SNP AT

In the spring, I had an (obviously failed) plan to get in one backpacking trip every month until at least October, to make sure I had the right gear, familiarize myself with said gear, and spend some time on the trail mentally cataloging shelters, water stops, and resupply points.  I have been backpacking four times this year.  Whoops.

I also had a goal of getting at least one week-long trip, because I felt like the weekend getaways weren't taxing enough to give me a good idea of what I was starting.  I nearly succeeded.

My route, roughly, through Shenandoah National Park

On a recent Sunday afternoon, after the second half of a two-day Ultimate tournament, The Girl drove me to Front Royal.  (On the way, we took the Jubal Early ferry across the Potomac.  Not that Jubal Early.)  The Appalachian Trial passes a few miles outside of town, and I was able to start hiking at about 3:30 that afternoon. The problem was, to make my schedule for the rest of the week work well, I'd have to hike about fourteen miles that afternoon, which meant finishing in the dark.

Chicken of the woods?

The Girl hiked with me almost as far as the Tom Floyd shelter.  On her way back to the car, she met Skurks, a southbound thru-hiker who I didn't meet until Wednesday night.  Skurks and I didn't realize he had met someone I knew until Thursday night, and I admit being pretty proud that I was able to maintain that much lead for at least a couple days.  I didn't meet any other long-distance hikers that day, but just outside the park boundary I met a family of five (there was a sixth member who was sick, and stayed at home) and their three cats who had followed them on the mile-long walk from their home.  The mother of this group has a southbound thru-hiking cousin on the trail this season; the father works for a tree-trimming company whose trucks I've seen in our neighborhood.  It was neither the last, nor the most striking example of "small world" that I encountered that week.

The Gravel Springs shelter was full when I arrived that night (about 8:30), and the picnic table was full of people cooking and eating their dinner as quietly as possible.  I slipped past them to find a tent site, and was glad that my late lunch and heavy trail-snacking left me full enough that I didn't feel cooking dinner that night was necessary.

Monday morning sunrise

There was a tent on either side of me that night; Handyman rose from one and greeted me on his way past the next morning.  I later learned that Cakes ("as in Johnnycakes") was in the other.  I packed quickly, and was the first to leave the shelter area that morning.  My proof?  Spiderwebs in my face, all morning long.  For a while, I considered the trailname Webwalker.  But being early has its advantages, too.  A few miles from camp, a side trail led to a spring, where I saw my first two bears of the week.  I'd never turn down an opportunity to see bears.

Not a bear, but still neat to see so close.

Later that day, I started to feel the effects of skipping dinner the night before, but I had plenty of snacks to sustain me.  Knowing it could be my only big training hike, I had filled my pack with ten days' worth of food, just to make sure I could carry that much next year, should the need arise.  I know now that I can, and that I don't want to carry that much food again if I can help it.

The view from Mary's Rock is not usually blocked by blue buffoons, but it was that day.

I spent Monday night in my tent, pitched behind Byrd's Nest #3 shelter (there are at least three more structures in SNP called Byrd's Nest; one is a picnic shelter relatively close to the trail, one is on Old Rag, and I still haven't found the last).  Handyman and Cakes both passed through on their way to a nearby campground, and Big Island stayed in his hammock two tent sites away from me.  Boulderdash had the shelter to himself until a late arrival joined him.

Tuesday sunrise

I found Cakes and Handyman the next morning as they were wrapping up breakfast, and exploited the running water to brush my teeth, fill my bottles, and "camel up."  The three of us hiked together from there to Skyland, talking variously about Boy Scouting (it was the nineteenth anniversary of the day I became an Eagle Scout), job searches, and the possible impact on our hike of the impending government shutdown.  Truth be told, it had been a popular topic among everyone I saw on the trail that week.

I was slow with the camera, but this bear started closer to me than any other that week.  It was pretty exciting.

For a while, I was in the lead of our little group, and it was during this portion of the morning that I had my second most exciting encounter of the week.  I heard some noise to my left, and scanned the hillside, but didn't see anything.  Usually, those noises are just squirrels int eh leaves, making noise vastly disproportionate to their size, but the previous morning I had heard the thuds of the bear's paws as I approached the spring, and I was still keyed up at the idea that I might see another.  I kept walking once I failed to see anything--even a squirrel--among the fallen leaves, but as I passed a tree, I heard more scrambling noise, and a crashing thud as a bear hit the ground coming out of the same tree.  Moments earlier, Cakes had been complaining that he hadn't gotten to see a bear yet, and this one nearly fell on top of us.

View from a morning snack break.

I sent a couple postcards from Skyland, and Cakes and Handyman decided to stay for a hot breakfast, but when we arrived, we had found verification that the government--and the national parks--had been closed.  We had 48 hours to get out.

Knowing that I would one day write about that hike, I had a moral dilemma.  But I'm going to be honest here: I kept hiking.  I wanted to go as far as I could in that 48 hours, and I'd like to add in this paragraph that I was outside the park boundary by Thursday afternoon.  In the meantime, I stuck to the trail, practiced Leave No Trace, packed out my garbage, and avoided park services.  Later, I learned of several people who went on day hikes in national parks during the shutdown, and one group in Maine who ignored the closure and then required a rescue, thereby taxing the park's skeleton crew.  I do not condone any of those activities.  I felt bad for the rangers who had to tell people to leave; that's not how they want to spend their day.  On the other hand, most of the people I met (and all whose trail names I have mentioned here) were one-way, long-distance hikers, and didn't have the option of getting back in the car and heading home.  We all did the best we could to get out of the park by the posted deadlines.

An hour after I sent a postcard to my nephew telling I had seen three bears, I saw a fourth wandering down the trail ahead of me.

Looking west between Skyland and Big Meadows

A fawn eating either an apple, or a hickory nut.  After I finished taking pictures of her, I turned around and saw her mother on the trail, watching me.

I shared a campsite with Handyman that night, and learned that his son volunteers in the same park group as The Girl and I.  I also learned that he had talked to a ranger who had told him that they weren't going to bother the thru-hikers; we had official legal sanction to continue our hike, and I relaxed a little.  I am not accustomed to living outside the Law.

Looking north along the trail Wednesday morning, just before I caught up with Boulderdash.

Wednesday afternoon, I stopped in Simmons Gap for water, and met my first ranger on the way out.  "You know the deal right?" he asked after some introductory questions.  "Get out of the park as fast as I can?"  He nodded, checked my backcountry permit, reminded me to stay out of park campgrounds, and sent me on my way.  I felt better then, because I had personally gotten clearance from a ranger.  That night, I found out that Handyman had left the park in a ranger's truck.

Marbled Orb Weaver. I saw an awful lot of these along the trail, and felt bad when I had to tear down a web to get past.  They are a beautiful species.

I spent Wednesday night at Pinefield Hut, where there is no field, and I had to look around a bit to find a pine tree.  It was still a beautiful spot, and I arrived early enough to pitch my tent on the hillside above the shelter, rub my sore feet, stretch, and spend some time sitting quietly and listening to the forest before I made my dinner.  I think it was the most relaxing time I had all week, and it made me really happy to be there.  I forgot how much my ankles hurt, and the worrisome starts of blisters I was developing, and how I hadn't slept very well all week. I didn't care about any of that--I was just happy to be out in the woods.  That night I met Slim, a thru-hiker who was carrying a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, and Skurks, who had met The Girl Sunday afternoon.

I gotcher mobile home right here.

Thursday was my longest day on the trail.  Depending on where you got your information, I hiked between 26 and 28 miles that day, with plenty of climbs, and only one reliable water source.  It was also the day of the best sunrise all week.

Hello, Thursday.  So nice of you to join us!

I could have gotten water at park campgrounds, but after the ranger's warning, I decided it was best if I avoided them entirely.  It wasn't easy.

Black Rock summit, 3,092 feet

Halfway between Pinefield and Calf Mountain shelters is Black Rock Shelter.  I figured that would be a good opportunity to refill my bottles.  Luckily, I didn't guzzle everything I had before I arrived, because there was a boil advisory at Black Rock, and I didn't know whether that meant I had to boil it in addition to filtering it, so I left without any new water.

hiking down from Black Rock summit

By the time I got to Calf Mountain shelter, I felt pretty bad.  Not dehydrated, but exhausted and sore.  I was also hungry, because I knew most of my food would make me thirsty, so I had skipped my last snack break and stretched the time between the others.  When I arrived, I chugged a liter of water, refilled both my bottles, and ate something.  I felt better immediately.  I also felt better when Skurks, the sandaled bad-ass southbound thru-hiker, arrived and declared that day was "a rough hike."  If it took a toll on him, I didn't feel so bad about feeling so bad.

Gecko and Mule (British citizens with nice accents and warm spirits) were already at Calf Mountain when I arrived.  Later, they let me use their cell phone to contact The Girl and tell her that I would be at our designated meeting point a day and a half early, and would she please come rescue me, and bring something cold to drink?

I saw stick insects Thursday.  I like stick insects.

tractor seats on top of a hill, arranged in a ...viewing area? near a communications tower.

Friday morning was a relatively quick hike, when you consider I was averaging close to 20 miles a day the rest of the week.  I got to our rendezvous by 10 AM, talked to a Coast Guard retiree who was disappointed that he and his wife wouldn't get to see Skyline Drive, and waved to Skurks as he went to meet his ride into town.  The Girl arrived about forty minutes after me, cold drink in hand.  But the highlight of the week was just before 9 that morning.  I was climbing, and saw some motion at the edges of vision.  From the size, shape, and color, I guessed it was some sort of raptor; then I realized I hadn't heard it, and wondered if it was an owl.  Then it flew back towards me, and landed less than twenty feet away.

my friend the Barred Owl

Twenty feet away and almost directly above the trail!!

It's hard to tell with all the leaves, but the trail goes right under the owl's limb.

I had hear them earlier in the week, and loved listening to them at night, but I hadn't seen one.  This was closest I'd ever been to an owl without a cage or handler involved, and I was captivated.  We spent close to ten minutes staring at each other.  I took almost twenty pictures, just hoping a few would turn out well, and he occasionally looked over his left shoulder, to show me he wasn't nearly as impressed with me as I was with him, but I was happy just to spend the time with him.  It was a great end to a great hike.

New Belgium

Fort Collins, Colorado is home to the New Belgium Brewery.  Before the flooding completely cut us off from the rest of the state, we managed to take a tour (it's so popular that reservations are recommended).  Tours of anywhere stuff is made fascinate me, and I'm not sure whether it's because of all the museums we visited when I was a kid, spending time in the garage with Dad, natural engineer's curiosity, or Mr. Rogers.  To be honest, I could probably credit pursuing a career in engineering to all of the same things.

A portion of one of the shadow box tables at the start of our tour.

I toured a few of the breweries in Bend, OR during Zwickelmania (I'd slap a link in there, but at this time, no webpage exists for that specific event.  If you're interested, do the search yourself, or check the Oregon Craft Beer website for updates), but that event is CRAZY with people, and while I learned a bit about the process, I also learned that each brewery does things a little differently, and many assume you already know a lot about how beer is made.  I gleaned what I could.

Mosaics run around the tops of these processing tanks in a room claimed by our tour guide to be "so beautiful, three of our employees have had their wedding receptions here." It was easy to see why.

The New Belgium tour was a little different; it was nearly 90 minutes long, and included five four-ounce samples of various beers, but explained almost none of the process of making beer.  However, it was thick with their corporate philosophy and practices, company history, and general good cheer (it ended with a "tornado slide" from the second floor to ground level).

Towering wine barrels used to age the sour beers.

Our guide's enthusiasm for the company and his place in it was infectious.  A few years ago, the CEO decided to distribute shares to the employees, making them their own bosses.  It is still an employee-owned company; at the annual meeting they decide which holidays to take in the coming year (Valentine's Day is a good selection).

The brewery owns two electric cars, and provides a charging station in the parking lot for visitors.  Solar panels cover the roof of the bottling facility, known as "Thunderdome," and they capped a pond on the property to create an anaerobic environment generating methane.  Between the solar panels and the methane plant, they produce up to 20% of their own electricity.

"Church of Brewology" fermentation tanks

Each bottle in this chandelier was hand-blown by a local artist.  There is no camera angle inside the building that lets you see the whole thing.  It's huge, and winds its way down a hallway and up these stairs.

Welcome to Thunderdome.  Over 20,000 bottles can be moving through this room at any given time.

I saw a sign near this ... chandelier?  that said Americans discard enough aluminum cans every three months to rebuild every commercial airplane in the U.S.  Art is also a good use for it.

Dad in DC, Part III

Our visitors had something significant in common with me; they can only take so much of the City at a time, so after our visit to the Botanic Garden (which is a nice little pocket of sanity in a sea of pavement), we escaped to Mt. Vernon for a day.

As fascinating as we found the house, grounds, farming operations, and history of slaves at Washington's home, almost all of my pictures were of the gardens (Pictures were not allowed in the main house).  I kept thinking how much my brother (the landscaper) would enjoy the meticulous detail and grand scope of the vegetable plots, fruit orchards, and flower gardens sprawling across the property.

I knew from earlier conversations with my brother about espaliered trees, and I was very excited when, upon finding them in one of the gardens, I not only recognized the technique, but remembered the word for it (although I still habitually spell it with too many L's).  These trees, adhering to historical practice, were being trained to the horizontal spars of the fence with strips of rawhide.

The white structure at the end of the fence is one of several composting toilets, called "necessaries."  They are not for public use.

I felt a little conflicted about the estate, for all of the usual reasons.  The contrast between conditions for the slaves and conditions for hired whites (let alone for the Washington family) was striking.  The above picture shows the quarters for the gardener, a white man.  A space of roughly the same size would have been occupied by a large slave family, or as many as ten individuals.  Many of the docents and staff will eagerly expound upon how Washington considered himself, first and foremost, a "simple farmer," but having met and known many actual, modern farmers, I know better.  He was a great military leader, and a very intelligent man, but he was no farmer.  He was a plantation executive; the work was all done by others, usually at no cost to him.

Dad in DC, Part II

On Monday morning, I took Dad and The Lady to the Botanic Gardens.  I didn't realize it until we arrived, but while the conservatory was secure, the garden itself had been overrun with enormous insects (and the biggest hummingbird I've ever seen).

I always try to get good pictures of bees on blooms.  They always show me their butts.

butterfly weed

This is a close-up of the bloom of an orchid called Vanda ("Robert's Delight").  Dad noticed that the center parts look like a bee's face; I later learned this is a pollination technique by some orchid species to trick bees into trying to mate with the flower, and thus carrying pollen to the next specimen.