From Three Ridges to Spy Rock: A Backpacking Tale

Part IV

Our backpacks are frozen. We awake, hesitantly, to an icy, 17 degree morning, and can hardly believe our eyes as we stare through the semi-dark at our frost-bitten packs glued to the picnic table.

"Did it seem that cold to you?" I ask Sleepy Time, who yawns and shrugs.

It is day 4 on the Appalachian Trail in the George Washington National Forest. We are roughly 5 1/2 miles from our next and final destination. We spent our last night on the trail in good fashion: beside a toasty fire with steaming hot chocolate and stories to remember. Other nightly occurrences worth noting consist of the following:

1) Sleepy Time is haunted by a woodland creature, the only vestige of its existence a pair of glowing eyes, such a rare occurrence in the dark woods... Startled from time to time, he shines his light from one corner of the forest to the next. Alas, the mysterious beast alludes him!

2) Moses redeems himself by parting the Red Sea. Just kidding. Instead, he cooks our dinner, giving the traditional "shepherd" role new found meaning.


3) I nearly have my head taken off by a swinging bag full of food and compressed gas. In my effort to hang our "bear bag," I manage to create a pendulum of edible - slash - combustible destruction. Out of the dark, the bag rushes at me like a bat out of hell. A mere blur - my life story - flashes before my eyes, and I hit the dirt, the bag swooping overhead. I emerge, soot on my face, but reborn. This one, we soon decide, has the trappings of legend. TRAIL NAMED!

Our first order of business is clear to all. Time is against us, so we run up the trail, anxious to catch the sunrise from the Priest Mountain's exposed summit. We arrive to a pristine abyss of creeping clouds, the sun's lucent, neon glow soaking through the white horizon. Mountaintops emerge from the sea of clouds, rearing their rocky zeniths and ancient crowns. We stand in silence. It seems a fitting climax to our epic adventure, this sunrise of champions.

Now we ready our gear and prepare for the final leg of our journey. Spy Rock awaits. We gather near the shelter for a heroic photo, four mighty adventurers who have traveled over mountains and endured the harsh elements! We are tired and proud, but we are not home just yet... We stand from left to right: Sleepy Time, Moses, Hammerhead, and newly named in light of recent events, Dodge.

Eager to reach the last mountain, we embark down the trail, our boots crunching through half-thawed ice. Vapor issues from our mouths as we march through the cold. The first mile of our hike consists of mostly downhill terrain, and my knees begin throbbing like the day before, only severely multiplied. I lean on my trekking pole for support and try altering my gate, but the pain shooting through my knee caps is wrenching. Due to my unexpected handicap, it takes longer to reach the Crabtree Meadows fire road than expected. There, we meet Robbie's father, as planned. A history buff (and our shuttle back to our cars), he will hike the next 3.8 miles with us to Spy Rock, which received its name during the Civil War for the Confederate Troops that used its exposed summit as a lookout post. It is a mountain much revered in Virginia and one we have anxiously awaited.

By now I am concerned about the state of my knees, but I'm too prideful to sit this one out. I take some Aleve and wince through the pain, following my companions up the trail. It only gets worse, though, as we close in on the peak. I worry about the return journey, knowing for every southbound step I take on the Appalachian Trail, I will have to retrace just as many north. After what seems like a painfully long time, we ascend a splinter trail and climb the rocky slope to the top of Spy Rock. And it truly is a sight to behold, a 360 degree vista of the surrounding mountains and valleys. At first, we take it all in, impressed beyond our expectations. At an elevation of 3,701 feet, it is easy to see how the Rebel army would have utilized this spot as a lookout station; the valley lies in plain sight below. While the temperature has risen since daybreak, the winds are fierce on Spy Rock. Strong gusts whip our jackets and numb our faces. No one sits still for long, lest they freeze to the rock face.

It is finally time to leave. The view from Spy Rock is a fitting end to our trip, coupled with the morning's sunrise. But it is a long way to hike for an injured man. My knees are in terrible shape, grinding against the cartilage beneath my knee caps at every gesture. I feel weaker with each step. Like mini bursts of lightning, pain echoes through my joints. Something has got to give, and, today, it is my pride. After sharing my plight with the guys, they promise to get me back safely, and I trust them. They will bend over backwards to help me. Sure enough, the next hour and a half are some of the most painful in my recent memory. At times, it takes Sleepy Time holding me up on one side or Moses offering me his trusty staff so I'll have an extra 'leg' to lean on. With their help, I survive the ordeal.

Four days from the inception of our expedition, we arrive at Reed's Gap in the back of Mr. Heath's pickup truck, exhausted and dirty, but proud and accomplished. It has been a trying adventure. The Appalachian Trail has tested each of us in its own way. When we leave the powerful simplicity of the blue ridge mountains for the hustle and complexity of our modern society, we leave with more than just memories of mountain crests peering through the fog-laden floor of Heaven or ridges sprawling endlessly across the countryside. We leave with a deep appreciation and sense of belonging. These mountains were made for exploring.

And there are many more where they came from...


In case you missed the previous installments to this 4-part series!

Part I, Part II, & Part III

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.

From Three Ridges to Spy Rock: A Backpacking Tale

Part II

It is oddly bright. The tent interior glows fluorescent, sunlight pouring through the nylon fabric. I shield my eyes and roll over in my mummy bag. Is it that time already?

"Time to get up, Tim Bob," I say, to which my quick-witted friend moans in reply, "Noooo...I want sleepy time!" thus sealing his trail name for all hiking adventures to come.

After much stirring, Sleepy Time and I emerge from our shelter to discover our campsite perched beside a steep cliff with a decent view of the east. We count ourselves fortunate since no one managed to fall over the edge during their midnight wanderings. We join Robbie and Brett for breakfast, then proceed to take down the campsite.

Today is our first full day of hiking. We have somewhere between 6 and 8 miles to cover over mountainous terrain. The Three Ridges Wilderness is a notoriously rough landscape, consisting of steep climbs, abrupt descents, and rocky trails. To make matters more difficult, ice still covers the trail in places. I remember, as a Boy Scout, how troops utilized Three Ridges as a preliminary training hike in preparation for Philmont Scout Ranch, an intense, high-adventure backpacking camp in New Mexico. No doubt, today will prove challenging.

As we begin to hike, the air is still chilly, so everyone dresses accordingly, but it isn't long before we're wiping our brows and feeling the cool damp against our backs. Sure enough, we have to stop and remove our jackets. We should have known better, but even experienced hikers sometimes can't resist the urge to layer densely when it's so cold...

Starting off right, we ascend Bee Mountain, which spans roughly a half mile, before taking a short dive down the other side. Because we do not expect to descend so quickly, we are puzzled, but, soon later, we lumber up the northern knoll of Three Ridges and take our first break at the top. As we wind up a steep switchback, we can see the forest opening ahead. We step out of the woods and onto a massive rock precipice overlooking Three Ridges to the east and the Priest Mountain to the west. It is both daunting and exhilarating to catch a glimpse of the landscape we must still traverse. Three Ridges is aptly named, and my heart thumps at the sight of its barren and jagged downward slope. Over the course of the day, we will gain - then lose - altitude. Already I am not fond of downhill hiking, since it puts a lot of stress on my feet and knees. Little do I know how bad it can really get...

After refueling, we proceed along the Appalachian Trail. The forest is bare and cold. Crispy brown leaves litter the path and crunch under our footsteps. The trees are empty. We see little other than brown trunks and blue sky glimmering through the cracks in the forest.

Towards the end of the day, we arrive at the Harpers Creek Shelter. Tired from a long (but good) day of hiking, we find comfort that evening in a warm campfire, some hot chocolate, and the melody of the mountains after dark. But knowing that the hardest leg of our journey awaits, we retire early. Tomorrow, we descend Three Ridges and climb to the summit of the Priest Mountain...

Photo of the Week # 2

Dawn on the Mountain
March, 2007

The Priest Mountain, Nelson County, VA

George Washington National Forest/The Priest Wilderness

Elevation: 4,063 feet
17 degrees plus windchill factor


Photo by Sir Evan, Nikon CoolPix L3