Algy in the woods

The Girl recently attended an Event in Shenandoah National Park which necessitated us camping overnight.  Darn.  I hate camping, and hiking, and playing in the woods.  Despite my strident objections, I joined for the trip, if not for the Event.  While she did her Thing, I did mine.

We arrived early Saturday morning, and after setting up our tent, I wandered off to hike Old Rag, a local mountain comprised by (and topped with) billion-year-old granite.  Old, indeed.  When I reached the summit at about 10 AM, clouds still blocked most of the view, but I could hear other people who had also reached the summit, their voices calling out through the foggy morning.

Just below the summit, on the Ridge Trail, is a larger area collectively referred to as the Boulder Scramble.  The trail is marked with blue blazes, but an awful lot of people just wander around on the granite, taking in the views, trying to climb things they're really not prepared to climb, and having lunch among the boulders.

It is not a trail for dogs, or strollers, or small children, and several signs at the parking lots serve as reminders, but that doesn't stop many people from forging through, mistakenly believing that any trail in a park is suitable for all visitors.  This trail is often narrow and steep, to the point where it only allows one-way traffic, and I had to wait several times for groups travelling in the opposite direction.  I helped about half of one group down over a boulder while the other half slipped blithely by, ignoring their compatriots.  It is not a trail to be taken lightly.

There are a couple passages that are just barely wide enough for one person to slip through, their pack scraping both walls along the way.  One passage requires a short down-climb into the rocks; another has a stairway cut into the stone between two enormous boulders only shoulder-width apart.

When I reached the northern terminus of the Ridge Trail, I stopped for a bagel and, deciding that the ridge was more fun than the fire road, turned around and went back the way I came.  I'm glad I did, because I got my best shot yet of bees on a flower, met four trapeze instructors doing handstands on top of the mountain, and although I didn't get a picture of it, I SAW A BEAR, and that was really exciting.

That night, we feasted.  Someone had brought a pile of inch-thick steaks, there were two different pasta salads, raspberry dessert bars, homemade salsa, and some healthy stuff, too, if you're into that sort of thing.  Whoever tells you that they don't camp because of the food doesn't know how to camp.

The Point

It's been long enough.  I should probably explain myself, eventually.

Most people don't know this is my fourth active blog project.  However, it is the only public blog project tied to my real name.  I wanted a place where I could post under my own name for two reasons, and I finally decided I could put them both under the same umbrella.

First, I love writing.  I often get ideas for books or short stories, and lately I've had more opportunity to flesh them out from inspiration to text.  I'd like to be able to share them, but until I find someone who wants to publish what I write, the responsibility for releasing these into the wild falls to me.  Admittedly, I don't share everything here--I still hold on to a small, wriggling hope that I can some day become a real writer, with a benevolent publisher, three-book contract, and fervent following, so I hold some of my best in reserve.  After all, who buys cows when there's free milk all over the internet, amiright?  Thus, I use this space to share some of my stories, and a few pastiches, but I like to think of them as bait.

Second, I love getting outside and doing fun things.  I like sharing those experiences (you may call it bragging.  I probably wouldn't argue) and encouraging other people to get outside, too.  There are some big adventures I'd like to have: through-hiking the AT and PCT, visiting Australia, hiking in Alaska, and touring Europe to name a few, but my meager budget has limits.  I found that disheartening and disappointing until I was walking through Bend one day and realized how much fun I was having looking at things within ten minutes of my apartment.  I discovered hidden treasures in my own city, and I realized I had done it before, many times.  An adventure doesn't have to be big to be worthy, or exciting, or fun.  When I was a kid, our family would often go on "Mystery Trips."  We'd pile into the car and my brother and I would have no idea where we were going until we got there.  We'd try to figure it out ahead of time, believing we were cagey and clever when we asked how we should dress or what we should bring, trying to glean information that could gain us insight into the day's destination.  We almost never figured it out until we started seeing signs or familiar territory.  I have many fond memories of those trips to museums, zoos, and parks, and I look forward to tormenting my own kids in similar fashion.  The small adventures are no less adventurous for their scope, and you can have them every weekend if you like.

In my perfect world, National Geographic would call me one bright morning and tell me that they'd like to consolidate a few jobs.  They need a gear tester for Adventure, a travel writer, and a decent photographer.  They would hand me a pack full of interesting gear, a camera, a plane ticket to some exciting new place, and a sturdy laptop or notebook.  I'd go off into the world for a couple weeks, using and abusing a new backpacking stove, sleeping bag, and travel clothing, write up my opinions on the equipment and colorful descriptions of the places I went, waterfalls I jumped, and people I met along the way.  When I returned, I could exchange my pack and a flash drive full of photos and text for a paycheck and a new set of gear.

It doesn't have to be Nat Geo; any similar gig would be fine.  You get the idea.

Since this is not a perfect world, despite what Leibniz may tell you, I'm still waiting for that job offer and book deal.  Until then, I have a place where I can post some stories, share my little adventures, and maybe an occasional bittersweet love letter.  Every adventure is worthy.  Each day can show you some small glimpse of beauty.  Find it.  Even the effort will improve your world, or at least your view of it.

Sandbridge

We slipped out early and drove east.  There was no specific destination in mind; we only knew that if we went far enough, we would find a beach, and if we found a beach, we could play in the ocean and sand.

Sandbridge beach fronted the houses people use to escape the rest of their world; the houses they bother to name, located on streets with nautically themed titles and no defined edges because the sand creeps in on everything, encroaching on driveways, sidewalks, inside spaces, porches, and the scrubby little plots that might be lawns in any other area.  As soon as we arrived, we knew our time there would be limited.  Dark clouds stretched across the northern horizon, from the houses and hotels to some undetermined spot far out in the ocean.  If you watched long enough, you could see the flashes of lightning in their dark bellies.  I dropped my bag and ran for the water.

The slope is shallow, and by the time I was deep enough to get my shoulders under while standing, people on the beach were tiny specks.  I let myself drift back in with waves, and saw a large school of fish coming down the shore towards me.  Waist-deep, I could see the rougher texture they gave the surface of the water for dozens of yards in every direction.  The closest edge was only a few feet from me, and I stood still, waiting for the moment when I would be in the middle of a frenzied flurry of fins, but whenever they got close enough to recognize my presence, a great wave went through their bodies and the closest edge of the school surged away from me again, eyes wide at the surface of the water as they roiled over one another.  Above me, the edge of the clouds gave sharp delineation between the clear skies to the south and the storm approaching from the north.

Some people began slowly gathering their things, knowing the end of their day at the beach was imminent, but their pace belied how little they had to travel to shelter.  We had brought very little, and it only took us a moment to shoulder our bag, pick up our sandals, and start back towards the boardwalk that jutted into the sand like a taunting tongue.  I didn't even get to fly a kite, but perhaps that was for the best.  We had been granted a brief break in the weather for our little adventure before driving back through the storm to the hotel, and dinner.  Something with seafood.

photo credits for this post are The Girl's

More Great than Dismal

Near the eastern end of where Virginia meets North Carolina lies the Great Dismal Swamp.  At one time, escaped slaves hid here in small enclaves, using tools left behind hundreds of years earlier by Native Americans, or raiding nearby farms and settlements to survive.  Now most of it is a National Wildlife Refuge.  I found it because I happened to be in the area, with a day to kill, and looked at a map with the intent of finding somewhere I could hike, outside, unimpeded by pavement or traffic.  The entrance I chose may not have been the best for hiking trail selection, but it did offer me access to the pavilion with interesting information about how the swamp had harbored escaped slaves (I feel like there should be a bodies-of-water pun in that sentence, but I can't figure out what it is), and the only driving access to Drummond Lake.

The refuge is marked with a network of perfectly straight ditches of apparently stagnant water.  The roads run parallel to these, and it seems sometimes like one serves the other, but I'm not sure which is in either position.  Are the roads for the sake of the ditches, or are the ditches there for the sake of the roads?  As I drove in, I saw several herons sweeping low above the road, keeping just ahead of me.  Later, while walking along one of the ditches, I heard a steady stream of turtles plopping into the water from various logs and other perches.  In the drier sections of the preserve, cicada song rose and fell in the trees with a steady rhythm, like a wave in a stadium.  Along the ditches and obviously water-logged sections of the refuge, the songs came from frogs that were always somewhere I couldn't see.  Once, I heard something that must have been a deer rushing from my view, because nothing else in the area is that large, fast, and loud.

As I neared the lake, I saw something white in the middle of the narrow gravel road, and stopped to get a better look.  I never left my car, because I didn't want to scare it away, but I'm not sure I could have bothered this egret too much.  He knew it was his place, and I was just visiting, and saw no reason he should cede access of the road to me.  I waited patiently, taking far too many pictures of him as he strutted nearer and nearer to my car, until I finally decided to try creeping around him very slowly, and he finally flew off over the swamp.

Lake Drummond is one of only two natural lakes in the state of Virginia.  At roughly 9 miles in circumference, it's also the largest of the two, despite averaging 2-3 feet in depth.  The water looks black because it's filled with sediment.  It drains into the lake from the swamp and bubbles up from the ground.  A few times, I thought I saw something flop at the surface of the water, but by the time I was close enough to the splash to see what caused it, the splasher had dropped below the surface and was effectively invisible again.

I've spent a lot of time lately isolated in the city, surrounded by pavement and high buildings.  It felt good to spend a day in the swamp, in sweltering heat, even if the trails were arrow-straight and bordered, or were perhaps bordered by, ditches of black water.  The trails I found weren't that interesting, but the environment was.  It was definitely more great than dismal.