On the trail, I was shedding not only the stresses of my business life, but also all the distractions that had kept me from truly seeing myself, others, and this hike we call Life. I was learning to see what I saw. God had said He would meet me on the trail. Experiences and people that in my everyday world would have passed unnoticed now carried messages I was able to hear. I finally had time to listen and learn.
Take the footbridge over the James River, for example. For many years, hikers had only one route across this river, a narrow two-lane highway that made the crossing dangerous. A local man’s vision and determination changed that for me and for every other hiker on the trail today.
Bill and Laurie were a local couple who thru-hiked the Appalachian Trail and found themselves transformed into believers in the mission and vision of the AT. They became active in the Appalachian Trail Conservancy and worked as trail maintainers with their local club. Their stretch of trail included that bridge crossing the James River, and for over a decade Bill single-mindedly pursued the dream of a separate hiker bridge spanning the waters. Many times throughout those years, the new bridge seemed an impossibility. But today it reaches 625 feet across the river, a testament to Bill’s hard work and a series of serendipitous events.
Bill saw possibilities in five railroad piers in the river, no longer in use, owned by a local businessman. He visited the owner and explained his dream. The owner agreed to sell. Not only did he agree to sell, the asking price was only $1.00. Bill had the solid beginnings of his bridge.
Nine years of clearing obstacles, both financial and legal, finally resulted in the dedication of the James River Foot Bridge in 2000. The dedication of the bridge was also a memorial to Bill, who had died of cancer just months before and never walked across his own dream.
I stood by the bridge and read the memorial plaque: “Bill pursued his passions, honored his dreams, and cherished those around him.” This man had not just raced thoughtlessly through his life. I compared my own life. Did I even know what my passions were? Had I let my dreams die? Would I cherish the people in my life and appreciate what they brought to me?
I climbed all morning, arriving at the top of Bluff Mountain just before noon. It was my highest elevation of the day. The view was grand, but the company was even grander: at the peak, I found Sailor and his son also enjoying the view.
That afternoon I walked a section of the trail where rhododendron blossoms drifted down and lined the path with pink petals. I felt like royalty parading along a path of homage, or a bride floating down a petal-strewn aisle. Either notion seemed a bit ridiculous. I was just a solitary hiker wandering down God’s trail through His great outdoor cathedral.
Euphoria cranked up my courage. Now was the time to sample rhododendron. I plucked a nice specimen and hesitated only a few seconds before popping it into my mouth. They sure look a lot better than they taste, I thought as I chewed and chewed and chewed.
A twenty-two-mile jaunt through the mountains ended at Brown Mountain Creek Shelter where I stopped for the night, happy to see that Sailor and his son were also there. Sir Enity, though, was low on food and needed to resupply. He hiked two more miles to U.S. 60, where he hoped to hitch a ride into Buena Vista. There he would find a motel, buy food, and head back to the trail in the morning.
———
The next day, I arrived at U.S. 60 just as a truck dropped off Sir Enity, who brought an extra Burger King breakfast sandwich he had decided to gift to the first hiker he met. And luckily, that was me.
It was a good beginning to another hard day of climbing. Bald Knob and Cold Mountain both demanded strenuous effort from legs and lungs. I thought back to the day Sailor, Marathon Man, and I had entered Virginia. We had anticipated easier hiking. And the springtime Blue Ridge Mountains were easier than the frozen, snow-covered Smokies, but this entire hike was far more difficult than I had ever imagined.
Sir Enity and I set our sights on Rockfish Gap, which we hoped to reach in two days. The Gap marks the entrance to Shenandoah National Park and is only a short distance from Waynesboro, Virginia, where we planned to make a town stop. On the top of Cold Mountain, I had cell service and called ahead to make a motel reservation.
Toward evening, we crossed the small, rutted Crabtree Farm Road that cuts through the forest. A four-wheel drive vehicle was parked near the trail, and a young couple had spread a private picnic. Sir Enity hesitated to crash their party, but I insisted that we at least attempt to mooch some food. It was one of the best trail magic moments of my entire trek. The couple offered bananas, carrots, tortilla chips, drinks, bread, and a complete Mountain House meal that I stashed away for later consumption. The young picnickers had already given us most of their supplies, but they asked if we needed anything more.
“How about Aleve? Would you have any of those?” I asked. My shin splints were almost gone, but so was my Vitamin I.
“Sure do,” the young man replied, and he poured out a handful for me.
The trail magic energized us for the last climb of the day, Priest Mountain. Several hundred feet below the summit, we stopped at the Priest Shelter. A church group had commandeered the building, so Sir Enity and I set up our tents nearby. We found entertaining reading material that night; hikers were using the Priest register as a confessional. Records of transgressions filled the pages; the most frequent sin reported was the theft of toilet paper. During town stops, hikers often unroll a liberal amount of toilet paper to take with them for later use.
———
Sir Enity and I crossed Priest Mountain in the early morning light. The day was difficult but rewarding; twenty-four miles took us to heights and depths. From 4,063-foot Priest Mountain, we dropped to just 997 feet at the banks of the Tye River, where we wobbled across a wooden suspension bridge that swayed like a pendulum. Then it was back uphill as we headed into the Three Ridges Wilderness area to a height of over 4,000 feet that gave us splendid views over the valleys and mountain ranges. White mountain laurel bloomed around us, and purple and white flowers flaunted their wild beauty along the path. Several graceful waterfalls coursed over rocky drops.
We finally stopped on top of Hanging Rock and took a moment to imbibe the sweetness of the day. Below us lay farms and fields of the beautiful Shenandoah Valley. At our backs, honeysuckle blossoms sent out their sweet aroma. I felt fortunate, one of the privileged few who would ever sit on this spot and savor such a moment.
Sir Enity finally convinced me to stop sniffing the flowers and get moving. The rest of our day was filled with stream crossings, log steps up and down inclines, and mountaintop experiences in the sky. We had no particular goal except to get as close to Waynesboro as possible.
The sun was dropping in the sky when we reached Humpback Mountain, still eleven miles from Waynesboro. We were not stopped by darkness or our physical condition. We were halted by our surroundings. Near the crest of Humpback, the trail led over rocky outcroppings at the breathtaking edge of the mountain, with views reaching for miles over the Shenandoah Valley. Sir Enity voiced my thoughts: it would be fantastic to camp here and watch the day disappear over the valley.
We searched for a camping area and found a grassy spot perfect for our two tents, just a few yards back from the jutting stone ledge. I set up Big Agnes and within minutes had water boiling for a hot meal. Hidden somewhere in the rocks, Sir Enity called my name. “Apostle, get over here! You’ve gotta see this!”
I grabbed my food and headlamp and followed the direction of his voice. He was perched on the rocks with the world stretched out far below. I found my own seat in the grandstand, an indentation in the stone that fit my body and still held lingering warmth from the day’s sunshine. We sat and watched the sunset in silence, two wanderers on a lonely trail, both on our own quest for peace. Among the billions of humans on earth that night, only we two had these front row seats as earth moved from day to night.
The sun disappeared, and now, across the expansive valley, twilight slowly ebbed away and darkness descended. Smaller lights flickered on, as folks in distant buildings lit their little worlds against the darkness; lights were going on in my much larger world too, as the stars grew brighter. Soon there was no horizon; sky and valley melded into one, and the entire world was blackness with tiny dots of shimmering light. The God of the universe had just ended another day in the Shenandoah Valley, moving the light on its journey westward, on to other beginnings and endings.
We sat in awed silence long after darkness had arrived, and then stumbled back to our tents. During the night, the local deer snorted their disapproval of the two invaders of their grassy spot, but we slept and rested well at the edge of the world.
God had allowed two rock dwellers to sit ringside while He worked His majesty. I am astounded that some folks think this all started with one big bang.
The morning light glowed softly as it fell on the mountain and returned to the valley after its overnight journey. We had only eleven miles to Rockfish Gap, almost all downhill. The trail down Humpback Mountain was rocky but scenic, crossing streams and winding through the forest.
The woods ended at the bottom of a highway embankment. We’d arrived at Rockfish Gap, where I-64 and U.S. 250 intersect. Here too the Blue Ridge Parkway transitions into Skyline Drive. We crossed the road to an information center and found a list of people willing to drive hikers into Waynesboro. We chose a name, made the call, and were picked up by a lively and informative lady of eighty-four years, who drove us to the Quality Inn where we had made reservations.
Arriving in town at noon is almost like a day off. Food, laundry, and resupply were the order of the afternoon. At the laundromat, I washed every article of my clothing. Yes, even what I was wearing at the time. I stepped behind a bank of washers—to avoid causing a distraction and possible arrest—shed my clothes, and donned my rain gear.
Across from me, a hiker emptied a food box on the floor. His big, floppy straw hat and a flute lying nearby told me I had at last caught up with Padre the priest. I introduced myself. He was staying that night at a local church hostel. I wanted more time to talk with this man and hoped our paths would cross again.
We ate and rested—important activities during town stops.
The next morning during breakfast at the Quality Inn, a hiker walked in, topped with a mop of brown hair I immediately recognized. Back at the Barn Restaurant in Atkins, Sailor and I had been headed back to the trail when we had met this hair and the mind underneath.
I reminded Einstein of our meeting and we chatted. “With a name like that, you must be a deep thinker,” I joked. But he was, indeed, a solemnly reflective person. “I’m just out here contemplating everything I’ve ever been taught,” he told us.
Contrary to Sir Enity and me, Einstein had a wonderful wife who was fully alive and supportive of his quest to hike the 2,200-mile think tank. We invited him to hike with us, and now our group not only had heart and courage—we had a brain.
We three joined others gathering at the entrance to Shenandoah National Park and went through the formality of filling out permits admitting us to the park.
The Appalachian Trail and Skyline Drive both wander through Shenandoah National Park. The trail crosses the famous highway several times. Other times, walking high on a mountain, we would see the scenic blacktop route snaking along below us.
The second day in the park, we stopped for an impromptu ceremony on Baldface Mountain. We had just completed mile nine hundred. Sir Enity scrawled “900 Miles” on a dead tree by the trail. We admired his handiwork and signed our names, knowing the act violated the “leave no trace” principle of hiking, but wanting to leave a point of celebration and encouragement for fellow hikers.
The park has a series of waysides, businesses located along the highway for travelers to eat, fuel, and shop. We stopped at Big Meadows Wayside for lunch, where I was shocked to see gas prices had risen to over $4.00 a gallon. I predicted that more folks would soon be walking.
Sir Enity was meeting his brother at Big Meadows, and they planned to hike together for several days. Einstein and I went on together, but he would meet his wife in Front Royal and then I would again be hiking alone. The three of us made plans to meet again in Harpers Ferry a week later.
That evening as Einstein and I approached Skyland Road, I could not resist the temptation of a soft bed and a good meal. Skyland Lodge and Restaurant was just down the road, so I headed there and Einstein planned to camp just a short distance down the trail. I would catch up with him the next day. I know I paid too much for those comforts that night, but the prime rib and blackberry cobbler sure hit the spot.
The next morning, I ate breakfast with a hiker who was attempting a thru-hike for the third time. The previous year he had made it to Connecticut, but then fell ill and had to leave the trail. And now this year, in Virginia, he confided to me that this was his last day. He was going to quit. “I am just so tired and lonely,” he told me. He had called home, and his wife told him he could come home only if he promised not to make another attempt the next year. “I wanted to do it so badly, but I miss home too much.” I thought again of those words: unless it’s the most important thing in your life at the time, you probably won’t finish.
Nearing Elkwallow Gap, I began to look for Einstein’s campsite. I had not caught a glimpse of him all day, but in the event I didn’t catch him, we had agreed to camp here at the end of the day.
The area was not suitable for tenting, though; it was full of dense bushes and undergrowth. I guessed Einstein had kept on hiking, looking for a good site.
The trail crossed the highway just one-tenth of a mile from Elkwallow Wayside and more food. I was detoured by the thought of a hot dog and an ice cream bar. The treat was delicious, but the day was slipping away and I still had not found Einstein. I hurried back to the trail.
Less than a mile from the Gap, a trail leads off the AT to Range View Cabin. At this intersection, just a few feet off the trail, Einstein had set up camp. I never saw his tent and kept on hiking.
Several hours and several more Skyline Drive crossings later, I was still looking for Einstein’s camp. I hiked over four peaks on Hogback Mountain in the fading twilight, and I picked up my pace. The light was starting to play tricks on me.
At this point in the Shenandoah Mountains, most hikers had already reported seeing bears. I had not seen any. Two days before, I was hiking a short distance ahead of Sir Enity and Einstein; at a road crossing, they called for me to stop. When they caught up with me, they told me I had walked right by a large bear, less than fifteen feet from the trail. I had never seen the animal, but they had even photographed it.
In broad daylight, I had been unable to see a bear, but now in the fading light I was seeing bears everywhere. Tree trunks became shaggy threats, and several times I stopped in my tracks, heart pounding, as I waited for the distant tree-trunk bears to move away from my path. And it was not just bears that lurked in the darkening evening; I saw dogs, cats, and wolves, as the faint light conspired with rocks and stumps and bushes to give me the heebie-jeebies.
Finally, a trail sign. With relief, I read that Gravel Springs Hut was two-tenths of a mile to the right. Surely Einstein would be there. I found my way to the shelter in the near-darkness, filling my water bottle at a spring along the trail. At the front of the shelter, I peered through the shadows at hikers already in sleeping bags.
“Hey, is Einstein in there?”
“Not in here,” came the reply.
Several hundred feet past the shelter and behind the privy, a few tent sites sat vacant in the dark. No one else was here. I set up my tent and cooked my food, wondering what had happened to Einstein.
A bear pole had been erected to hang food bags. It reminded me of a maypole, about fifteen feet tall with hooks protruding from the top to suspend bags high in the air. Nearby, I found a metal pole with one hooked end. I placed the heavy food bag on this hook, then lifted it unsteadily toward the hangers at the top of the maypole. It was a difficult balancing act, made even more difficult by darkness. My headlamp shone into the heavens as I waved the long pole skyward and tried to hang the dangling food bag above any bear’s reach. I swayed and teetered around the pole, working to make the connection, feeling like a May dancer weaving in the May night. I imagined bears watching from the woods, laughing heartily at my antics.
I awoke several times during the night, hearing loud crashing in the undergrowth around my solitary camp. I shone my light through the tent and yelled at whatever was out there.
Morning arrived at last, and the shadowy bears had eaten neither me nor my food.
———
That last day in Shenandoah National Park, I saw five bears. It was no wonder, then, that a noise crashing through the woods behind me made me jump and whirl around.
Einstein came blasting up the trail. His unique hiking style had only one speed—the same velocity, uphill or down. I struggled up difficult hills, but he never slowed. On this afternoon, I was sure that he had cranked up the speed one more notch; it was the day he was meeting his wife in Front Royal.
The trail crossed U.S. 522 at Chester Gap. Sailor and his son were also at this road crossing, trying to get a hitch into Front Royal, four miles away. I still had fifty-three miles to hike in two days to reach Harpers Ferry, West Virginia, so I wanted to keep moving. “See you guys in a few days,” I yelled to Einstein as I headed up the trail.
The trail followed the southern boundary of the National Zoo. Chain fencing encircled several thousand acres, and my guidebook said that many rare and endangered animals were behind those fences. I didn’t see any animals, but I did see holes in the fence that would have allowed large animals to escape. Perhaps they were all on my side of the fence by now.
At five o’clock I arrived at the Jim and Molly Denton Shelter. This comfortable shelter boasts a front deck and inviting deck chairs. I could go no farther. I settled in with the intention of getting an early start the next morning. I was the only person there, so I set up Big Agnes inside the shelter. A brother and sister team doing a section hike arrived later that night, but they set up their tents nearby.
A good night’s sleep prepared me for my longest hiking day yet.
The day started with great promise. I was on the trail soon after five thirty; the sun came up, and I was feeling good.
The first twist of the day came in a field where weeds growing to my shoulders crowded the path. As I pushed my way through, with only my head above the weeds, dust and pollen flew everywhere. When I came out at the end of the long field, I was coated with a layer of white dust.
Half a mile later, I lost the trail in a rocky area where the white blazes seemed to have evaporated. I stumbled in circles for quite a while before finally spotting one of those small white rectangles. Once back on the trail, I could hardly believe my bad luck—I was forced into yet another field filled with those tall weeds. A second dust storm ensued as I pushed my way through the maze.
At the other end of the field, I met the brother and sister who had camped at the shelter the night before. They seemed surprised to see me. “Apostle, why are you headed back to the shelter?”
I had made one too many turns around that rock pile, looking for blazes, and I was hiking the wrong direction, retracing my steps of the morning. Now I had to navigate the dusty weed patch a third time.
Twelve miles into my day, a trail cut off to the right, leading to Sky Meadows State Park. At this intersection in the woods, someone had placed a wooden park bench, a perfect spot to take a break.
I heard the warning thunder and quickly pulled my rain cover over my pack. But the day was warm, and I decided not to wear my rain gear. I would just take the shower, and hopefully the sun would soon return and dry me out. The plan worked . . . sort of.
The rain soon turned into a downpour. I tried to find shelter under a tree, but I was soaked through in fifteen minutes. The sun did return and I was almost dry in less than an hour. But then another downpour soaked me. Three times I went through this wash and dry cycle. The third time the sun appeared, I was in the woods walking a downhill path, hunched against the rain striking my shoulders, when the sun sent dazzling beams of light through the trees, meeting the shimmering mist rising from the ground. The sudden brilliance lit up the woods, and I took it as a promise from God that He was finished blasting me with storms . . . for this day, at least.
———
In the middle of the afternoon, I stood in front of a sign welcoming me to the Roller Coaster. This section of the trail covers nine miles of steep ups and downs. Before I started this hike, I read about this series of hills and imagined the fun of flying up and down these rollers on the way to Harpers Ferry. But now I noted that the welcome sign also bore this message:
HAVE A GREAT RIDE AND WE WILL
SEE YOU AT THE BLACKBURN TRAIL
CENTER (IF YOU SURVIVE)
So I was finally here, and it wasn’t fun. None of the hills were extremely tall, but the cumulative elevation gain and loss rivaled many of the biggest mountain climbs on the trail. Steep upward scrambles were followed by immediate and dramatic drops. No switchbacks allowed.
The Roller Coaster is notoriously difficult, but it’s still a popular area for day hikers; I met others enjoying a spring day in the Virginia woods. I shared the trail for a time with a woman walking with two dogs, and every now and then I caught sight of a Boy Scout troop. But most of these folks were only doing sections of the rollers or were crossing the AT while following other trails of their own. I was single-minded, climbing and dropping, climbing and dropping, pushing myself to survive to the end and claim my reward.
If I could finish this stretch, my day would cover twenty-eight miles. But even better, my reward would be the hiker special waiting at the Bears Den Hostel. For just twenty-five dollars, I could have a bed, do my laundry, and enjoy an entire pizza, a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, and a can of Coke. That promise kept this weary hiker climbing and descending. It’s amazing what a human being will do in pursuit of a goal.
At eight thirty that evening, I stumbled into the Bears Den Hostel. I had hiked 28.2 miles, my biggest day thus far on the trail. I’d been completely turned around and had hiked the wrong way; I’d hiked all the killer rollers. But I was still smiling. I had achieved my day’s goal.
I also had a pizza, two cans of soda, and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s in front of me.
I went to bed, exhausted, clean, and full. The next day, I would finish Virginia, the longest state on the AT, and enter West Virginia, the shortest state. In Harpers Ferry, I wanted to visit the little church beside the trail where I had prayed for our family. But the most satisfying thought was that tomorrow I would fulfill a promise I had made to myself that day over five years ago while standing on the trail outside Harpers Ferry.