I often take road trips to various photographic locations. I thought this one was an excellent way to kick off my photography blogs. It is a bit long, but worth the journey as it carried valuable lessons worth sharing.
This road trip was quite the challenge. There’s no question about that. And for a trip that wasn't really intended to be an adventure at that. It reminded me of several points that we face along what I like to refer to as the journey. The first point is viewing challenges through only our own lens.
When we give others input or directions or instructions we do so with a certain bias. We make assumptions, worst of all, based on our own knowledge or, in some cases, intelligence. So much so we often get the other person lost entirely. The first day of my 7 day adventure started on a trail in the beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. This is a high elevation area for these particular mountains where fog and mist and bears are prevalent. From the highest vantage points the mountains dip and climb again to peaks as far as the eye can see. The mountains are blanketed with a thick lush green that seem to roll due to the immense age of the range. They are so old they existed before bone itself and are weather worn to what in mountain terms are nearly nubs. From high vantage points they have the appearance of gathered velvet. But these mountains are anything but soft and warm. The trails are often steep and rocky: treacherous if you’re not careful. The path is marked by a trailhead that clearly states where you are and the trail miles. Where the trails cross over one another there are usually clear signage. Along the way there are color markings specific to each trail to let you know you are on the path you’re supposed to be on and to keep you from getting off trail. Usually there’d be clear markers at the crossroads being the operative word there.
So, on this particular day I got a later start than usual, but still sufficient to complete the trail I’d planned to hike. Now I’m an overthinker by nature and generally prepared for things to go wrong. Because things do go wrong. Never think it won’t happen to you, because that’s asking for life to throw you a curveball and in the wilderness, no matter how well marked, that can be deadly. I carry a pack, in that pack is an extra bottle of water, a protein bar, first aid and flashlights. Yes plural, because we all know how this goes. Flashlights that are stored have a certain tendency when you need them to work. My one mistake will cost me. I left the map on the front seat of the car. I will realize this when I need it most, of course.
Never depend on another person for your own safety or rescue, we’ll get to that in a minute. The outdoors is a harsh place when it decides to be, self-rescue is an imperative skill. All is going well, Nikon in hand I start down the trail following the instructions of a website I will not name here. We’ll just say it’s an official one. Again, do your own informed mapping. (And for what it’s worth I’m laughing as I write this.) I’m noting the markers as I’m moving along, all is well, they are all the same sky blue.
Today I’m hoping to photograph waterfalls. The first one doesn’t come for a long time. This is how I know I should have walked the trail the other way. That and I’m passing a lot of folks going the other way. Drat, well, it is what it is, no fixing it. It’s a lot like a roller coaster, you can’t get off until the ride is over. Now this particular trail was rated moderate with a few rocky areas around the middle. I learned long ago not to trust the ratings on trails in Virginia. But, contrary to my physical appearance, I’m actually in pretty good shape. I hike regularly and I have been conditioning regularly. Not to mention the incessant mowing of my extensive hilly yard every week all summer.
But I’m not the mountain goat that rated this trail. Whoever he or she was is unequivocally three quarters mountain goat. And they have rated this trail through that lens of their own experience as an advanced hiker. And probably a very young one at that, in marathon shape. Oh and they rock climb, too, I’m sure. Because a few rocky areas on the climb back up turned into several sit down and scoot off the edge places because my short legs can’t make that step without breaking something I’ll need to get out of here. And my knees were quick to remind me that while I have been conditioning, it wasn’t for rock climbing. Meanwhile it’s taking much longer than 4 miles should.
The shadows are long and deep where there’s any sun at all. The problem with only looking through our own lens is that often we alienate the very people we’re trying to help. In this case the billy goat who was trying to share this beautiful trail and the experiences they very obviously enjoy couldn’t see past their viewpoint to offer helpful direction and reasonable limitations. It’s not their fault, it’s hard to see through a lens you haven’t experienced. It takes time and thought and maybe even getting out there and walking the trail, whether it be literal or metaphorical, alongside those you wish to share it with. Not just fellow billy goats.
At this point, I’m starting to worry a little. I’m way too far down the mountain with the light fading and I’m almost certain at this point that dark is going to be here before I can get out. The rock climb has not abated but continues along the most beautiful stream I have ever seen. The water is falling in tiny falls over rounded rocks into deep black pools peppered with yellow leaves. The wind is giving me a nice breeze, thank god because I’m working hard now, and it’s whispering in the treetops to hurry. But I’m old and I know that I have to pace myself, because I cannot see the ridge where I know the parkway to be and my car waiting patiently in the growing gloom.
I’m starting to see couples hiking down the trail. I ask to be sure I didn’t get off trail, because I passed four miles already according to my Fitbit. No, right trail and they ask, how much further is it the way they are going. I tell them they don’t have time and it’s very rough behind me, even for billy goats. They have no packs, no lights, no gear. This, I later realized, was because there was no signage at the top of the trail I was climbing telling them not to go, they wouldn’t have time. One couple ignored me, likely assuming the pudgy old lady was exaggerating. I wouldn’t want to be in that car later.
Two couples do not ignore me as they glance at the tents going up over in the hollow. Those are campers on backcountry permits. Not a good sign. They are far enough out to be considered backwoods. I ask them how much farther out, to my disappointment he grimaces looking at the light, or lack thereof, and says an hour. That’s an hour for them, twenty something in stellar shape and all downhill. They turn around. I step it up and climb. In my mind’s eye I visualize the ridgeline creeping closer. It’s up there, somewhere. In my subconscious that bright orange sign I passed several times on the drive in with the big bear lumbering across the road has me thinking. Their water source is on my right. Their food source over there in the woods, cooking their dinner. I’m kidding, sort of. But I put some distance between me and the campers.
Suddenly the trail ends and I step out onto - another trail. My heart sinks. The trees opened up and this one is much wider, truck width. I’d realize later that wasn’t a great thing, because it means forestry vehicle access, rescue vehicles most likely. I subconsciously-consciously don’t let myself think about it in that moment. There is another pair of hikers eyeing the signage. I stopped to read as well. There are three directions. It only says “Skyline Drive '' which is the name of the parkway somewhere above and mileage only for that truck width road - and I do mean MILES both ways. No mileage for the trail I came from, nothing at all for the fourth option, no name, no mileage, nada.
Through the lens of the person marking, no one is going up that trail, they are only coming down it. It’s dusk now. There’s a beautiful waterfall, the one I came to see most, but it’s too dark to photograph it, even if I would have taken the now very precious time. This is where I need the map and realize where it is. Because across from me is the last option. Now I know that if I pick the wrong one, there’s going to be an even bigger problem at the other end of this mess. The final trail, as I’ve mentioned, is not marked, but for a blue mark on a tree.There are several groups of people coming off it as I discuss with the ones studying the sign who ask about where I just came from. They are grateful for the help and turn around. I know I’m going for the ridgeline, so I follow the blue marker. Up. Up. Stairs climb upward and I meet a young man and his much older mother on the path. They stop me and ask how much further. I explain the waterfall they are likely looking for is that one, on our left. Beyond that it’s miles in all directions. I ask them if I am still on “the name of the trail” and they say yes. Remember what I said about depending on others to report accurately? Yeah, make sure you have your map. They did have theirs, and we all looked at it. It was a very simplified version and not really helpful at all. Just a bunch of lines and it seemed I was on the shortest one.
The map, that’s a good example of seeing through one's own lens. Keeping it simple is a good concept, except when your intended audience needs specific information. Most people cannot read longitude and so on. The person who drew it probably knew it well and it made all kinds of sense to them, the distance approximate in their mind by showing the difference in the trails. I’m not saying write me a book, but basic things like names of the trail and mileage. Those would be helpful. Maybe it was there in a key somewhere, but the owner of the map put it away before I could say let's sit down for a moment and look closely. Probably because it was nearly dark and they had a long walk back up and no gear. I asked how far they’d come, hoping against hope twenty minutes to the ridge since I couldn’t see it in the deepening dusk. It took at least forty minutes down to here. She looked worried when she said it. I’m thinking, because neither of us wanted to say it out loud: ‘that was all downhill.
It’s not only getting dark, but it’s autumn in the Blue Ridge Mountains, which are typically ten degrees cooler than the surrounding valleys. The temperature is dropping fast as darkness finishes closing in, giving me a cold little hug of encouragement. I can no longer see the stream and waterfalls (I can hear them) to my left as I steadily climb. I grew up in the mountains here, so the woods aren’t scary for me. I have walked many nights in the dark enjoying the night sounds. But that was many years ago. I sit my pack down, sit on a wall for just a minute while I dig for a light. I pull the best one I have out. The brightest. Turn it on and my heart sinks as its dim beam doesn’t even give me enough light to walk by. I have a cell phone on me and I see others scrambling up the hill using that as their light. But I know this is an hour or more and I may need that cell phone, provided I have any signal, if anything goes wrong.
Bears are rummaging around in my thoughts. In my heart I already know what trail I’m on and it shouldn’t have blue markers, not that I can see them any longer for it to matter. But I am nothing if not prepared for just such an event. I dig again. I pull out a headlamp. Turn it on and find it raring and ready to go. Thank you, Duracell, you’re worth the extra money I put out for the important equipment. I put it on, hoist my pack and start moving.
It’s worth saying here, the projected temperature in the valley was low 40s, here that's 30s at best. I have donned the jacket I packed at the start of this hike. Never, ever sit down when you’ve passed exhaustion at least a mile back and it’s cold and dark. Your tired and overheated body will decide you can stay there a while and then misinform you that you cannot go any further once you get cold. Keep moving. One foot in front of the other in a set direction. The cold will creep in and make it all the harder if you sit down at this point. Pause, let your heartbeat steady and slow, but do not sit down.
So up the hill I go. Slow and steady wins the race and the last thing I need is to panic and my already stressed heart to be any more stressed. I’m in good cardiac health, but even in good health this is not the time to push it. With each turn in the switchback trail I find another set of woodland stairs. I have been listening to the waterfalls I’m passing as I go, watching the full moon rising through the trees. It’s a sort of mountain magic I hadn’t experienced here. It reminded me of home, that place in the deep woods where I grew up. A place I hadn’t thought about in a long time, for many reasons.
Another bend, another set of stairs, I’ve been walking nearly an hour now. I’m starting to wonder if I’ve been eaten by a bear and this is my own personal hell. Never Ending stairs climbing in the darkness. But I push the thought away as I listen to it following in the trees. I’ve been hearing it for about twenty minutes now, off to my right. It’s not approaching, just hanging out. Probably waiting to see if the hapless human drops dead for an easy meal. I have no way of knowing what it is. But it’s big and it’s heavy enough that I’m hearing its footfalls. Slow and steady and patient. I carry bear spray, but that doesn’t do you any good if you can’t see it coming.
Where we are the bears are predominantly black bears. These are not apt to attack you under normal conditions. It’s not cub season, I’m not easy prey, a berry or a grub, so I’m not too worried. Though bear attacks have been on the rise. But I don’t know if it's a bear. It’s not a very big one if it is, because it’s not making a lot of noise, just enough to hear its footsteps. All four of them. So, it’s not a serial killer lurking in the woods either - I chuckle at myself. If it were he’d probably just be looking for a map.
I turn another bend in the trail and find… pavement. And open, starry skies. I walk up the last slope to the trailhead - and find a gaping, empty parking lot. My parking lot wasn’t on this side of the road. I had to cross the parkway to get to my trailhead. As I have suspected, but not wished to let myself acknowledge, when I picked the trail leading up I got off onto a different trail. It's amazing to me that more people don’t get lost up here, because they can’t even remember what trail they were on to begin with. That alone tells me they are picking randomly, no plan, just "this looks good".
For a long while now I was on a different trail and the other hikers I’d asked, specifically naming the trail I was supposed to be on, had said, yes, I was still on THAT trail. No. No, I wasn't on that trail. I say a little prayer for all of them hoping they got out okay. I’m sure I’m the last one out among us. Slow and steady.
Whatever was in the woods didn’t follow me out. I walk up and confirm I am on the trailhead I was afraid I was. Which way was my car? I sit down on the wall and gather myself. I passed this coming in, didn’t I? I don’t want to become one of the notoriously missing 411 people. So I pull out my phone. One bar. I dial 911 in the hopes they can find me a ranger. Nothing. It never rings. Shit. I call my best friend’s number, heart hopeful. But it doesn’t ring either. The signal isn’t strong enough. I sigh, write her a text and hit send. If you get this try calling me, if not text back. SOS. She is the person I tell where I am going in specifics. Because there is no one else. There’s no one to notice if I don’t come home except three spoiled kitties who, while they would miss me, really just want their treats on time. I know the text will be sent when I hit the spotty signals you get up here. She’s fast, she’ll hit me right back, telling me to stop and try again.
I start walking the direction I hope my car is in. How far past this trailhead was mine? In the car it was only a few minutes. But on foot? That’s another matter. In the pitch black, full moon at my back, but not yet lighting the landscape as it’s still in the tree line. The stars are beautiful, the air is crisp and it’s downhill. My feet are numb, my hip hurts, because you know old age, but I’m okay, not panicked and really need to pee. I’d have done that back in the woods, but you know - bears and it just didn’t feel like that was a good time to show vulnerability to a possible predator/scavenger.
In less than five minutes I get a buzz. She tried to call, but it didn’t go through. She texts, what’s wrong? Where are you? I text back I’m okay, but I need a map of the distance and direction between trailhead one and two. I waited, hoping I wasn’t walking the wrong way. Every now and then a car passes, but I’m carrying a hiking pole and a pack, so they don’t pay me any mind. A part of me would probably accept a ride from a stranger in the dark on this desolate road, but another part of me says, "No stupid, you’ve survived this ordeal - don’t fuck it up now! Your luck today, you’d get the damned serial killer."
I don’t have to make the choice, however. She sends me the map. One and half miles. I respond back, okay, that’s walkable, briefly explaining in a nonchalant tone, that I’m not really feeling, what happened. I walk the remaining mile, light swinging, slight limp from the throbbing hip, stepping off the pavement when a car comes by, pole out where they’d see it, so they’d assume and keep going.
I see the reflection of my tag first in the darkness, followed by the outline of my dark blue SUV. I lay my stuff on the passenger seat; on top of the blasted map I needed hours ago. Shutting the car door, I take a moment to do my business right there by the car. It’s not like there’s anyone to see and I left my real or imagined bear back at the trailhead when he decided I wasn’t going to drop dead.
With relief I walk around and get in, note there is another car left way down on the lot. I hope they made it out okay or at the very least aren’t lost in the dark, but I know I’ll be on the lookout for a 411 story from the Blue Ridge Parkway. I slide in, shut the door and hit the start button.
My headlights spring to life illuminating the forest in front of me. And there, just at the edge of my headlights sits a large black shape as if it’d just been observing an oddity from its woodland home. It gets up and lumbers off, in no hurry, away from my headlights. Sorry, bear, I think, letting out a breath. My ride is over, I’m off this roller coaster and glad of it. You’ll have to go dig out a log and find some grubs.
