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I'm in a beautiful forest near a major ski resort. My job is to design and lay out a trail system for hikers, mountain bikers and horse riders. I’m alone, swimming through dense stands of dreaded oak brush. Although the weather is warm this afternoon, I wear double-front Carhart pants and a long-sleeve hickory shirt. These clothes provide little protection, however, from the hard stems and branches of the oak.
I hate the oak. I'm not from Utah and having only been here a few years, this dominant, indigenous plant has yet to grow on me. Saying this, I don't want to get the "love it, or leave it" hate mail from Utahns because I have disrespected the native flora. As a trail builder and designer, I’ve laid out scores of miles of trail, and it seems in the short time I've been in Utah, I continually curse the oak.
Trail design is a special part of my job. Unlike building new trail or maintaining existing trail, layout allows me to use my creativity and personality to transform an undeveloped mountainside into a useable, challenging, single-track trail. Anyone who has done survey work will tell you that you simply cannot shoot grade and layout alignment alone. You need a partner because, for any survey work, one surveyor is needed to operate the level (a hand-held device used to measure inclining or declining grade called a clinometer), and one surveyor is needed to hold a rod for exact height. I'm here to tell you that doing it alone is not only possible but I wouldn't have it any other way.
I consider many design aspects when I lay out a new trail; the most important of which is grade. In the Forest Service, the acceptable range of inclining or declining grade is between 8 and 10 percent. Ten-percent grade is equal to a 1-foot rise in a 10-foot run. In comparison, ramps used by those in wheelchairs are about 2%, and a typical flight of stairs is 90%. Trails should also be designed for the specific soil and vegetation types, aspect and exposure and annual precipitation.
When I layout trail, I tend to design through obstacles rather than around them. If I didn't, the trail, when built, would more closely resemble a deer path that would wear out any trail user by gaining and losing too much elevation. So as I flag my centerline, I must be willing to follow my clinometer’s 8% direction, and often this brings me deep into the oak.
Today, my shins are battered from crawling through thick stands. This oak grows almost horizontal in some places, making travel painful if not impossible. As the weather warms and perspiration builds on my face, I notice a stinging both on my jaw and behind my ear—oak scratches from one of many lost battles with this plant. Sometimes it seems the oak doesn't want a trail on this mountainside; it is nature's defense against trail builders. Lesser men would be discouraged by this seemingly insurmountable barrier.
I continue to dive into it, roll of flagging in hand, to scout my "P" line (the initial route) and decide on my "A" line (the final trail location). I wouldn't give up this part of my job for anything. I know my crew will curse me, just as I have cursed the curtain of oak, when they come to cut out the alignment. They will see an opening just uphill or downhill from my flag line and ask each other why I didn't go there. If I have been effective as a teacher, my words will ring in their ears: "Build through, not around”, and they will cut my alignment in preparation for tread construction.
If done correctly, few will question the trail's alignment when it's finished. The sea of Oak will be parted, and a subtle, unobtrusive, well-designed trail will be in its place. As people travel this way, an acceptable amount of energy will be exerted because the grade will be consistent and moderate, preventing soil erosion, tread damage and trail user dissatisfaction. What seemed like barriers to trail construction in the layout phase will be long gone, masterfully removed, or disguised by a hard working, well-trained crew.
Trail users will not comment on its design or construction, they never do. I only hear from people when it is overgrown, too steep, too rocky, or otherwise unpleasant to their experience. I like not hearing from those who use trails. The layout, design and construction will only truly be appreciated by those who work on trails. Most people will be content to hike or ride and whistle to their dog, hold their daughter's hand or pedal around the next curve. When their mind is not on the trail, I have done my job.
That job is allowing the oak to beat my bones, scratch my skin and poke at my eyes. I will hang flags on her stems and branches, signifying certain death to that plant, or at best, a severe pruning. I will continue to venture off the existing trail, seeking a better alignment for those hundreds of miles of steep, eroding, nearly unusable trails, knowing there is a better placement. For you see, I'm not bitter at the oak. She has her job to do and I have mine.About the Author: Anthony B. Botello has been in trails management for the Forest Service since 1987, having worked in California, Oregon, Idaho and now Utah. “I enjoy trail design and layout best, and seeing a new trail from conception to use. I enjoy building trails that have more than just ‘A to B’ type destination, but trails with texture and contour, using the land to lay the trail into. I wrote this piece after laying out some trail in the Wheeler Creek area near Snowbasin. I hope you can tell from the story that I have a passion for trails. Everyone enjoys trails but few people know what goes into creating good ones.”