That’s when a microscopic brown blip appears on the horizon ahead of me. But at least no one else is here to see me in this state, right? So I’m nervous and I’m sweaty and I’m dying. At any second, an angry park ranger could leap from the tall grass and piledrive me. The sun could set, and I’d get lost within the 300-acre landmass. The reserve technically closed at 6 p.m., and I’m parked illegally outside of its chained-up entrance, so I’m nervous. The endless stretch ahead of you burns into your eyeballs. Running in wide open spaces is objectively the worst - you always see exactly where you’re going, and exactly how long you have left. The trail leads me into a field, oval and surrounded by trees, with a winding path cut into the tall grass. I’m about halfway through my four-mile run. It’s early October, about 7 p.m., and I’m sweating up a storm. So this is where our story begins: Boot Lake Nature Reserve. I’m back in Tennessee, in my dumb boring hometown that I somehow still love, in our sprawling state park that we don’t deserve, on a trail I could run with my eyes closed. Running these trails, lakeside and under an oak tree canopy, it all feels familiar. Just happy to be here, honestly.Īnd even though it’s not meant for me, I appreciate Boot Lake because it reminds me of Panther - and by extension, it reminds me of home. Being able to run on its trails is merely a bonus. Boot Lake Nature Preserve only does what it needs to do: It preserves nature. For the humans, there’s a small gazebo and a low-capacity parking lot that’s never full.īut it’s not about the humans. And it’s in Elkhart, Indiana, of all places, boasting a grueling 45-minute round-trip drive from campus. It’s flat and it’s marshy, spanning 300 acres but offering less than five miles of trails - but still, the limited routes traverse forest, field and farmland. After just a few underwhelming escapades, I stumbled upon Boot Lake Nature Preserve.īoot Lake Nature Preserve is not Panther Creek State Park, but that’s alright.
I booted up my maps app and began the search for a worthy trail. It wasn’t until this fall, though, that I decided to do something about it. So when I shipped off to school in flat, ugly Indiana (sorry, Hoosiers), I was left with a Panther-sized hole in my heart. It’s the most beautiful place, perfect for clear-your-head runs, picnic table takeout dinners or high-speed hikes with your hyperactive Ausiedoodle named Clyde. Eventually I learned that’s not how state parks work, but the gratitude remained.
When I was a kid, I thought there was only one state park per state, and for years took immense pride in the fact that our town - with its meager population and abundance of cowfields - got the one spot for Tennessee. It was just across town, and we were incredibly lucky to have it so close. The park is a dense, hilly forest sprinkled with labyrinthian trails, many overlooking our beautiful (but strikingly brown) Cherokee Lake. They stressed me out beyond belief.īut there were some parts I liked: namely, Panther Creek State Park (all the cool kids just called it “Panther”), where our cross country teams had practice five times a week, running too many miles in the brisk autumn Tennessee air. Even just the smell of freshly cut grass is enough to put a pit in my stomach - it reminds me too much of high school cross country meets. If you follow me on Twitter, you’ll know that this is a big deal.