Welcoming

This Saturday, like last Saturday, I was footloose and fancy-free, and so we got out, again, and hiked and drove and ate and drank, and generally whooped it up.

In deciding which direction to turn our tires, there was some consternation early in the day. Looking at a giant Google map with Binghamton in the center, it seems we've seen and done every single cool thing within a hundred-mile radius.

And while this is a very good problem to have, and a testament to how adventurous and devoted we are to getting out and doing stuff, it doesn't make our weekend planning any easier. Sometimes you want to go back and visit a favorite place. Sometimes, though, you crave the new experience.

We hemmed and hawed for awhile, and even thought about undertaking a two-and-a-half-hour drive through Pennsylvania. When I finally noticed a tiny freckle of green on the map, a fairly nearby state park we'd never been to, our decision was made.

This is Fillmore Glen, another one of those unbearably beautiful Fingerlakes gorges. We learned a lot while we were there. Like, for instance, that Millard Fillmore, number one least-notable US President, was a good old upstate New York boy.

We learned (and not for the first time) that coyly hopping a TRAIL CLOSED FOR SEASON, NO TRESPASSING plastic fence is usually a good idea. The ferns, and the shy coltsfoot buds were ours alone.

And the goofy smiles were entirely too much fun to avoid.