It was an unexpected dilemma.
For the past couple of hours, the dog and I had been enjoying a ramble at a place I hadn’t visited in years. It’s a good-sized chunk of land near the lower edge of Preble County, not too far distant from Rush Run.
Rough, rugged acres, totally unsuitable for farming, and thus largely forgotten. Rather than appearing pastoral, this land instead looks as though a scrap of Appalachian foothills had been miniaturized and plopped into southwestern Ohio.
Much of it is thickly wooded, with humps and hillocks, low ridges, and steep-sided ravines. The only flat ground is along a narrow bottomland corridor on either side of the little creek that bisects the place. A rocky waterway that pours over stretches of limestone ledges and is surprisingly deep for its often jump-across width.
I’ve been tramping about this abandoned back-corner for decades—photographing spring wildflowers, stalking elusive morel mushrooms, crawling on hands and knees to pick the tiny but ambrosial wild strawberries from a certain hillside meadow, and come autumn, infrequently doing a bit of fox squirrel hunting in the hillside timber which boasts quite a few hickories.
I know practically every corner of this sprawling area—including the various game trails and narrow, lightly-worn footpath that circuitously meanders around the place.
Daisy Dog and I had been scrambling about all morning. We’d put in at least a couple of miles, exhausted ourselves by clambering up and down the slippery slopes, and were now taking the shortest route possible back to the car.
Which brings us to our quandary.
As mentioned, the little winding stream that runs smack through the parcel’s middle is deep for its size. But in several places, it’s also just narrow enough that a youthful fellow with sufficient derring-do and reasonable athleticism, along with a devil-may-care attitude about getting his pants wet, might give a good run-and-go leap…and at least half the time, land dry-shod on the opposite side.
Alas, I am no longer that foolhardy or capable adventurer. Older and arguably wiser, I’d aimed our outing’s looping route so’s to arrive at the one place where a half-dozen stepping stones provide a dry crossing.
At least that used to be the case. Except I hadn’t visited hereabouts for a number of years. Passing time had wrought one problematic change: the stepping stones were gone!
Moreover, instead of the formally rocky shallows they once spanned, I now stared at a waist-deep channel of undoubtedly cold water. I’d apparently managed to get us stuck on the wrong side of the little creek—or more rightly termed, brook, given its diminutive size. A channel too wide to even think about jumping and too deep to willingly wade.
Momentarily stymied, the first thought that came to mind was a variation of that familiar catchphrase from the old Laurel and Hardy flicks:
“Well, Daisy,” I said to my faithful companion, “here’s another fine mess I’ve gotten us into.”
One of the things I dislike most about getting older is how I now find myself making decisions and altering my plans and behavior based on comfort. Not only is my body aging, but my willingness to suffer a bit of pain and hardship to accomplish whatever I want done…has turned me into a wuss.
Yes, I could have simply forded the creek and gotten soaked—and probably carried my 62-pound dog across so that at least one of us stayed dry. But the old intrepid attitude that once immediately green-lighted such hair-brained actions nowadays kicks and screams, imploring me to reconsider.
And the truly sad part is, I usually do.
Our only options now were to backtrack the way we’d come, or continue on a half-mile or so, to a county road, cross the creek on the bridge, then come back downstream and rejoin the path returning to the car—while adding an additional mile to our already tiring morning.
But it was the more comfortable alternative.
However, sometimes even unplanned and undesirable decisions have happy endings.
Heading toward the road and bridge, I took a game trail up and away from the creek, to skirt along a sort of narrow bench that follows the hill’s contour. We’d barely trudged a hundred yards along this elevated flat when a small nearby tree, decorated with roundish globs of pinkish-orange, caught my eye.
Persimmons! Or as my Great Uncle Edgar used to call them, “pucker fruit!” An uncommon-to-rare tree in my bailiwick of wanderings…but after pawpaws, my second favorite wild treat. After years of poking and foraging my way through countless area woodlands, woodlots, and scrub-brush patches, I don’t think I’ve stumbled across more than a dozen persimmon trees.
A wild persimmon tree—when you can find one—will produce fruits about the size of a quarter or fifty-cent piece. Nothing so large as those huge Asian varieties you sometimes find in the supermarket. But the fruit of our native persimmon (which, botanically speaking, is actually a berry) far surpasses any commercial offering in flavor.
An October-ripe persimmon is sweet, luscious, intense, and fragrant. As absolutely wonderful and totally unique as anything available to the wild taster.
Folk wisdom says it’s best to wait until after the first frost to shake down and collect a mess of persimmons. But just like the old folksong implies, the would-be persimmon gatherer must contend with competition from critters such as possums and raccoons, not to mention squirrels, skunks, deer, innumerable birds, and a host of similar sweet-toothed rivals.
I immediately made a beeline for that fruit-laden tree and began picking up ripe persimmons off the ground and plucking them from low-hanging limbs. After I’d filled my hat, I found a convenient log seat and settled into a much-appreciated impromptu brunch.
Daisy even tried a few.
A perfectly ripe wild persimmon is one that appears to be about mid-stage along its way to gooey deterioration. You DO NOT want plump, firm, and smooth-looking! As Captain John Smith, writing in his seventeenth century “Generall Historie of Virginia, New-England, and the Summer Isles” said “the fruit, if it be not ripe, will draw a man’s mouth awry, with much torment.”
Amen! You want persimmons that are squishy, wrinkly, and too-overripe looking to chance eating…or you’ll definitely pay their pucker-power price.
For the next half hour, Daisy and I rested and munched those sweet, gooey, delicious persimmons.
I was glad the stepping stones had washed away…and uncommonly pleased at how being a wuss had garnered us this tasty reward!
Reach Jim McGuire at [email protected].
