From Three Ridges to Spy Rock: A Backpacking Tale

Part III

We rise at dawn. The air is fresh and cool. Sunlight pours through the roof of the forest. Beads of condensation roll down the nylon fabric of our tents. Squirrels forage for food and retreat at the sound of our voices. The day is new, and we are ready to embark on the toughest leg of our journey.

We are close to the Tye River, which parallels Route 56, the one break in wilderness on our four-day journey. It is a mere 2 and 1/2 miles away but entirely down hill, and the trail is covered with leaves, making the descent slippery and treacherous. I utilize my one trekking pole to the best of its potential, and I am relieved to have it; only I find myself wanting its partner as my knees begin to ache. I make a mental note to purchase another pole before my next adventure and cringe my way down the mountainside. After much slipping and fussing, we hear running water and emerge from the dense forest. The Tye River Suspension Bridge awaits, and we hurry across it, marveling at the strong current beneath. Here, we break for brunch and prepare for our next endeavor.

The Priest Mountain, a sentimental favorite from my Scout days, is not to be considered without earnest forethought. By ascending the peak southbound on the Appalachian Trail, hikers embark on a 5-mile trek with nearly 3,000 feet in elevation gain. The switchbacks are as endless as the mountains, themselves. The terrain is punishing: steep, rocky, and unrelenting. Sleepy Time (Tim Bob, for those who have forgotten) and I, having accomplished this task before, do our best to prepare Robbie and Brett for the challenge that lies ahead.

As we cross Route 56 and enter the Priest Wilderness, we feel little foreboding, since we are - all of us - fairly cocky and self-assured. Suffice to say, we are also fairly foolish. With little thought to the difficulty of the day before or our strenuous climb down Three Ridges just hours ago, we begin to climb The Priest, a mountain revered across the Appalachians. By the time we reach the first overlook and the halfway point we are exhausted, and some of us, like Robbie, for example - not to single him out or anything - but Robbie is pretty severely dehydrated.

"Sit down, stop crying, and drink this water," we say.

"I'd rather refuse the elixir of life called water and die on this mountain," Robbie as good as says. In reality, he says something like, "Ugh, I'm not thirsty. I'm so sick," nor is he crying.

The Priest is taking it out of each of us, but dusk is on the prowl, in addition to several turkey vultures swooping in circles around Robbie. Taking this as a bad sign, we devise a plan: Sleepy Time and Brett will hike ahead, while I remain at the overlook with Robbie, forcing water down his throat. In order to secure our campsite at the Priest Shelter and get a fire started before nightfall, the expedition must go on! Tonight will be the coldest yet.

Robbie and I watch our companions vanish up the trail head. Meanwhile, heavy clouds creep across the white sky, and tiny specks of snow hang in the air like dust particles. We shiver as a frigid gust envelopes us. After some time, Robbie and I are re-hydrated. He feels "loads better," so we leave behind our view of the bleak, Virginia countryside and march past a white blaze that points the way to the summit. As we near the peak, I feel a new sensation beneath my knee caps. I wince and push it aside, but by the time we set foot on the boulder-strewn summit of the Priest Mountain, my patellas are grinding like sandpaper, and I am secretly concerned.

I try to ignore it and take a painkiller. Robbie and I ease off our backpacks and rest for a while, soaking in the purple hue of a winter, mountain sunset. To the east, we observe Three Ridges. We are humbled by its severity and amazed we have made it this far. From the very edge of the mountain - his personalized hiking staff firmly planted - Robbie surveys the land. With his grizzly facial hair and strong pose, he looks, oddly enough, like Moses at the parting of the Red Sea. I envision a massive stamp slamming on Robbie's manila file with a resounding thud: TRAIL NAMED.

There is little time to spare, so Moses and I return to the trail and hike a mile further, where we find our friends at the campsite chopping firewood. It is only fitting, since I bestow Robbie with his trail name, that Tim Bob do the same for Brett. And it so happens, during our absence, Brett apparently "split a friggin' tree in half with a huge rock," or so Tim Bob says. So Brett - now Hammerhead - proceeds to build a miniature log house out of kindling, and Sleepy Time lights a bundle of tinder. Cold and tired, we are all anxious to gather round the campfire. There is much to be done: dinner to make, tents to set up, bear bags to hang. But for now all anyone can do is loaf next to the fire, entranced by its incandescent glow.

It has been a trying day of adventure in the mountains.