

My plan nearly ended in dismay on more than a few occasions, but I managed to catch myself each time, probably because I'd done this sort of stupid thing before.

As I sprinted along on my way back on the top of Beehunter trail, a large object moved in my peripheral. I turned my head while I ran to regard it fully and noted that a young deer was paralleling my sprint not 15 yards away. After a moment of initial shock, I began to envy him: his bounds and leaps were far more graceful than mine, and he easily placed a fair amount of ground between us within a few strides.

My keys jingled in my pockets, my large feet are snapping twigs every time I jump a log -- I had to skitter and halt to catch my self while I moved over each slippery moss-covered rock. I'm not graceful, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I felt honored to be in the presence of a creature that more than makes up for my cumbersome ways.

After a bit, the sun hung very low in the sky and I clutched at my side, but every time I stopped to rest another damn bee pestered me. One bee was particularly stubborn and stayed with me through several sprints. I dubbed him the satanic bee, and figured that maybe he was staying around me due to my abundance of unholy curses.

At long last the bee left me, but I was exhausted. Forced to stop, I clutched my knees and bent over, my heart ached in my chest, and my side throbbed. I ignored everything around me for a short while and focused on recovering.

When at last I came out of my poor-health induced fog, something screeched and chortled all at the same time from somewhere in front of me. I quickly discerned its source but I couldn't place my familiarity with it -- that is until I noted the furry face of my favorite creature in a large V of a hollowed-out, long-dead, branch-less tree.

I was puzzled as to why this raccoon was so brazen as to invite danger from a creature larger than itself. I had come across a few raccoons in the forest before, but each time they'd scurried off after no more than moment of passing curiosity. This raccoon wasn't going anywhere, so I talked to it in a friendly voice to assure it I meant no harm. Of course my words were meaningless but I hoped the tone would calm it, and besides, I was far too winded to run from it.

"Hey little buddy," I said in the friendliest tone I could muster.

The raccoon seemed to show more attention than before, and stopped its threatening call.

Only a second after the words left my mouth, then did a very small, fluffy raccoon join the first. I couldn't help but smile. This was obviously a mother and her pup (what's the word for baby raccoon?). The two of their faces wedged in the V of this old, hollowed-out tree struck me as the most adorable thing I'd ever seen, and not gagged on.

The trail wound not far from the tree, but I felt that these two posed no imminent threat, and decided to walk right past the tree and its inhabitants and down to the trail's entrance.

When I found the entrance of the trail once more and stepped out into a large field which connected to a gravel parking lot, I'm amused to discover no less than 3 minivans were patrolling the road by the lake. They slowed their vehicles down to stare at me as I walked through the field to my tiny Kia. I could only grin.

Sure, driving through a state park in a minivan will afford you the chance to see the occasional deer or raccoon, but to truly see nature in all of its elements, in all of its adorable ways, you have to get out and walk amongst it. Granted annoying insects abound, granted the forest holds its share of perils, but life's not worth living if you don't take the effort to fully live it.

Adam R. Turner