Editor’s Note: On June 29, the Rev. Christian Hawley began writing a weekly series on trails for the San Marcos Record. The most recent of these are available by clicking the links below. These are reprinted from the San Marcos Daily Record.
Trail Notes: A Ruck to Remember – September 9, 2026
Twenty-five years ago, I was a newly minted civil engineering officer attached to F-15Es at Seymour Johnson Air Force Base in Goldsboro, North Carolina. A couple of months into active duty, four hijacked planes struck the World Trade Center towers, the Pentagon and a field in Pennsylvania. As our fighters took the skies with the possibility of having to shoot down other passenger planes, I went to work in a windowless bunker, pulling 12-hour shifts and calling friends in New York City and Washington, D.C., to see if they were OK. In those days, all I remember is the shock of an attack on U.S. so and the anger at the cowardice and violence of the hijackers.
I would go on to plan aircraft beddowns for our responses in Afghanistan and eventually deploy in 2003 to Al Udeid Air Base, Qatar, for our continued Global War on Terrorism in Iraq.
On the 10th anniversary of 9/11/01, I had just graduated from divinity school, and I was working for a children’s book company while preparing for hospital chaplaincy and another year of graduate school at an Episcopal seminary. I had lost two acquaintances and a friend in the decade of combat operations since and found myself sorely conflicted at the gap between American Civil Religion and my work with Muslims, Buddhists and Christians from all over the world. I mostly remember my grief and despair in those days. If the soundtrack to my first memory was Toby Keith’s “Angry American,” then the soundtrack at the 10- year mark was Alan Jackson’s “Where Were You When the World Stopped Turning.”
Over the next 15 years, I worked hard on reconciliation and healing. I got a VA counselor, earned a second master’s degree in Trauma Narrative Theory, helped organize Moral Injury Conferences, volunteered as a mentor for Travis County Veteran Treatment Court and connected with veterans and first responders worldwide through a shared love of the outdoors. The Sierra Club Military Outdoor program introduced me to my two best veteran friends here in Central Texas. Band of Runners coupled my love for trail running with my joy in healing in nature, and VetRecOutdoors gave me a weekly connection to the Purgatory Creek trails and other veterans in the San Marcos area. The musical score for this era would be Bob Dylan’s “The Weight.” Sometimes I got to lighten my load, and other times, I helped with the things they carried.
Which brings us right up to this Friday, Sept. 11, 2026 — the 25th anniversary of 9/11/01. My church, St. Mark’s Episcopal, is hosting a Ruck to Remember where anyone is welcome to come and hike with whatever weight is meaningful for them. I’m considering carrying 45 pounds as a nod to the weight of the firefighting gear carried by the FDNY. It’s funny, I can barely remember my anger at the cowardice of the hijackers anymore. In its place resides an admiration for the courage of our first responders.
In a lighter and heavier vein, I’m also considering carrying 15 pounds — the approximate weight of three human cremains for the three folks I lost in the ensuing 20 years of combat operations. Yet I feel almost none of the lament for lives lost in vain, and instead find a whole lot of gratitude for those who embodied the greater love of laying down their lives for their friends.
And then again, I might go with an empty backpack, in case someone needs to share a load, or because my service-connected knees and ankles won’t cooperate. There will also be a labyrinth walk through a field of challenge coins and saints’ medals (Michael for police officers, Florian for firefighters, and Martin of Tours and Joan of Arc for veterans). On this anniversary, my memories will be mostly about admiration, gratitude, friendship, fellowship, faith, hope and love. It should be a Ruck to Remember.
Trail Notes: The Patron Saints of Appalachia – September 13, 2026
Where I come from, it’s pronounced APP-A-LATCH-A, and we recently lost two of our guiding lights. Many of you know of Dolly Parton, the East Tennessee native who was a musician, actress, and extraordinary philanthropist. I grew 
up as a recipient of Dolly’s Imagination Library and a card-carrying season pass holder to Dollywood. Saint Dolly, as we now call her, got her rhinestone wings, and we’ll sing her praises every year from a Hard Candy Christmas to a Coat of Many Colors.
Yet it was her overalls-wearing counterpart, Wendell Berry, who had the more profound effect on my trail life. His historical fiction novel Jayber Crow about a seminary dropout turned small-town barber and gravedigger rid me of my infatuation with GPS and GIS in favor of the slow mapping process of walking my local town and countryside. A satellite might tell me the elevation change on the Roadrunner Trail, but it can’t tell me about the golden hour view of the horse farm halfway down.
Berry’s collection of essays, The Art of the Commonplace, taught me that nature is neither a commodity to be exploited nor a delicacy to be walled off. The Mad Farmer from Kentucky passionately declared that humans were part of the created order and not some ontologically elevated overlords. His counterpart, Barbara Brown Taylor, likes to remind us that in the Judeo-Christian narratives, birds have pride of place, being created first on the fifth day, while humans and cows were created later on the sixth day. This matters to trails because we are not called to pave every path for our own convenience, but neither are we to skirt the prettiest parts of our landscape in the name of purity. Our call is to make good trails that work with creation, an art we see in abundance with our San Marcos Greenbelt Alliance.
Wendell Berry was both a practicing farmer (plowing his land with draft horses) and a practicing poet (publishing his Sabbath Poems right up until his death). His poem, “The Peace of Wild Things,” begins, “When despair for the world grows in me, and I wake in the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be, I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.” When I feel that same fear and anxiety, this poem reminds me to go to our river, to paddle where our wood drake still rests and the night heron feeds.
And for a man with a critical eye honed to a scythe edge, at the end of all things, Berry was a person of hope and perseverance. A copy of his “Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front” has lived on the wall of my aunt’s bathroom or stuffed into one of my three writing desks for decades. It’s equal parts curmudgeonly and apostolic—a post-Enlightenment mix of Existentialist and Baptist: “So, friends, every day do something that won’t compute. Love the Lord. Love the world. Work for nothing. Take all that you have and be poor. Love someone who does not deserve it. Denounce the government and embrace the flag. Hope to live in that free republic for which it stands.” It is a manifesto that ends with the command, “Practice Resurrection.” Words I have whispered 28 miles into a 50k race, four hours into summer trail maintenance, and seven minutes into a toddler’s tantrum. Even here at the death of our Patron Saints, I hear those words clearer than ever, so I take up my cup of ambition and get back to the fields. Rest in peace and rise in glory, Dolly and Wendell.
Trail Notes: Some sound caving advice – September 20, 2026
Spelunking is the perfect antidote to August Part II, also known as September in Texas. Beat the heat and drought by heading underground, where the average cave temperatures are in the 70s and humidity is in the 90s. But before you go, take note of a few suggestions from your Trail Notes friend:
Almost every cave tour warns and admonishes against touching the walls or formations, as they are wet caves, still forming stalagmites, stalactites, soda straws and columns. But not so with our own Wonderworld Cave, which is a dry cave, so make the most of the subterranean adventure and reach out and feel the rock beneath your fingertips.
The Cave Without a Name, just down the road in Boerne, hits that sweet spot of a family-run business with just enough science and entertainment to make it perfect for everyone in your party. But what really makes it special are the concerts in the caverns, which this fall include a Nashville Americana duo and A Taste of Mariachi!
Enchanted Rock State Park is known for its pimple-like dome rising from the face of Central Texas, but if you head out to summit this enormous pink batholith, bring a headlamp with you. Near the summit resides a crevice turned cave that feels wild and off the beaten path (even though hundreds of people traverse it each week). Young adventurers find it especially enticing.
Also close by is Natural Bridge Caverns, but bring your wallet. These caves offer a wonderful glimpse into all the classic formations; the guides are knowledgeable and engaging, the light and sound show is quirky, the conveyor belt exit is hilarious, and the add-on options are never-ending. You’ll pay for parking and water separately. The pre-tour picture is mandatory, and post-tour concession stand sells Lone Star Beer.
There is no changing table in the men’s room of Longhorn Cavern. I once took my 14-month-old daughter there as a COVID summer excursion. Faced with either sneaking into the women’s room or using the top of the toilet tank, I headed back to the parking lot and changed her on the tailgate of the truck. After that truly Texas moment, we had a blast exploring the cavern and even had time to pop over to the nearby state park of Inks Lake.
Like Inks Lake and Longhorn Cavern, Guadalupe Mountains National Park and Carlsbad Caverns National Park make for a great one-two getaway, but don’t take the elevator entrance at Carlsbad Caverns. If your legs allow it, descending into the darkness via the natural opening is as close as it gets to feeling like Hercules heading off to capture the three-headed dog, Cerberus, and rescue his friend Theseus. The walking journey to the otherworldly formations below is truly on a mythological scale.
Lastly, if you’re looking for a true spelunking experience, make your way to Mammoth Cave National Park in Kentucky and make sure your will is up to date before signing up for the Wild Cave tour. The recreation.gov site reads, “The most extreme tour offered, this crawling tour is an all-day adventure underground. Lengthy amounts of time will be spent crawling through extremely tight crawl spaces and climbing through difficult areas.” You cover six miles in six hours, and it’s worth every bit of the $79 ticket price and well-loved overalls you are required to wear.
Trail Notes: The other parks – September 27, 2026
As we move into the season of pumpkin spice, apple cider and puffy vests, we begin to answer the call of the wild and plan our weekend getaways.
For most of us these days, that means jumping on recreation. gov to book national park reservations or texasstateparks.reserveamerica.com. Yet as many of us who have ever tried to book a campsite at Lost Maples, Enchanted Rock or the Chisos Basin in the fall know, that window closed months ago.
As outdoor popularity soars, even our local parks like Pedernales or Palmetto can fill up months in advance (don’t go looking for campgrounds on the second weekend of October). So for those of us who are a bit more spur-of-the moment or looking for so
mething different, what do we do? Now is a great time to try some other parks, run by cities, counties and even river authorities.
Kerrville-Schreiner: This beautiful city park includes CCC buildings, river access, boat rentals, tent sites, RV spots and 15 miles of hiking and biking trails. It’s like a state park without all the crowds and hassle. That’s because it was a state park up until 2004, when it transferred back to the city, which has managed it beautifully. And except for the full solar eclipse, I’ve always been able to book a spot here.
McKinney Roughs: Not to be confused with McKinney Falls State Park, McKinney Roughs is an LCRA park farther down Highway 71 toward Bastrop, right next to the Hyatt Lost Pines, which, if you’re looking for a really swanky stay, is primo, and it even has its own private entrance to the park. More reasonable accommodations can be found in one of the park’s bunkhouses, which put you right in the midst of all the ziplining, hiking, rafting and mountain biking. Bonus points if you can find one of the largest and oldest pecan trees in the state, measuring 12 feet in diameter!
Reimers Ranch: This Travis County park, farther down Hamilton Pool Road (which is also a delightful aquatic experience), is the perfect Saturday getaway. Known for its climbing, the limestone cliffs at Reimers are well bolted and perfect for climbers of all abilities.
So if you’ve spent all summer cooped up at the Armadillo climbing gym, now is the time to get outside. Reimers also has purpose-built mountain biking trails and beachfront access to the Pedernales River.
So on this last weekend of September, as you air out your tent, pump up your tires or inspect your ropes for cuts, take a little time to peruse the websites of some other parks, and who knows you might find some real adventure just off the beaten path.
Trail Notes: Sonic Trails – October 4, 2026
As an icebreaker at a recent professional gathering, the leader asked us if we would rather lose our hearing or our sight. As a visual processor who navigates trails almost exclusively with my eyes, this was barely a decision for me, but much to my surprise, about half of our group said they would rather lose their sight than their hearing and 
went on to share their joy with music, audiobooks and the soundscape of nature, from the hum of cicadas to the burble of our river. And so, it was with a nod to these audiophiles, I embarked on a few sonic adventures and found my hikes, bikes and paddles so much more rewarding.
Is there any sound so wonderful as the crush of gravel below your feet? The satisfying crunch is simultaneously a farewell to the modern world with its paved insanity of I-35 and the announcing doorbell of adventure, welcoming us into our natural home to feast with beasts and talk with the trees.
I am not fluent in most arboreal dialects. The flapping smacks of sycamores, or the brushy whispers of cypress, are beyond my ken, but I can speak poplar. A conversation with a cottonwood where even the slightest of breezes brings that tinkle of truth about groundwater and the meaning of life. I especially enjoy the lyrical murmur of their high-altitude cousins, the aspens — a vast network of beings connected deep in earth, who both live and sing as a symphony conducted by the maestro of the winds.
Lest I wax too romantic, I also offer up the jarring sound of a bucksnort, a word so satisfying to the ear that a little town in Tennessee chose it as its name, as did a bar in Colorado. Yet it must be acknowledged that bucksnort is a bit patriarchal, as does snort just as much as bucks do, and receive little credit for their ability to sound the alarm or express their displeasure with a satisfying exhale. Like a huffy teenager, this utterance is as much about frustration as fear, and for all of us walking along, it signals us to look up and see true poetry in motion as a deer bounds away with a grace and beauty we can only jealously appreciate as we bipedally awkwardly.
And for those of us who pedal bikes over gravel, stone and root, is there a more pleasing sound than the racing of a chain up and down a cassette of happiness? A single click, a subtle shift in motion announcing our full immersion in the present — totally aware of our legs and lungs and tweaking our effort to meet the rise or rocks before us.
Or the riotous racket of shifting three gears at a time as we mash the derailleur to incite more speed for the coming cataclysm of a big climb or big air. Mountain bikes are like personal rollercoasters clicking up the rails, ready to release us with the whoosh of tires leaving the earth.
Whooshes not unlike those of herons overhead. The paddling sounds of fauna abound.
The violent splash of a fish jumping. The lazy plop of a turtle coming off a rock or the high-pitched squeak of bats roosting in a bridge. I particularly enjoy the steel-drum rhythms of an old aluminum canoe against a little chop, with the splash of oars and burble of tree snags providing the melody.
Yet the most coveted sound in all of nature is the sound of silence, or at least stillness, where we can hear our lifeblood pumping through our bodies and our nervous systems let out a collective sigh.
That kind of peace only comes in nature, so get outside this fall and see what you can hear.