When we approached the Appalachian Trail access a couple of weeks ago, ready for the rocky trek up one of New Jersey’s excuses for a mountain, we were met with a group of three young men exiting the woods.

“Be careful,” warned the leader of the posse, “We saw some rattlesnakes on the trails.”

One of the other young men behind him snickered in response, which assured me they were just messing with us.

“Oh, ok. Thanks,” we said.

We continued on our way into the cover of the trees, boots in dirt, digital trail map in hand, the idea of seeing rattlesnakes on such a well-traveled route too unlikely in our minds to actually be afraid. We pushed the thought deep to the bottom of our mental daypacks. It wasn’t until later that it dawned on me that laughter is an often employed mask for nerves.

But more on that to come.

The Appalachian trail led us for a short while along the shallow, meandering Dunnfield Creek. The creek was dammed in spots with fallen tree trunks and boulders. On previous sweltering hikes, the creek has been a draw for people wanting to cool down in its babbling waters, falls, and pool basins interspersed throughout the water’s winding path. We did not encounter any bathers as we covered this beginning part of our route in the forest.

The trail forked just after a small waterfall, continuing flat along the creek on the left or upwards on the Blue Dot Trail to the Mount Tammany summit. We continued up, following All Trails with slight confusion, painting our own blue path upon the digital topography, slightly off kilter to the dotted trail line mapped out.

Mount Tammany is neighbor to the Appalachian Trail without actually being part of the far stretching, eastern range. The little mountain holds its own though, in our opinion at least, and boasts some impressive views of the serpentine Delaware River, the Delaware Water Gap, and the broad, sturdy Mount Minsi, across the water.

Little as it may be, compared to “real” mountains we have visited, Mount Tammany challenges hikers with a steep climb no matter how you approach it. In the past, we have opted to do the trail as a loop, Red to Blue to Appalachian, then connector back to Red. We have come to learn that the Red Dot Trail ascent is abundant with steep boulder scrambles, the rock faces painted with trail arrows that point straight up to the sky. Hiking the Red Dot Trail requires frequent stops to catch our breath and and ease our heart rates. This time, we thought we’d go a little easier on our bodies and take the Blue Dot Trail as an out and back instead, making our route closer to 4.6 miles instead of the 3.7 the loop would be.

After a couple of water and Gatorade breaks, we continued up along the trail, chatting as our breathing allowed, sweating as is only acceptable while exercising in the great outdoors. The trail turned from rocks to dirt and roots in shades of gray for a brief stretch. I was slow to process an odd sound I was hearing. Is that cicadas? I thought. Something pulled a warning from the back of my mind and the memory came into full consciousness just as my gaze fell upon the creature slithering across the path, just steps in front of us.

“Hang on,” I said, stopping ahead of Mike, “Rattlesnake.”

We took instinctive steps backwards and watched as the timber rattler, about four feet long and three inches wide finished crossing the path, the markings and tone of its skin the perfect match to the dusty landscape. The rattle at the end of its tail vibrated rapidly in warning.

We skirted wide and hurried along the path, stealing a few wary glances behind us.

“I thought those guys were just messing with us,” I confessed to Mike with a little laugh to downplay my apprehension, more vigilant for slithering bodies as we climbed the next steep stretch.

“You know? I’ve seen two rattlesnakes in the wild in my whole life,” I said, “And both were in this area, the Delaware Water Gap.”

“Really?” said Mike.

I remembered the ancient looking rattler my camp group came across hiking on some trail in the Delaware Water Gap when I was a kid. We didn’t realize it was there until we were right beside it. It didn’t rattle, just rested, coiled on a dead tree stump. I don’t think Miss Rochelle liked it much at all. A hiker’s dog had joined us on the trail at some point and stayed with us until the end, making us all feel a little safer and lighter.

I don’t remember how old I was in this particular memory. I don’t remember being scared. I just remember the green of the forest and a light mist and that wise looking snake as Miss Rochelle led us cautiously past it.

To tell the truth, I thought I’d be a lot more shaken encountering a rattlesnake than I was this time around. I kept an eye out as we hiked on, thinking just be careful where you step and keep your ears open for that warning like a shaker full of glass beads.

We reached the summit of the mountain which doesn’t have much of a view at all and hiked a little ways beyond to access the vista point further down the trail. We hiked down the rocks a bit to better take in the view once we got there, but chose not to descend to the lowest rocks of the vista point which have the most unobstructed views but feel the most treacherous.

We could see the river well from where we stood, as well as the beach where we waited over an hour in sweltering heat last fourth of July to be shuttled back to our car from our kayaking trip downriver.

I remembered the view from Mount Minsi across the river, looking upon where I stood now.

I remembered taking in the view from Mount Tammany’s vista point on a cold day in March 2021 when the trees were bare, the views expansive and toasted in winter’s varying hues of brown. I remember being on the mountain two hours from home and feeling like the hike was as exhilarating an adventure as any amid the Covid lockdowns, precautions, and hierarchical vaccination availability.

I remembered the struggle to climb up the mountain’s Red Dot Trail back then with more weight on my body.

I remembered that picture from Chicago and that feeling of luck to have a switch flip in my head after thirty-two years in the dark when it came to knowing how to be kind to my body.

I took a deep breath of fresh air, filling my lungs with the good stuff, and held it before letting it out. We took a few pictures to bookmark the memories of this particular journey up the mountain, reflected on the view a little longer, and turned to make our way back down the mountain.

We navigated the rocky trail back down, our stabilizer muscles earning their keep as we balanced on the loose rocks and knobbly roots underfoot.

“This is about where we saw that rattle snake,” I said when we reached the brief, flat stretch of trail.

We continued down, down, down.

Just before we reached the fork by the little waterfall, Mike pointed something out up ahead and said, “What is that?”

“What is what?” I said, looking up.

A dark creature crossed the trail ahead.

“There’s another one in that tree,” said Mike, pointing.

I looked.

“What is that?” I said, “It’s like some kind of weasel almost.”

Mike wondered if it was an otter. I wondered if otters can climb. Fun fact, turns out they can, but it’s irrelevant information to this creature.

“They’re not bears, are they?” said Mike.

The fear hit then at the suggestion, looking at the creatures, about five of them, each with dark fur and 3 feet or so long. Baby bears? I thought. Mom’s nearby if they are.

“Maybe they’re bears,” I echoed, “We need to be careful.”

They didn’t look like bears though, but when you see an animal you can’t quite make sense of in the wilderness, maybe it’s good to err on the side of bear. Know what I mean? I started backing up the trail.

“No way,” said Mike. His confidence was enough to disperse my fear.

I suggested weasel. Mike was still on otter. Whatever they were, they continued across the path and into the trees out of view and we continued on our way back down to the little waterfall and along the Appalachian trail and Dunnfield Creek. Our research later on yielded the answer to be fishers which sort of look like what you might get if you were to combine the genetic makeup of a weasel, otter, and bear.

The bathers were out now in the creek, seeking a reprieve from the day’s heat in the cool water. We swatted at clouds of insects as we traversed rocks and roots and mud on our way back to the trailhead. We stepped onto the pavement of the parking lot and took the connector back to our car where others were waiting to park and were eager to stake their claim on our spot.

We had our next destination ready in mind as the dirt from our boots nestled into the floormats of our car. I plugged in Shawnee Craft Brewing into the GPS and was already looking forward to a crisp, cold beer and some pizza in air conditioning, the rewards of exertion and wildlife encounters on Mount Memory. We headed across the river to the rustic yet civilized reprieve of the Poconos.

We left Mount Tammany behind, but we’ll be back. I’m certain. And next time we reach the top, we will have more to pile on the cairn of memories on that rocky face overlooking the river as it slithers through the gap between the little mountains we keep choosing to climb.