Morehead, KY
I woke again at Koomer Ridge Campground in the Daniel Boone National Forest. Rain had come and gone throughout the night but stopped by morning, leaving the forest damp and quiet. My plan for the day was to visit Cave Run Lake Overlook and then head into downtown Morehead to explore the town and Morehead State University campus.
Morehead, KY
I decided to start in Morehead, about thirty minutes north, since the fog would make any overlook pointless for now. The drive in passed through the usual stretch of chain stores and fast-food spots before giving way to the older part of town. The Chamber of Commerce and Visitor Center caught my eye—a restored train depot repurposed into a welcoming space. Maneuvering the van into the small parking lot was another matter. I stuck out far enough to make getting around me a challenge, but I figured I’d only be inside a few minutes.
Inside, two women greeted me. One called out a friendly “Welcome to Morehead!” before disappearing into another room. The other asked how she could help, and I explained that I was traveling through and wanted to know what to see around town. She pointed me toward downtown, just a block away, and the university, one block uphill from there. Then came my first moment of confusion with a thick Southern drawl. She said, “Cavern Lake is nice for hiking.” I asked how far Cavern Lake was from town, and she smiled, repeating slowly, “No, Cave Run Lake.” We both laughed, and I told her that was already on my list—weather permitting. Before I left, she pointed me toward a rack of brochures and told me to take whatever I needed. There was a 50 page “Smart Cycling Manual” putout by The League for Smart Cycling. It is certainly informative and helpful.
The town of Morehead sits in the foothills of the Appalachians and serves as the seat of Rowan County. Founded in 1856, it grew from a small settlement into a center for logging, fire clay, and the rail trade. Like much of eastern Kentucky, it’s a place shaped by its geography—rolling hills, dense forests, and the pull of the Daniel Boone National Forest just beyond town. In the late 1800s, Morehead made headlines for the Rowan County War, a violent local feud that lasted several years. Over time, the town moved beyond that rough past, evolving into a quiet university town and gateway to outdoor recreation. Today, Morehead balances its rural roots with the energy of its campus, local arts, and easy access to the forested wilderness that surrounds it.
Morehead State University (MSU)
I drove around town for a bit, getting a feel for the place, then parked at the eastern end of Main Street. The Morehead State campus was just a few blocks north, tucked against the forested hills. It’s not a large university, but it has a quiet, easy rhythm that fits the setting. Construction crews were at work on a new science and technology building, and students passed by—some with books in hand, earbuds in, lost in their own worlds. I spent about forty-five minutes walking the grounds, taking photos, and sitting on the low stone walls that line the walkways. I noticed small metal pieces fixed to the top edges of those walls—skateboard deterrents, cleverly placed to protect the stone from grinding tricks. The campus felt calm, orderly, and at home in its surroundings.
Near Lappin Hall, I passed a display of petrified fern roots that had been completely covered, plaque and all, to protect them from the weather. The fossil dates back more than 300 million years, from a time when vast swamp forests covered eastern Kentucky. It was discovered in 1962 by professors Jim Chaplin and Allen Lake, who found the exposed roots in a hillside in nearby Elliott County. The specimen was brought here as a teaching piece, linking students to the ancient landscape that once thrived where the Appalachian foothills now stand.
The history of Morehead State University began in 1887 as a small teacher-training school known as the Morehead Normal School. It started in a rented cottage with the mission of bringing education to the mountain communities of eastern Kentucky. In 1922, it was formally established by the state as the Morehead State Normal School and Teachers College, and over the next several decades it grew steadily—adding new buildings, programs, and a stronger connection to the region it served. Today, Morehead State University enrolls about 8,600 students and offers a wide range of undergraduate and graduate programs. The campus sits in the Appalachian foothills, surrounded by forested ridges and small-town life, and has earned recognition as one of the top regional public universities in the South. MSU’s focus remains true to its roots: teacher education, science and technology, and community programs that support eastern Kentucky and beyond.
Morehead Downtown
I eventually found myself standing on West Main Street, walking slowly back toward the van and taking in the small-town rhythm. It was a Thursday morning in October, and most of the shops were closed. The air was cool and quiet. A woman sat on the sidewalk outside one of the shuttered stores, smoking a cigarette, her gaze fixed somewhere down the street. As I walked, I began noticing something unusual—large turtle statues scattered along the sidewalks. Some towns have cows, horses, or pigs as their mascots, but I’d never seen turtles. Each was painted differently, themed to match the business or sponsor nearby. The bookstore had one with “Read More” painted across its shell.
Just before noon, I stepped into the bookstore tucked in the back of a café (Coffee Tree Books). It’s small but well curated, with shelves of current bestsellers alongside regional histories and books by Kentucky authors. In the back, there’s a small children’s area that looked ready for Saturday morning readings. A friend had recently recommended The Ministry for the Future by Kim Stanley Robinson. They didn’t have it in stock but offered to order it. I wandered to the café counter and ordered a chicken wrap with salsa and a latte. The space had a relaxed, creative feel—students tapping on laptops, a few locals chatting quietly. I couldn’t help but notice I was the only man there besides the barista.
After lunch, I continued my walk and stopped at the Rowan County Arts Center. The building has served several roles over the years—originally the county courthouse, later the town’s main school, and now a community arts hub. Inside, the old classrooms have been turned into galleries and studios where local artists display paintings, pottery, and crafts. Several rooms host rotating exhibits and workshops, and a small show of local watercolors caught my attention—simple scenes of hills, barns, and quiet roads that felt true to the region. The place felt less like a formal museum and more like a community space run by people who genuinely care about keeping local art alive.
A plaque outside hints at the building’s deeper history: “Courthouse burned: 22 Kentucky courthouses were burned during Civil War, 19 in last 15 months: 12 by Confederate, eight by Gorillaz, two by Union accident. Courthouse at Morehead burned by Gorilla March 21, 1864, the eastern most damaged incident to the war. Building was again burned in 1880. County records before 1880 all destroyed by fires.” The current brick courthouse was built in 1899 on the same site as those earlier buildings and remained in use until the early 1980s, when it was converted into a school and later restored as the Arts Center—preserving a piece of Morehead’s past while giving it new life as a creative gathering place.
Throughout Kentucky, I’ve noticed many old barns painted with quilt symbols I didn’t fully understand. A plaque in front of the Arts Center explained that the tradition connects two cornerstones of Kentucky life—quilting and farming. The Foothills Quilt Trail was created to honor that heritage, preserve old barns, and celebrate the artistry of local quilters whose patterns once warmed families and decorated homes. What began as a practical craft has become a recognized form of folk art that ties together history, community, and pride across rural Kentucky.
By the time I left the Arts Center, the rain had returned—this time with gusting wind that made photography nearly impossible. The van wasn’t far, so I headed back to my shelter on wheels. Inside, I pulled out my computer and searched for a trail to hike if the weather cleared. One option caught my eye, about thirty-five minutes away near the lake. While I was at it, I looked for a place to stay closer to where I planned to ride tomorrow. I found a Harvest Host about twenty-five minutes from the trail and sent off a request, hoping they were still taking guests this late in the season. By the time I was on the road, a message came through confirming my stay.
Cave Run Lake
Cave Run Lake sits within the Daniel Boone National Forest in eastern Kentucky, about ten miles southwest of Morehead. Often called the “Gateway to the Mountains,” the lake stretches for nearly 8,300 acres and is surrounded by forested hills, quiet coves, and miles of hiking and biking trails. Built by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers in the 1970s for flood control and recreation, it has since become a popular spot for boating, fishing, and photography. The area is also known for its wildlife—bald eagles, herons, and white-tailed deer are common sights along the shoreline of which I didn’t see any.
At the first trailhead, it was clear the path hadn’t seen many hikers lately—grass growing over the entrance and no fresh footprints in the mud. I tried another trail inside a nearby national campground, but there wasn’t a single place to park. The third option had a sign posted: Trails Closed for the Season. I decided to stay put and experiment with some macro photography instead. Macro photography is all about seeing the small things—getting in close to reveal patterns, textures, and details often missed by the eye. It’s one of my favorite ways to slow down and look differently at the world.
Off to one side stood an old iron furnace, moss creeping over its crumbling stone walls. As I wandered closer, I noticed the ground around it was dotted with mushrooms—hundreds of them. What stopped me were the flashes of blue among the brown leaves. The caps ranged from pale turquoise to deep cobalt, the color richest where the rain had darkened them. I’d never seen blue mushrooms before, and in that moment, the closed trails didn’t matter. There was plenty to explore right there under my feet.
I spent more than an hour trying to process some of the images. Macro photography is as much about patience as it is about seeing—especially when you’re trying to capture something as small and detailed as a mushroom. At such close range, the depth of field is razor-thin. Only a sliver of the subject is in focus at any one time, so to create a single sharp image, you have to take dozens—or sometimes hundreds—of photos, each focused just a fraction of a millimeter deeper than the last.
For one of the blue mushrooms, I shot 120 images, each one capturing a slightly different focus point along the stem and cap. When those frames are merged, the result should be a single image that’s crisp from front to back—every ridge, pore, and bead of moisture in perfect detail. Should be is the key phrase. The process is anything but simple. The camera has to be perfectly still on a tripod, lighting has to stay constant, and even the faintest vibration can ruin the sequence. Later, the files are merged using software like Photoshop or Helicon Focus, which aligns and blends all 120 frames into one. It’s a time-consuming process that eats up both hours and hard drive space, but when it works, the result can reveal a world that’s invisible to the naked eye.
I’m far from being an expert in macro photography. I like the process and there is a lot to learn. I get excited when I have an image that actually comes out after all the work. It was time to drive to my harvest host. I had over an hour drive and didn’t want to be driving in forest after dark with deer darting in an out.
I reached my Harvest Host just before seven, a small horse farm with a few chickens wandering near the barn. As I pulled in, the owner came out to greet me—arriving just as I was finishing a text to say I’d made it. A light mist hung in the air, and he walked over with an easy smile. We talked for about fifteen minutes, mostly about travel and the farm, before he laughed and said, “I’ll let you go before we’re both soaked.” A genuinely kind and welcoming host. The site even had water and electric hookups, though I didn’t need either.
I made dinner—simple bean, cheese, and rice burritos—and settled in for the night, ready to dive back into my photo work. The van was quiet except for the rain on the roof and the faint hum of the computer fan. I spent the next few hours trying to merge the macro images from earlier, but the process kept failing. Photoshop would stall each time I ran out of disk space. After some digging through online forums and a few trial runs, I finally figured out how to assign an external drive as Photoshop’s temporary scratch disk. A small victory, but a big relief—one step closer to getting those blue mushrooms properly merged.