The Park itself was very busy with baseball games of various levels, all vigorously supported by adoring, very loud, families. The Trails, as we call them, were quieter, and we walked them, touching the river whenever it wasn't too difficult to climb down the banks.
All the while we watched, and were watched by, the Float participants. They were peering into the woods as we peered out.
The ruined bridge at Roricks Glen became a popular staging area, with paddlers waiting for their buddies in the shallows.
Except for a few fishermen, the paths were an almost silent refuge. Here and there, noise crows or blackbirds livened things.
The lushness of the vegetation this time of year never ceases to astound me. Deep, moist and utterly green, the hills of Chemung County tempt me to quit my job and camp out for the rest of my life.
If I could only do the sort of hiking required, I would almost never return home for more than a few minutes at a time. As it stands, I am only good for 90 minutes maximum, then it's back to base for a much-needed nap.