Raccoon Creek State Park...in 12 Degrees

Familiarity breeds contempt.  It really does.  But what is contempt if not a sort of disappointed love?  We can only feel contempt for something or someone we know well.  Contempt is the scorched earth of retreat, a charred countryside where each hillock and furrow is familiar.

I truly felt contempt for Raccoon Creek State Park as I went slinking back there in 12 degree weather to seek the solitude of the forest--domesticated and featureless woodlot that it is.  How many times have I snapped a photo of this same old cellar hole?  How many times have I hiked past it and wondered what it was?  Far too many to count.  I know this place much better than I'd like.  There's no mystery or discovery here for me anymore, and there never was much.  But I must admit that today, for the first time ever, I paused at the remains of this ancient homestead and tried to sense its story.  Someone laid these stones, one by one...someone with hopes, and recurring thoughts, and tangled relationships much like my own.  And now, all the world knows of him is this crumbling foundation along the unambitiously named "Lake Trail" at Raccoon Creek.

If you look closely at the center of this photo, you'll see the remains of an old stone springhouse, with gabled wall pointing toward the sky.  I climbed up to it once, in a winter now forgotten, perhaps four years ago.  Some year in the first half of the 19th century is etched into the stone.  1841?  I can't recall.  There's still a lot of bitterness among locals that the state invoked its right of eminent domain in order to create this public park out of family farms, from the 1930s through the 1960s, I think.

But Raccoon Lake never disappoints.  It's always beautiful, in the shimmering heat of a golden July as in the frozen brilliance of winter.  That's the public beach, with bathhouse, across the water.  And someone built a snowman out there on the lake, which can barely be seen in the center of the photo.  As always, click on the picture to enlarge it.

Yes, familiarity breeds contempt.  But it was nice to take refuge again among the trees.  It's been so long since I've had a trek.  The Lake / Forest Trails Loop takes about two hours in summer and a little longer in the snow.  Unfortunately, I was following hard on the heels of a dog-walker whose tracks in the snow made me feel crowded and unoriginal.  But hell, I was hiking at Raccoon, not Denali National Park.  Besides, I have a hunch that I know whose footprints they were.  She was an old friend from years ago, though we barely see each other anymore.  The park offers 44 miles of trails, but she and her dog walk the same exact loop every week.  (Sheez, talk about familiarity.)

The white spot in the center of this picture is Raccoon Lake as seen from the hills above.  I've always liked this view.  I find it comforting to see the water from so far away, to name it and know it.  I know this place entirely too well.  I hate it with a gentle, passionate hatred that's very close to love, and boredom, and a sense of ownership.