Adam’s Understory

Beat the Heat Under the Canopy

Before we set off, I wanted to try a little experiment. I’d been thinking about how powerful a forest canopy can be—not just in the poetic sense, but in terms of temperature and comfort. The only thermometer I had at home was my cooking thermometer, so I brought it along. In the sun, standing on the asphalt near the trailhead, the temperature read a scorching 90.2°F (32.3°C). Once we moved down the paved ADA path and past the tree plantation, we entered the true canopy of the forest—and the temperature dropped to 79.5°F (26.4°C). 

Everyone knows it’s cooler in the shade, but seeing it quantified—more than 10 degrees cooler!—made me appreciate how much the forest protects us. It was the canopy, quite literally, that allowed us to slow down, relax, and reconnect.

After indulging me on my little experiment, the three of us set out. After less than a quarter mile, I was reminded that Naomi lives and breathes nature. It was effortless for her to carry a tiny human on her back and still pause to encourage me to smell the spicebush or swap plant knowledge. She knows far more than I do about native and invasive species, and I found myself grateful to not be the most informed person on the trail that day. I knew we’d each bring something different to the hike—and to each other.  

Friendship in the Forest

As the shade wrapped around us and the trail stretched ahead, we got to really catch up. It was the middle of my workday, but for once, I didn’t have any urgent meetings or emails waiting. So, we stopped to smell the metaphorical (and actual) roses—and eat a few wild blackberries while we were at it. 

I told Naomi about how I’ve learned to hug trees and estimate their age. She told me about her kids, her goats, and hanging by the pool this summer. We talked about our spouses, swapped book recommendations, and paused often for a curious “Ooh, what’s this?” The answers included Virginia Mountain Mint, Crown-tipped Coral Fungus, Mayapples bearing fruit, Spicebush, and the visually stunning—but olfactorily disappointing—American Trumpet Vine. 

Everywhere we turned, the canopy was doing what it does best: filtering the harshness of the world above, making space for life and conversation below. 

You should visit the West Side, my friend

If you haven’t had a real, soul-deep catch-up with someone lately, I recommend the north end of the West Side Hiking Trail. Despite being open for several years now, the trail still feels like a hidden gem. 

Eagle Creek Park tracks gate entries and estimates around 1.3 million visitors each year to the main East Side—more than national parks like Redwoods, Mesa Verde, or Badlands. But fewer than 1 in 10 of those visitors ever make it over to the West Side. That’s a missed opportunity. 

The trail Naomi and I hiked is a beautiful trunk trail, meaning you can walk the entire length of the West Side. We started at the Crest, passed through dense forest, and planned to turn around near the 310-year-old Burr Oak. Along the way, we stopped at the largest Tulip Tree in the park—and marveled at her “daughters,” growing nearby. 

Naomi and I talked about how trees in old-growth forests communicate through their roots, connected by a mycelial network—fungus that lets them share resources and warnings. It’s a reminder that in nature, connection is survival. I like to think that “Mama Tulip” has watched over her grove for well over a century, sheltering them under her crown just like the canopy sheltered us. 

The 310-Year-Old Connection 

When we reached the Burr Oak, I felt a familiar sense of awe. I’ve visited that tree in every season, but standing beneath its broad crown on a hot day with a dear friend was especially grounding. Naomi was struck by its sheer size—the width of its trunk, the spread of its branches. 

I always try to picture what life was like when that oak first sprouted, back in the 1710s. So much has changed—natural and human—but that tree has held on, growing quietly through it all. The Burr Oak is a living thread stretching across centuries, a natural archive of change, resilience, and renewal. 

Just like human relationships, the forest canopy reminds us that while time can erase connections, it can also deepen them. 

The People Who Preserve and Protect

I’m especially excited when I can introduce someone to the West Side Hiking Trail, because the Eagle Creek Park Foundation helped make it a reality. 

This trail began as an idea in the mid-1980s, dreamed up by John Pankhurst, who calls himself the “head sheepdog” of the project. John helped shepherd the vision through decades of design, fundraising, collaboration, and construction. Today, he’s still involved in the signage and access systems that will eventually be permanent fixtures on the trail. 

The West Side Hiking Trail was a massive group effort, with contributions from Eagle Creek Park, Indy Parks, the Department of Public Works, and the Foundation. Building the trail required time, and a belief in long-term stewardship. And the result is something worth celebrating: protection for old-growth trees, new ways for people to experience nature, and a space for all kinds of connections to take root. 

If this isn’t nice, what is?

At the end of the hike, I felt grateful. Grateful for Naomi’s friendship. Grateful for the chance to work in a park that’s still growing and changing year-over-year. And grateful for the canopy—above and around us—that made space for everything we shared that day. 

We need more of this. More shade, more stillness, more space to walk, talk, and remember who we are, together. I’ll continue to show up and do that work, making space for anyone who wants to enjoy a walk in the woods. 

As I put the finishing touches on this blog, I’m reminded of a quote by Native Hoosier Kurt Vonnegut Jr., who said, quoting his uncle, “If this isn’t nice, what is?“. As Naomi, my grandbaby, and I stood smelling the American Trumpet Vine, I felt a calm that one can only get from a wonderful conversation with wonderful company in a wonderful place.

I remain grateful for the power of canopy connections.