The Trail

There are regulars who walk and jog the Azalea Trail in the morning. A couple with a small beagle mix, the husband sporting a wide brimmed travel hat. A short, thin women, perhaps in her late seventies or early eighties always wearing a winter coat and carrying an umbrella. An attractive young Black woman with her playful toy poodle. There are archetypes. Asian and Latin American adults linking arms with their elderly parents ambling slowly along the wooden planked trail, photographers with lenses longer than my forearm, occasional birdwatchers peering through binoculars.

The sun rises over the Chattahoochee River as I begin my daily walk. I park my car in one of the three available lots. A short distance along the paved path, an arched wooden entrance way, welcomes you to the Roswell Riverwalk Boardwalk. The raised trail that meanders through a deeply wooded area, turning right and left to accommodate an array of native trees. The trail opens up to a marsh that reminds me of Monet’s Water Lilies. Turtles skim along; their shells disappear when I attempt to take photos for my grandkids. Ducks and geese are more accommodating. A heron with long legs and backward knees ambles slowly.

Further along the Chattahoochee widens, its waters held back by the small Morgan Falls hydroelectric dam two miles or so south of the path. Built in 1904, the dam provided electricity to Atlanta’s street cars.

Rowers from the Atlanta Rowing Club or the Atlanta Junior Rowing Association glide by, their oars moving in precise synchronicity. Further downstream, immediately above the dam, the river widens into Bull Sluice Lake, where, in warmer months, kayaks and paddle boards can be rented at Morgan Falls. I bring my own inflatable kayak – the inflating being the difficult part. A paddle board yoga class meets weekly.

In 1864, along this shore of the Chattahoochee River, Union soldiers, under the command of William Tecumseh Sherman massed on their way to conquer and burn Atlanta. According to a historic signpost. This was the path of the 16^th U.S. Army Corps under the command of Major General Grenville, M. Dodge. It was here, or near this point, that the Union soldiers forded the river—the covered bridge further upstream having been burned by the retreating Confederates. Perhaps they would have freed the slaves at the Archibald Smith Plantation, two miles north of the river.

Soldiers marched and rode toward Atlanta along “the Atlanta Road”, a dirt wagon path, later renamed Roswell Road. They would have marched past or through, what is now, Princeton Square, the subdivision where we now live. Perhaps they camped in my backyard.

In 1838, along these shores members of the Cherokee nation were in the early days of the forced march to their diaspora. They called nunahi-duna-dlo-hilu-i — “the trail where they cried.” We know it as the “Trail of Tears.”

We all walk along an ever-changing river. We pass the couple with the small beagle and smile at the young Black woman with the playful toy poodle. We nod respectfully at the Latin and Asian American elderly and the children who support them. The turtles disappear into the muddy water as we peer down. A heron walks graciously in the narrow waters.

Rifles held high above their head, Union soldiers navigate the rocky bottom of the Chattahoochee. Cherokee mothers walk slowly; their infants secure in cradleboards. Perhaps, in happier, more peaceful days, they paddled canoes and fished where paddleboard yoga classes now meet and I struggle to inflate my kayak.

The trail is a gift to the people of Sandy Springs and Roswell. On early mornings, as the sun rises, when the air is still cool, and the Atlanta heat has yet to overcomes us, it is a delightful way to get your steps in. But if we only focus on our steps and not the steps of those among us and those before us, we will remain alone.