Last year this forest burned.There are still scars on the trees and the ground is blackened. The silence compounds the weight of the eerie monochromatic landscape making any sound above the level of a whisper seem obscene. The place feels like a memorial to some past transgression. On my way in, I passed two ENCON officers in woodland camo. One carried a rifle and the other screamed into a cell photo about some class he was being forced to attend.
Every 15 minutes jets scream overhead, close enough to read the logos on the tail section. This stretch of singletrack is usually under the flightpath of Albany International. This time of day the commuter flights are stacked in holding patterns orbiting the airport. High above, travelers read newspapers from other cities while encased in pressurized climate control.
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