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| Before setting out. |
At a white and red shack just before route 211 winds into
Shenandoah National Park, Ebo, Rohan, and I shivered at the wind rapping those
weathered walls. A busted up sign reads, “Burgers ‘n Things.” Each time the
counter window slid back, an overweight woman with long, stringy hair pushed
forward a white, grease-stained lunch bag, containing exactly what the busted
sign implied. In a thick southern drawl, she called, “59,” letting that nine
drag out. We snatched our bags, brought our shoulders to our ears, and hobbled
back to the car. Once inside, we tore into wrappers the way kids tear into presents on
Christmas morning. No one said a word. We had come a long way for that lunch.
Seven hours earlier, the car was not so quiet. Rain
splattered the windshield, but no one acknowledged it. We drove the opposite direction of the city, of work, of obligations, and cell service. Not even the rain could dampen our spirits. Instead the conversation
transformed me back to my days at my all-boys high school sitting around the
cafeteria before class.
The car twisted around the steep bends of back roads,
exposing new sides of Old Rag’s craggy summit. A thin veil of clouds flowed
over the ridge and sent shivers down my spine. We pulled into the gravel
parking lot, the rain having stopped just in time, and debated porta-potty or
woods.
Each of us shed clothing and Rohan and I cinched our
backpacks up and stared at Ebo stretching on a post. “You bringin’ anything?”
Rohan asked.
“Nah,” Ebo said, an elbow cocked behind his head.
“Water?”
“I’m good, it’s cool enough today.”
Rohan and I gave one another a sidelong glance, then the three of us clicked our watches and trotted out into the woods.
 |
| White Oak Canyon |
The day called for somewhere between 20 and 30 miles, no one
was exactly sure. What we did know was that we were going to cover two of the
Shenandoah’s prized trails in one, err, sitting: the lower and upper falls of White Oak Canyon and
Old Rag Mountain.
The first falls crashed ahead of us, somewhere in the
distance. The mood and the pace were light and our fresh legs carried us up the
trail, over rocks, and around fallen branches.
We paused at the lower falls but only for a moment. In our
split shorts and t-shirts, we had underdressed for the chill in that mountain
air that was conspicuously absent during a week that reached into the upper
80s. Numbness gripped our hands and we turned back onto the trail
to continue our rocky climb out of the canyon.
The wind gathered above us in the trees and we braced for
its bluster but the canyon walls mercifully shielded us. The clouds spit cold
drizzle as we traded boulders for a carpet of pine needles and continued
our ascent.
At long last, we arrived at the Limberlost trail marker and
made a right turn onto the Old Rag Fire Road. The wind continued to rush above
us and rattle the trees. If we closed our eyes, we could have been standing
next to the falls again.
With the cold worrying away our resolve, a sliver of blue sky appeared between the
trees. The trail pitched sharply downward as I called out, “Six-and-a-quarter
miles of this, boys!” The wind washed the sky blue and we let go of the brake
and took off downhill. In the early miles, each of us searched for our footing,
as we staggered ourselves across the trail. There was only the steady ratch! ratch! ratch! of our shoes
kicking up the crushed gravel.
Somewhere along the way, our hands warmed and the mood and
the day brightened. We pulled alongside one another and ran three across on the
trail. It was here that we began to reveal the more intimate details of our
lives, the sort of things that only seem right around a campfire or in the
solitude of the backcountry. Sweat broke out across our brows for the first
time as we neared the Old Rag trail head. Our watches marked the 11th
mile and we paused to refuel.
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| Old Rag |
With renewed strength, we started up Old Rag, happy to
simply give our punished quads a rest. We took the switchbacks with surprising
ease, losing our place on the trail in conversation, and sort of unbelieving
when we reached the scramble across Old Rag’s rocky ridge. Here, we began to
come across other hikers for the first time all day. Many marveled at our
swiftness, and asked when we began, which, with a sly smile, one of us would
pipe up and say, “Well, we actually started at the base of White Oak…,” which
elicited bug eyes and long whistles.
We paused now and again to take in the sweeping views of the
verdant Shenandoah Valley and braced ourselves against the wind that had once
been too high to affect us. We minced our steps when the trail began to climb
and went silent to focus on the task at hand when we came on other hikers.
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| Old Rag summit. |
After a quick photo at the summit, we began an agile
descent, hopping from rock to rock and reawakening those tortured quads again.
My favorite part arrived none too soon when a brown cabin, appeared through the
brown trees, against the now brown clay trail. The cabin marked the end of the rocks where my stride unwinds and smooths out so I can retire my amateur parcours skills and simply run.
We intersected with the fire road once again, and had thankfully chopped
2.25 miles off it, but that downhill that let us fly before now required us to
slowly climb. It was here that Ebo outwardly acknowledged his error in not
bringing any food or water. We began the arduous hike back up to the Limberlost
trail, pausing at frequent intervals for Ebo to steady himself.
Storm clouds began building on the horizon. Rohan and I pulled
out the map to find the shortest route back to the car to both get Ebo back and
escape any afternoon thunderstorms. The climb was interminable, with another
incline around every corner. Still, we pushed on, mostly in silence. Whenever Ebo stopped, Rohan searched around for something for him to eat, be it bark, dirt, or "those berries over there." I narrowed my field of vision to the two feet in front of
me so as not to be tortured by the seemingly endless hills.
Finally, we reached the breakoff trail and started heading
down into the canyon. Every step had become agony on the front of my quads and
it actually felt better to run than walk since my feet weren’t braking as hard.
A quick detour had us retracing our steps from earlier in the morning. The sun
came out again and so had the hikers heading in the opposite direction. No one spoke
except to offer a brief nod to passersby. We ran the flat sections and dodged a
snake slithering across the path until at long last, we arrived back at the
car.
Completely wrung out, we made our away to the tailgate and
opened up the cooler chilling in the back. We toasted to the effort, to the
mountains, to friendship, and the vow to do it again.
Ebo fell into a deep sleep as soon as we rumbled out of the
lot and Rohan dutifully took pictures of him. We knew this wouldn’t be our last
adventure, but there was a sense of finality to it as Old Rag disappeared
behind us. Those were thoughts for another time, though. There was a burger
shack waiting.
