Some places announce themselves with skyline and noise. Cumberland Island begins with a whispering tunnel of live oaks that makes you feel like you’ve stepped off the map. A couple of hours before I ever meet that shaded road and wander under its immaculate branches, I catch the early morning ferry from St. Mary’s, the only way to the island, sharing the deck with just a handful of the 300 daily permitted visitors.

I’m starting the new year with a simple goal, to add more mileage to my weekly runs. Nothing too ambitious, just a small step on the ladder to the next level. But in scouting out my new route, I ended up finding something even better: a slice of beauty I’d somehow overlooked all my years in Decatur.