ALL WEATHER IS GLEN WEATHER

By Will Kretz ‘26

It was a windy, gray day. The kind of day that makes Light Side look haunted and Dark Side Soviet. The kind of day that makes you think something bad is going to happen very soon. But this kind of day— this weather—was exactly what I needed. I had a point to prove: all weather is glen weather.

The trip down to Rogers Glen (my personal glen of choice) is a hike in itself, but true glenheads won’t be deterred by a little extra walking. At Rogers’ entrance, I was greeted by the Day-Glo fence of the famous Rogers Pit. I’m not sure what the college has in store with this hole, but man, I’m excited!

Everywhere else on campus, the ice is gone, but not in this true wilderness. The charm of Rogers Glen is its lack of maintenance; ice and mud had mixed, creating a new kind of danger—slippery but exhilarating.

As any experienced glen-goer, I often go off the trail. In one of the few masculine instincts I have remaining, I follow the river as far as I can. Crossing from bank to bank, jumping from stone to stone, never totally falling but always coming close. What a feeling. On this day, the recent rain had given the river a little encouragement, and it was flowing faster than ever.

It wasn’t long before I was out of range of my cellular data provider; I was truly on my own. My only friend was my Sony Cybershot, a sturdy little camera on which I hoped to document my trip. Maybe it was the cold, maybe nerves, but the Cybershot’s battery was in a constant state of flux, keeping me on my toes.

Things started changing when I realized my waterproof boots weren’t so waterproof. The water, the mud, and the microbes carrying ancient diseases that populate the river, had all found a new home in my shoes and were making great friends with my socks. Were I to go missing, the soft mud and my heavy steps left behind a traceable enough footprint. Just follow the size 11’s (11½ if we’re being generous).

Things really took a turn when I went up further than I ever had. I crossed over the river into an open area littered with beer cans, and more alarmingly, tins of sardines. Partying was expected deep in the woods, but sardines? Sardines are sustenance. Someone was living out here. My first thought was American serial killer Glen Rogers, “The Cross Country Killer.” Maybe he was hiding in the woods, waiting for an Editor-at-Large to come walking through, tired, muddy, and expecting nothing at all. But I felt Glen Rogers in Rogers Glen was too on the nose. Still, my uneasiness persisted. It's one thing to be alone in the woods, another to not be alone.

My trip only got stranger as I marched on. An empty fenced-off field, trash seemingly everywhere, a stairway to what appears to be Hamilton College’s garbage park, and scientific apparati that I definitely did not tamper with. I also found a bizarre structure, maybe an art project, maybe home to American serial killer Glen Rogers, made out of trash and decorated with, you guessed it, more trash. I continued.

The banks of the river were getting higher and higher, making it difficult to go back and forth. On one end of the steep hill, I was greeted by some kind of electrical hub with a pool of stagnant water in front of it. On the other side of the river, over another steep hill, was a utility pole I wanted to touch. For my last trick, I scaled down the hill, crossed the river, scaled up the other hill, and was promptly told not to touch the pole. It was the final disappointment.

I felt as if I probed too far, looked too hard into Rogers' secrets. What once felt like true wilderness now felt limited, populated by trash and serial killers. I followed a trail that led me to Witham field, where the Boys’ Lacrosse team was practicing to get another one of their famous wins. One thing I’ve found with any glen, but especially Rogers, is that it will always spit you out somewhere. I have yet to find a glen that is infinite, or more accurately, a glen that wants you to stay in its infinity infinitely.

But back to my point. Any weather is glen weather, as long as you don’t stray too far from the trail.