The road into Hocking Hills curled through gold and crimson trees, the kind of drive that makes you forget about time and start believing your GPS is just along for the ride. Chris and I were pumped for a few days away with her family—and Service Dog Charlie was practically doing laps in the RV. He knew something was up. Every turn of the winding road had him glued to the window like he was on squirrel patrol. The plan was simple: meet up at the new lodge, hit the trails, and eat like we’d earned it. Pretty much the perfect fall getaway.
When we rolled in, the air was brisk enough to remind us it was mid-fifties but sunny enough to fake spring. The new lodge, rebuilt after the 2016 fire, stood tall and shiny, the kind of place that makes you want to take a deep breath and say, “Now this is Ohio done right.” Our crew—Steve and Cindy, Tommy and Pat, Cheryl and Robin—were already gathering in the parking lot. Jackets zipped, hands stuffed in pockets, everyone grinning like we hadn’t just spent the last year texting each other instead of visiting. Chris and Charlie stretched their legs while he sniffed everything that didn’t move. His tail was wagging double-time—ready for duty, ready for treats, ready for whatever.
We hit the Whispering Cave Trail with enthusiasm. The first half-mile was easy enough, and we started thinking we were in pretty good shape. Then the incline showed up. Before reaching the cave, we stopped for a group photo on a slanted patch of trail that looked suspiciously like a setup for a “Hikers Gone Wrong” blooper reel. Eight adults and one dog trying to look natural while not sliding into a ravine is a special kind of coordination. There was laughter, some arm-grabbing, and at least one “Don’t move!” yelled as cousin Tommy pointed the way to safety. The Whispering Cave itself was worth the effort—a massive sandstone overhang, dripping with cool water and old stories. It was nature’s cathedral, complete with echoes and questionable footing.
It was a steep incline on the way back, where we were actually counting the number of steps back to the lodge. It was over 150, I think. We gathered under the lodge portico to rest up as the chill of the evening set in. Steve and Robin launched into an animated debate about chainsaws and wood splitters (the kind of conversation that starts with horsepower and ends in folklore—My wood-splitter is a 25 ton. Well, I have a 30 ton). Chris and I just wanted to get out of the cold and get something to eat. Back at base camp, Tommy took charge of dinner, turning out his famous,, must-have traditional first-night chili like a pro. Bowls were filled, cornbread disappeared, Fritos were spread either as a chili topper or foundation, and the laughter rolled on. Between the day’s laughter, the trail’s challenge, and Charlie curled up at Chris’s feet, it was clear why Hocking Hills has drawn visitors for generations. It wasn’t just the scenery—it was fellowship, family, and the quiet reminder that God’s handiwork is always worth the climb, one step and one story at a time.
