Appalachian Trail Hiking in Virginia

“May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view.”
–Edward Abbey

What am I looking for? Not only did I ask myself this while dragging my impossibly heavy feet
over mountain after taunting mountain, but I questioned it even in the months leading up to my
second Appalachian Trail section hike. I remember the shear exhaustion of hiking in North
Carolina.. making progress as slow as is humanly possible, swearing that I’d never do this to
myself again. I describe it as being similar to the high one gets after a race, the absurd
endorphin filled urge to sign up for another one despite hating yourself for the majority of the
mileage. But I think it’s more than that. I was asked, “What are you looking forward to the most
on this trip?” After short contemplation, I replied, “I have no idea.. something amazing.” In
short, I have a great life that I’m not trying to run away from. I’m not trying to find spiritual
enlightenment. I have decided that maybe I’m simply after another amazing day with another
amazing view.

A few months ago, I was talking on the phone to a friend I’d had since elementary school. Our
kids were playing baseball against one another and it had given us an excuse to talk.
At the end of a conversation one day, Bryan Miller said to me, “Hey, I saw your post on the
Appalachian Trail. I’d like to go someday."  He and his brother had talked about going for years
and just hadn't made it yet.  We both agreed that we weren’t getting any younger, and so I started
thinking about going back and inviting Bryan and his brother to come with me. Bryan gladly accepted,
though insistent that he wasn’t in the best shape, but his brother wouldn’t be able to make it. So, on
a sunny Thursday afternoon, Bryan and I hit the road to one of the most popular sections of the AT, the
Grayson Highlands State Park in southern Virginia.

Seeing as we were leaving late, we had arranged a hotel room in Kingsport, TN. After hours of
catching up had basically flown by, we reached our destination. We checked in around 11pm
and made our way to a nicer than expected room. As we opened the door and he
entered, he said, “Smells kind of funky in here.” Great.. “It’s not cigarette smoke is it?” I asked,
because I have allergies and couldn’t bare the thought of hiking for days with a runny nose and
itchy eyes. “No, that’s not it.”

Dog. That’s what it was. My beautiful bed smelled like it once belonged to Clifford. That was a
miserable night. Apparently, I can’t sleep while being nauseated by dog smell. I guess you
become nose-blind if it’s your own dog, but I couldn’t deal with that one.

So in the morning, we were treated to continental breakfast consisting of everything for which
you could ask. I had two eggs, sausage, biscuit and gravy, a bagel, and a muffin. I was getting
my money back for my night spent in Lady and the tramp’s honeymoon suite. We walked
outside to get something from our backpacks and I noticed my strap was wet. “Mine too..
everything’s wet,” said Bryan. “Oh, I guess you have to screw the end of this bladder closed.
My bad,” he added, after noting that 2 liters of water had escaped his Camelbak and leaked
onto our stuff. Oh well, we won’t freeze to death, maybe.

We hit the road again for Damascus, VA, where I had made shuttle arrangements with a guy
who sounded like Cheech and some other guy whose raspy mountain-man voice called me “Big
brother.” Damascus was beautiful. It’s a town most famous to me for being the “Trail town”
referenced in all the AT books and the home of the Trail Days festival every year. However, I
also learned that it’s even more famous for the Virginia Creeper bike trail and for shuttling cyclist
to the top and letting them ride back into town. It was everything I had hoped for. Every house
seemed to be a hiker hostel and the quirky shops and antique stores reeked of a hippie’s
version of Mayberry. We loaded up with Cheech and blazed an 87mph trail up the winding
mountain roads. There was no shortage of conversation. He was definitely interesting. He said
the ride would take about an hour, depending on who we got behind. A few miles later, we got
behind the world’s slowest dually, aptly named SPEEDYP.. I can’t make this stuff up. I
commented, “He’s kind of slowing down progress, huh?” which apparently touched Cheech’s
pride, because once Speedy turned off, we hit the boosters, hanging curves like NASCAR on
left. Bryan said, “Hey buddy, anybody ever thrown up in this van?” I later found out that was
Bryan’s version of a warning. He didn’t lose it, but said he was close.

We dumped out at Massie Gap parking area in the Grayson Highlands State Park. Cheech
snapped a couple of photos for us and off we went. “Wait,” I said, as I adjusted my pack and
snapped a photo. Two steps, “Wait,” Bryan said, as he got out his trekking poles. Off we go
into the gate of the main pasture… “Wait,” I said as I unloaded and insisted on touristy photos
by the entrance. It quickly registered with us both that this might be a long trip, so we tried to
lay off the stops and make some headway. It was a failure. I had come to the Grayson
Highlands for one reason, really.. wild ponies, and I was bent on seeing some and taking
pictures with each one.

Grayson Highlands is famous as a beautiful place but mostly for the aforementioned “wild”
ponies. The books that I’ve read say that the land was cleared decades ago and that ponies
were released to keep back the regrowth. Supposedly, no one feeds or shelters the ponies.
However, as we were about to leave the fenced in area having only seen ponies in the distance,
some other hikers told us there were some just over a ridge, so we headed that way. Despite
what I had heard, it was a huge letdown to see the ponies all gathered around a salt lick with
gates and hay bales all around. We made the best of it and snapped a few photos and left the
fence. Shortly thereafter, walking in this most beautiful place, much more reminiscent of what
I’ve seen on television of the southwest than anything I’ve seen on the AT, we started to run
across majestic herds of these wild ponies eating unbothered amongst the boulders and vast
meadows. They were more than I’d hoped for, and having been around thousands of previous
hikers, they weren’t scared in the least and a few even came over to be petted.

We wound our way up the hills and eventually up the boulders, where we passed the “Fat man
squeeze” and got our first great overlooks. We stopped for more pictures and ate some snacks,
more for fun than necessity and continued on our journey. We met a few people who were
actually out riding their own horses and we talked with them briefly. As we wandered alone into
the woods, we were staring down at our feet. You see, for the first several hours of this hike,
every step was on rock.. not the flat kind and not the climbing kind, but the miserable pointy
kind about the size of a fist, just awkward enough to make every step bruising and painful. All of
the sudden, Bryan was startled by something. Walking with his head down, he’d almost walked
into a horse that was standing directly in the middle of our path. Something had to give. In his
best, calming voice, Bryan gave it a convincing, “Hey boy.. we’re just going to… try to ease
around..” and about that time, the spooked horse kicked and attempted to do whatever it is that
a spooked horse does on a two-foot-wide wilderness path. The horse and Bryan were stuck in a
mud hole and none of us were sure what was about to happen. Finally, the horse gave way and
we proceeded through some of the prettiest woods south Virginia has to offer.

The Appalachian Trail doesn’t summit Mt. Rogers, but it comes within about a half mile of it,
accessible by side trail. The summit is covered with trees and offers zero views, but I had been
advised via a stranger's blog post that while you’re there, you might as well go to say you had
done it. It is, after all, the highest point in Virginia and the highest point east of the Mississippi
not accessible by car. We tossed our packs in some knee high grass, behind some trees at the
base of the side trail and began the ascent. They were right. There is totally no view and
nothing up there but bragging rights.

After what felt like such a good day of impressive hiking, we reached a sign that lists a few
destinations and the applicable distances. We were stunned. I know that as a hiker, you’ve
never gone as far as you think you’ve gone, but this was beyond even me. We were slated for
a 10 mile day, ending atop Whitetop Mountain. In five hours, we had covered just five trail
miles, plus the couple of scenic detours. “We’ll never make it home by Sunday,” Bryan said. I
was inclined to agree. I knew we’d had to take slow steps on all those rocks to avoid killing our
feet and breaking our ankles, but this was ridiculous. We decided we’d better get a move on,
so Bryan changed to dry socks and we hit the trail with vigor.

We passed another sign letting us know we’d arrived at the Lewis Fork Wilderness. We were
finally making excellent time. It was clear that there was an opening ahead. We exited the
trees into a sprawling cow pasture. After getting about 25 feet into the pasture, I noticed the
closest cow was sporting different equipment than your normal cow. It had just registered to me
that we were closer to my friend Bull than he was comfortable with when suddenly he
disappeared from my view as Bryan was in between us. I could tell by Bryan’s expression that
the bull was charging him and I saw his feet readying to run. Now, in the split second that time
stood still, I flashed back to elementary school and the P.E. track. In front of the pack, floating
like a gazelle is Bru… no wait, that’s Bryan. Bruce is the asthmatic crawling across the high
grass in the center of the field, hoping the coach doesn’t see his attempted shortcut. This is
about to get ugly. As the bull closes in, Bryan has a change of heart and decides to stomp, yell,
and clap at the bull. Being a young bull, this startled him and to my surprise, he retreated a
little. Very little. Then, as though spying a tastier option (He could have been a meat-eater, you
don’t know), he came after me. Having few options, I decided to go with the stomp/clap/yell
routine that Bryan had tried. I was very relieved to see that he was also afraid of me. As one of
the few non-bull expert Alabamians, I watched our back as we headed out of his territory. I’m
glad to report that we did not die.

We left the cow field, crossed a two-lane black top and jetted back into the woods. I knew that I
had tentatively set Whitetop Mountain as our destination for the night, and as is characteristic
of most mountains, it requires a bit of uphill travel. We were gassed. The only thing keeping my
going was my pride, hoping that the older couple we’d passed at the road wouldn’t beat us to
Whitetop. According to the guide book, there was a campsite at the “road.” Eventually, the
road came into view and we were elated. I suppose we totally missed the campsite so we kept
walking, as the guide said there was a spring .1 miles past the campsite. We figured we’d get
there, fill up on water and then head back to look. As we made the right turn and headed
towards the spring, the view opened on our left and the vastness of the Creator’s love for
human-kind sprawled on for hundreds of miles. My mind went back to North Carolina and the
words of Darin who had repacked his camp and rehiked a mountain to sleep under the stars
saying, “We’re only here once.” Jesse and I didn’t go with him that night, and I somewhat
regretted it. I knew then that Bryan and I would be sleeping, regardless of any elements, on the
side of the mountain that night. My Fitbit reported that on day one, we had climbed "477 flights of stairs."
As we finished dinner and were complaining about how tired we were, I told him that I had always wanted
to see the stars, the billions of stars, the way they look in pictures because I’ve never been anywhere in complete darkness. He said he’d only seen them that way in Iraq. I was glad that this time, we could watch
them under more comforting circumstances. They did not disappoint.

The next morning, everything was soaked. A cloud had passed during the night, and above
5000ft, we were in the cloud. I suppose the worst part of the trip to this point for both of us was
that we had been unable to get cell service the whole time. We aren’t used to not being able to
tell our kids good night and letting our wives know that we aren’t dead. The mission on day two
was to get somewhere with cell service. Little did we know that about 500 yards past camp
we’d crest a hill and walk a bald to Buzzard Rock, a boulder standing above everything,
showcasing a 360 degree view of layered blue mountains, and you guessed it.. cell service. We
sat in possibly the most beautiful place I’ve ever been and called home to hear the voices we’d
missed and it was perfect. Now, we could hike.

Day two was far less eventful. The first part was a 2000ft fall off the mountain, which was
torture on the knees and feet, followed by a long slow climb and topped off by what looked like
two camel humps on the elevation map. When leaving Buzzard Rock, Bryan and I had left
about 15 minutes after a couple of other hikers, a man and woman probably in their 50’s. We
were sure we’d pass them back quickly. Half an hour had passed and Bryan said he was sure
we’d have passed them by now. Hours later, we had determined that they must have stopped
at a side trail or maybe hiked out to their car somewhere. Eventually, we made it Lost Mountain
Shelter, where the couple had set up and started their lunch. Against the better judgement of
my pride, I asked them how long they’d been there. Looking at each other to verify their
answer, they said, “Oh, about 20 minutes.” Great.

We stripped off wet socks and fixed our lunch in the company of the couple, four trail
maintenance workers and a park ranger who were cutting down a tree to relocate the privy, and
a SOBO thru hiker named Nature Boy about whom Bryan later informed me, “I could smell him
coming before I saw him.” The couple were getting ready to leave so we made sure to leave
just in front of them. I was motivated not to get caught so that we’d again have an opportunity to
claim the best sleeping spots at the next shelter. I’m not sure how long Nature Boy stayed, but
it had to be a while because he didn’t pass us for a few hours. When he did, he was there and
then gone within 20 seconds.

We made it to the camel hump mountains and began what I was sure was going to be the worst
part of the day. I was correct. One thing you learn about AT mountains is that they never end
and when you think you’re at the top, you almost certainly are not. We drug on at a snail’s pace
for a couple of eternities wondering how in the world we hadn’t gotten there yet. Finally,
FINALLY, we reached the top of the second hump where we found Nature Boy taking a break
and a sign that said, “Saunders Shelter 1/4.” Bryan said he needed to sit and hydrate and get a
snack, as we were both at the end of our limits. After a minute, I heard someone coming up the
trail. There was no way I’d hiked 12 miles to get passed in the last quarter mile to lose my
sleeping spot, so I headed off to the shelter. Little did I know that a couple of hours before, a
Boy Scout troop had parked on a service road and hiked 2 miles in to the shelter. They had set
up everywhere, hammocks strung like Mission Impossible lasers throughout the trees. I
wandered through the maze and picked a decent spot next to a nice fresh pile of bear scat. I
headed back up to the shelter where the troop was working on their dinner and asked where the
water source was. “Down that trail, maybe a quarter mile, pretty flat.” Flat. Pfft. Nothing is flat,
ever. So I hiked on down the quarter mile non-flat trail over two more fly covered piles of fresh
bear scat to get water from a “piped spring” that needed a Flomax prescription and parked
myself to fill up next to a sign that read, “Source not tested. Boil 5 minutes.” We spent the
better part of the next 15 minutes watching the pipe tinkle into our containers while two scouts
sword fought with sticks. I told Bryan I was going back to the shelter to see if I could score
some of whatever they were cooking. See, I’ve read in books about techniques for how to look
homeless and pitiful until someone gives you food. I put on my best puppy dog face and sat
gloomily next to my pathetic food bag. It worked! My loitering and silent begging and stooping
to a new low had worked. The man offered me a “corn cake” and it was fantastic! It didn’t even
taste like a loss of self-respect. A few minutes later, Bryan walked up and the man handed him
one. So.. maybe all that effort was for naught and the nice guy was just going to give me one
anyway. Whatever. The scouts were cool though and we had a good time. Bryan turned in
early and I stayed up for a while. On a second trip to the spring, I spooked a deer maybe 10
feet away, and shortly thereafter, another one. On my time on the AT, I’ve seen surprisingly
little wildlife so this was a nice change of pace.

In the morning, I woke up at 5:52 eastern. I decided to pack in my tent to give all the neighbors
until at least 6am before I made too much noise. Bryan was stirring too so we made breakfast
and lit out early with a strong desire to see our families and E-A-T lunch. It’s surprising how little
time it takes to develop a huge appetite burning 5,000 calories a day. One of the scout leaders
advised us to go to Bobo McFarland’s in Damascus so that was the plan. We still had 10 miles
ahead of us so we had no idea how long it would take. There was one more 1,000ft mountain
to climb. Bryan took off up it like a madman. He was ready to be finished. It has been an idea
of mine since leaving North Carolina to hit every state on the AT. In my favorite quote of the
hike, knowing that Bryan was likely never wanting to hike with me again, I jokingly asked, “So..
what state do you want to hit next?” And he replied, “How about Alabama. I hear it’s lovely.”
We passed a couple more hikers and eventually started to hear the rumblings of cars. We were
almost finished. We crossed the road and hit the Creeper Trail at the Damascus welcoming
sign. We pulled out phones hoping to be able to contact home and for once, we had service.
We had covered 9 miles in about 4 hours. Off we headed back towards Main Street. We were
approaching a house with some tables out front with junk on them. I asked Bryan if he wanted
to stop for a yardsale. “No,” was his answer. I was kidding. As we passed, a man on the porch
asked if we were SOBO’s and Bryan struck up a short conversation as I tried to keep walking. I
eventually had to turn around and noticed the sign, “Crazy Larry’s Hostel.” I said, “Are you
Larry?” “Yup.” I said, “I’ve read books that mention you.’ He went on about how some people
call him a legend and how he might be in a movie, etc. Turns out, he’s crazy. Who knew..
Anyway, we hit Bobo McFarland’s for huge burgers, loaded fries, and copious amounts of coke and sweet tea.

All kidding aside, I am unbelievably grateful for a lifelong friend like Bryan and his willingness to endure one of my ambitious adventures, for his wife agreeing to let him go, and most importantly for my wife, who held down the fort, taking care of Brycen and my poor Braxton as he came down with the flu while I was gone, and for welcoming me back to a very clean and disinfected home.  Am I done exploring?  I hope not.  I find it hard to believe that my lot in life is solely to sit in a cube.  If God has given you the gift of life, live it.  If at the end of the day, shin splints and bruised purple feet are the cost for breathing mountain air and watching shooting stars, I'll pay it every time I can.