I always get creeped out the first night of camping. After weeks of living inside walls, shielded from the outside world, and then traveling at high speed in a humming metal box to get to our campsite, I lie down in our tent after kissing the kids goodnight and smile at the shhh of wind in the trees.
But then, as distant soughing builds like a wave – sshhHHH – and treetops carry wind towards us til it sounds like the roar of a flash flood against the narrow walls of a canyon, then? I freak out. I am reminded of the wildness of nature, and that a nylon sheath is scant protection from out there. Our shelter, one of the basic necessities to sustain life, is barely a membrane. It does not insulate me from the sounds, scents, and temperatures on the other side of it, and with every snapped twig, with every gust of wild mountain air, I am reminded that we are outside. It is powerful out there, and we are small and squishy. My heart thumps hard in my chest. In our tent, we are without thick, protective walls that keep us safe from the elements, that help us pretend nature isn’t there.
—–
I always smile the first morning of camping. Soft dawn light shines through the thin membrane that separates us from out there, and it is beautiful. My sleeping bag rustles as I turn onto my back and pull snarls of hair out of my mouth. I watch a daddy longlegs crawl on the screen roof of our tent and reminisce about my brother and I letting those crawl on our hands when we camped as kids. We were amazed that they looked like spiders but didn’t bite. Inside, above my head on the ceiling, a crane fly rubs its back legs together. It looks like a giant mosquito, with spindly legs two inches long, and I wonder how many people mistake them for “mosquitoes so big they’ll carry you away.”
The scent of old campfires clings to the walls of our tent. I breathe it in like I breathe in the salt marsh when I go home to Tybee, deeply, and with pleasure. I close my eyes, my hands behind my head, and savor the sounds of morning. Green leaves sigh in a gentle breeze, and small birds twitter. My husband motivates before I do, and I hear the beloved sound of a tent zipper as he steps out into the morning. Crisp mountain air wafts into the tent before he zips the door closed. He clinks pots on the picnic table. I hear the tinny stream of water into a metal pan, then the hiss of the camp stove. He unscrews the lid of a Ball jar and scoops coffee into my French press for me.
The crane fly rubs its legs. The daddy longlegs explores. My heart beats softly in a peace without refrigerator hums, without electric lights, without dishes and dusters and the complexities of walled life. I listen to the world wake up in the soft light of morning, and I am glad to be out there, outside the protective walls that let us pretend that nature isn’t there.
The town was “between mountains so steep and irrational, they must have blocked most of the sun most of the day.” – Dennis Covington, Salvation on Sand Mountain
I know exactly the types of places Covington means. In our explorations of the Appalachians, my husband and I have been in those steep mountains that obliterate the horizon. You’re stuck down low, in a narrow crack between peaks, where you can’t see over, you can’s see around, and you feel penned in and claustrophobic. The sun seems to set at 2 in the afternoon because the horizon is so high.
The place we hiked this weekend was decidedly not like that.
Stand of firs from Wilburn Ridge on Appalachian Trail, hike to Mt. Rogers from Massie Gap, VA
View from Appalachian Trail along Wilburn Ridge, hike to Mt. Rogers from Massie Gap, VA
Kids on rock outcrop on Wilburn Ridge, Appalachian Trail, hike to Mt. Rogers from Massie Gap, VA
Wild ponies, colt, and view of Appalachians from Wilburn Ridge on AT, hike to Mt. Rogers from Massie Gap, VA
The views we saw on our hike to Mt. Rogers were not from the top of the mountain, they were from all but the top of the mountain. About 7 miles of the 9 mile round trip hike, from the trailhead at Massie Gap to the summit of Mt. Rogers, the trail climbs gently through wide, open meadows, offering spectacular vistas of mountaintop grasslands, marshmallow cloudscapes, stark rock outcrops, and panoramic views of the Appalachians. I felt like we were on the western frontier, that life was full of possibility.
Wild highland ponies along Appalachian trail on hike from Massie Gap to summit of Mt. Rogers, VA
Pink mountain laurel flowers in Massie Gap, along Rhododendron trail to Mt. Rogers, VA
View from Appalachian Trail, from Massie Gap to Mt. Rogers trail, VA
Wild Pony in sunlight along Appalachian Trail on Wilburn Ridge, hike to Mt. Rogers, VA
We originally thought the hike was going to be 11 miles round trip. Though our kids (7 and 9) had hiked Old Rag, a 9 mile hike with lots of technical bouldering, we thought 11 miles might be a little much. We bought them real hiking shoes, just in case, but I was prepared to turn back early with either or both of them so that their Dad could climb to the top of Mt. Rogers. At 5729 feet, it is the highest natural point in the state of Virginia, and I knew he wanted to see it.
When we realized the hike was only 9 miles, I got excited that maybe I’d be able to see it, too. “Hey guys, it’s actually only 9 miles, not 11,” my husband told the kids. “Do you think you’ll want to go to the top, to climb the highest mountain in Virginia?”
“I do!” our son said. Our daughter was less enthusiastic.
“There are ponies along the way…” my husband told her. “And the top is in a forest. A forest filled with Christmas trees…”
That got her. Within ten minutes, his first promise paid off. And continued to pay off. For nearly three miles, we shared the trail and the mountainsides with wild highland ponies.
Wild ponies under trees, Appalachian Trail to Mt. Rogers, VA
Wild ponies from Wilburn Ridge on Appalachian Trail, hike to Mt. Rogers, VA
Wild ponies from Wilburn Ridge on Appalachian Trail, hike to Mt. Rogers, VA
Wild pony from Wilburn Ridge on Appalachian Trail, hike to Mt. Rogers, VA
We stopped so much along the way to take in the views from rocky tops, and to hang out with the ponies, that we made slow progress. The day was perfect – partly cloudy and only 73 degrees – but the sun was hot on our necks, and our son wanted forest. We were surprised when we got to a mile marker and saw we had only hiked 2 miles, so we picked up the pace to get to the top. We passed through Rhododendron gap, a tunnel of rhododendrons that had just bloomed and dropped their petals, and that provided brief shelter in cool, damp shade. Then we were out in the meadows again before turning off onto the Mt. Rogers spur trail to finish the final half mile of climbing.
We ascended in dense forest as we neared the summit, where it was dark and wet and felt like rain forest. The air chilled our skin, and every rotting log, every mound of earth, every tree trunk was covered in emerald moss and peridot ferns. Our arms brushed red spruces and Fraser firs and released the scent of Christmas trees. Our daughter sang Jingle Bells.
New growth – ferns and evergreens along trail on hike to Mt. Rogers, VA
New foxtail growth on evergreen in forest at summit of Mt. Rogers, VA
Fraser firs along trail in forest at summit of Mt. Rogers, VA
Pink rhododendron flowers and fern, Rhododendron Gap, Appalachian Trail, hike to Mt. Rogers from Massie Gap, VA
Green forest at summit of Mt. Rogers, VA
Mushroom, moss, and fir at summit of Mt. Rogers, VA
Nobody turned back, and before we knew it, we were at the top of Virginia. We had hiked a trail unlike any we had ever traveled – wide open to the sky, above the world, sharing the trail with wild ponies – and we all made it. All four of us, hiking companions til the end.
We have graduated to two tents: the kid tent and the grown up tent
Having kids may have put backpacking plans on hold for the foreseeable future, but our children have not stopped us from camping. In fact, camping is one of our favorite things to do as a family. As a parent, it gets exhausting to feel like we are always disciplining, so often saying No. “No, it’s too expensive.” “I can’t now, I’m washing dishes.” “Please don’t put things in other people’s noses.” In other words, we feel like fun-haters.
But camping. Camping is a “Yes” time more than any other. Yes to juice boxes and potato chips, instant oatmeal, and trail mix with M&Ms. Yes to grazing all day without asking “Can I have a snack?,” yes to hot cocoa every morning. Yes to cooking food on sticks over a fire, to letting caterpillars crawl all over you. Yes to the kids sleeping in their own tent, to wearing headlamps and playing War with fart cards into the night.
And since we car camp now instead of backpacking, yes to bringing a cooler.
Food for Mt. Rogers Camping trip
Every time we camp I spend a week rehashing “Okay, now what do we usually bring?” I have lists all over the house – “Buy juice boxes,” “Make pimiento cheese,” “Don’t forget ice!!” This time, as I prep for our trip to Mount Rogers, the highest natural point in Virginia (5,729 feet), I thought I’d write out a checklist and post it here so next time I’ll know where to find it. I’m always looking for new food ideas for camping trips, and thought some of you may be too.
Our meals are simple – instant oatmeal and boiled eggs for breakfast, except on the morning after dessert-experimentation night. Assuming my Dutch oven plans work, we will eat blueberry crisp for breakfast that next day. For lunch we eat fruit; crackers or sandwiches with pimiento cheese, chicken salad, or peanut butter and jelly; and pudding (or deluxe graham cookies with peanut butter – YUM) for dessert. Yes, we eat dessert after lunch.
We’re trying something new this time with dinners. We’re still roasting hot dogs one night (and a Bratwurst for me – hot dogs make me gag), but we’re also going to attempt to cook a dessert on the campfire. We’ve got S’more supplies as backup. Just in case. On the second night, we’re going to make pizza over the fire using a cast iron skillet and Boboli crusts. We have never tried this. Cross your fingers for us. We don’t have backup for the dinner. Only for the dessert.
Shredded mozzarella and Parmesan cheeses
Pizza sauce, pepperoni
For desserts:
Hershey bars (duh)
Blueberries and topping (in separate containers) for Dutch oven crisp*
I also bring three bags of food, separated by meal. That makes it easier to locate nourishment when we’re tired and cranky, and the car is bursting with crap that falls out every time you open the hatch.
In our breakfast bag:
2 boxes instant oatmeal
jar of sugar
coffee
black tea
hot cocoa
For lunch and snacks:
Giant box of Triscuits
Loaves of bread
Peanut butter
Trail mix (recipe below)
And for dinner and dessert:
Hot dog buns
Red potatoes
Potato chips
Can of baked beans
Boboli pizza crusts
Box of heavy duty aluminum foil
Small bottle of olive oil
Marshmallows, graham crackers
* I will try to remember to document our first attempt at Dutch oven cooking over a campfire. If we succeed, I will share the recipe. If not, here are a couple of our favorite camp recipes as consolation.
Pimiento Cheese Recipe
12 oz sharp cheddar cheese, shredded with a large grate
3-4 Tbs Duke’s mayonnaise
1 Tbs minced onion
1 4oz jar diced pimientos with liquid
Combine all ingredients in a medium bowl. Transfer to sealed container and store on ice in cooler.
Trail Mix Recipe
1 jar honey roasted peanuts
1 bag M&Ms
1 8 oz package Craisins
1 cup cashews
Dump everything into a gallon size zip-seal bag. Shake it up. Store in the front seat with Mom for emergency anti-grump, or in the lunch/snack bag.
So that’s what we do If you’ve got any favorites, please tell me in the comments. I’d love to hear them!
Flatfoot dancers escaping into music at Floyd Country Store Old Time Music jam
As soon as the caller put his bow to the fiddle strings, and the first notes of mountain music sang out in the warm, dry country store, I was a goner. My eyes teared up as feet tapped, and teeth shined, and white-haired heads bobbed in time with Old Time Appalachian music.
My parents are in town, stopping through Virginia to see us as they embark on the great adventure of their lives: an RV journey from their home in Georgia, across the US and Canada, to the wilderness of Alaska. Another rainy day in Blacksburg derailed our plans to take them hiking, to show them the spring green of our Appalachian forests. Rather than stare at each other in the confines of our living room while the rain came down, we decided to escape to a different kind of Appalachia before they drive out of these hills: an open jam session at the Floyd Country Store.
Sunday Old Time music jam at Floyd Country Store
Sitting in a circle in folding chairs on the warm wooden planks were eleven musicians, some newcomers, some old timers, all hunched over their strings, their left hands moving up and down fret boards as they played Turkey in the Straw. Their shoulders shrugged in time as they picked banjos and mandolins, twitched bows across fiddles, strummed guitars (pronounced GIH-tahrs), and as one burly, bearded mountain man thumped an upright bass with a meaty hand. All of the instruments were stringed, but the leather sole of a mandolin player’s shoe slapped time on the floor, an unofficial drum. Throughout the four rows of folding chairs behind the bluegrass circle, feet tapped, heads nodded, and shoulders bumped as the audience seat-danced.
The leader of the jam called out, with his chin clamped to the instrument on his shoulder, and his bow racing across fiddle strings, “The floor is open here in the middle.” He tipped his head to the center of the circle. “If anyone wants to dance, it sure helps us out.” I looked at our daughter and raised my eyebrows, “Do you want to dance?” Her eyes got wide as she licked her ice cream cone and she shook her head. No way.
Happy fiddler at Sunday Old Time Music Jam, Floyd Country Store
The group moved into their next song, which was even more irresistible than the first, and as fiddle bows fluttered, the man from behind the counter, who had served me my coffee, stepped into the circle and began dancing. (It turns out he is local flatfooting champion Rick Sutphin). My mom leaned over and said in my ear, “You’re going to have to learn how to buck dance, Andrea!” A silver haired man with pressed, stiff, indigo jeans stepped in after him and began flat foot dancing as well. My eyes teared up again to see the joy on their faces, to see bliss in the smile of the fiddler in front of me. Wrapped up in this music and this Riverdance type jig is the rich Appalachian history of Celtic immigrants climbing into the mountains to find affordable farming land. The banjos and mandolins and slapping feet tell a story of isolation beat back by coming together for country dances, for fiddling, for celebrating the harvest. The twangy sounds, and the rhythm that moves men to buck dance, preserve a rich history, the pulse of which still beats in this mountain music of Virginia. A history that depended on creating community, on participation, for mountain folk to escape the remoteness of their homes in the hills, and that brought a sense of giddiness and joy on the occasions they came together to put their lives into song. How can you not be moved by that?
Apparently it was easy for our nine year old, who was ready to leave just as the silver haired man collapsed into his seat, panting and grinning, and the group moved into a waltz. Our daughter was captivated, though, as was I. I wanted more.
We left reluctantly, and on our way home we asked our daughter, “Do you think you’d like to play an instrument?” She wanders around the house, the campsite, bopping in her booster seat, singing, clapping, dancing little jigs. I crossed my fingers, begging in my heart for a musician in the family.
She thought a minute as she watched at the wet green mountainsides pass by her window. And then she said, “Yes.” She picked at her jeans. “I want to learn the guitar.”
Floyd Country Store in Floyd County, Virginia
The Floyd Country Store broadcasts The Floyd Radio Show from their Friday Night Jamboree, which features gospel music, skits, and dance bands (previous shows available on podcast). Tickets go on sale no earlier than 4:30 on Fridays. On Saturdays they host a free Americana Afternoon starting at noon, followed by an open mic session at 1:30, and on Sundays from 2 to 4 pm, the Floyd Country Store hosts a jam with a local Old Time or Bluegrass band who leads the jam session. The jam session is free. More information on the On Stage page of their website.
If you are interested in Appalachian Music, I highly recommend the movie (and soundtrack) Songcatcher.
“Oh my God, a lady’s slipper!” I pulled the camera out of my pack as I raced to the side of the road. I crouched down and snapped pictures as our nine year old son giggled.
“I guess Mom likes lady slippers,” he said.
I looked up and saw two more lady’s slippers, and then another one across the street. I zigzagged back and forth and shot 20 frames in the first five minutes of our hike. We hadn’t even made it to the trailhead yet.
Pink Lady’s Slipper on Old Rag Mountain, Shenandoah National Forest, Virginia
Bridge over Broken Back Run at trailhead of Old Rag Mountain, Shenandoah National Park
White wildflowers on Old Rag Mountain, Shenandoah National Park
The forest at the bottom of Old Rag Mountain was lush with the apple green of spring. Every shrub, every tree, had leafed out, and in their newness, no matter the species – oak, birch, maple – the leaves were identical shades of peridot. It was mid May, and we had hit Shenandoah at the peak of spring’s grandeur. Everywhere we looked, the forest floor was sprinkled with wildflowers.
My husband paused on the trail as I shot a close up. He looked out into the sea of green, then at me, photographing yet another tiny detail – a flower, a stone, a mound of moss. “Can you get a picture of the whole forest?”
“Sure,” I said. “It’s kind of hard to get a clear shot, though.” I usually can’t see the forest for the trees.
“I don’t care.” He gazed into the green. “I just like the forest here.”
Spring green forest on Old Rag Mountain, Shenandoah National Park, Virginia
We continued up, and up, and up, stepping over millipedes, pressing our palms to boulders, burying our faces in mountain azaleas to inhale their honeysuckle scent.
“Dad, can we climb this rock?” We had been on the trail for an hour, but we still had a long way to go. The hike was going to be about six miles round trip, which would be the longest distance our kids had ever done. More than that, the final ascent was going to be extremely technical, with lots of bouldering. My husband looked worried. He checked the sky for the thunderclouds that were expected to roll in. The exposed rock scramble at the top would be a treacherous place in a storm.
“I think we should keep moving,” he said. “You guys need to save your energy. This is going to be the hardest hike you’ve ever done.” He checked the sky again. “There are going to be plenty of rocks to climb at the top.”
We had gotten an early start – we woke with the sun and were out of our tent by 6:30 am, boiling water for oatmeal and coffee. At 8 o’clock we were already on Skyline Drive, on our way to the trailhead. So other than the threat of storms, I wasn’t too concerned about time. I hiked at the back and stopped frequently to snap pictures. The diversity on the trail was irresistible, and I wanted to photograph it all.
“Andrea, is it okay if we don’t wait each time you stop? I don’t want to ruin everyone’s fun, but I really think we should get to the top, and then we can take our time on the descent.”
I shot one more closeup then put my camera away, “No, you’re right. I can take pictures on the way down.” I vowed to keep my camera stowed, and started hiking at the front, a little ahead of the family so that if I wanted to stop for a photograph, they could catch up while I shot. Not ten minutes later, I had my camera out again.
“Look at these flowers! They look like bells!” My son, then husband, then daughter hiked by. I passed them a few minutes later when they stopped for water, hiked ahead, then had my camera out again. “Look at all this trillium! There’s a whole hillside of it!”
My son laughed as he passed me. “You’re not doing a very good job of keeping your camera put away, Mom.”
Bell flowers on Old Rag Mountain, Shenandoah National Park, Virginia
Hillside of trillium on Old Rag Mountain, Shenandoah National Park, Virginia
Violet growing out of stone on Old Rag Mountain, Shenandoah National Park, Virginia
When we arrived at (what I now realize is) the famous rock scramble, I was glad for my husband’s prodding. I was blissfully ignorant about the hike – I hadn’t looked at the map or read anything about it – and as we lowered our kids into crevasses and watched them clamber over stones that curved toward a 3000 foot drop, I realized it was probably a good thing that I hadn’t. I would have seen things like this, from the National Park Service website:
Old Rag is Shenandoah’s most popular and most dangerous hike. The number of blogs and websites about this hike attests to its popularity. The number of search and rescue missions each year attests to its danger.
Our seven year old daughter was a natural on the rocks. She found her own hand and foot holds, and her tiredness (read: boredom) from the three mile (so far) hike vanished as she scrambled over gray granite. Our son accepted our help more often, and said it was “a little freaky” as he squeezed between 8 inch cracks in mountain stone, or jumped from one car sized boulder to another. The further we climbed on the stone, the more nervous I got about our descent. Getting up the rocks was hard enough – getting down them could be perilous. My husband and son were concerned about the descent too. Yet we continued to climb.
Rock scramble with view of summit on Old Rag Mountain in Shenandoah National Park
Rock staircase with levitating stone on Old Rag Mountain in Shenandoah National Park
Cool hanging boulder on rock scramble of Old Rag Mountain in Shenandoah National Park
Rock scramble on Old Rag Mountain in Shenandoah National Park
Rock scramble on Old Rag Mountain in Shenandoah National Park
Despite our height (and my nerves), the rock scramble was a grounding experience. I was connected to the earth up there, dependent on it, with my bare hands on rough granite, my hip against a boulder, my heart pressed to stone. When we finally reached the peak, after several false summits, I was exhilarated by the mountain under my feet and the big sky above, by boulders perched at the top of the world, by gentle rain falling from a blue sky. There were no thunderclouds in sight, and we had made it to the top. I surveyed a 360 degree view of the vibrant green of Appalachia in sunlight, an unmarred view of spring’s progression up the mountain sides – a profusion of apple green in the valleys thinning to brown bare branches at 3000 feet. And there wasn’t a building in sight. Just forest and rocks and mountains.
We high-fived the kids, and hugged them, and told them, “You are the coolest kids EVER. Look what you just did!” My husband told them, “You can have as many s’mores as you want tonight. You can eat them til you puke if you want to.” Our son shouted “YEAH!” and jumped from one boulder to another at the top of the mountain, while my heart jumped into my throat.
Boulder on false summit of Old Rag Mountain in Shenandoah National Park
View from summit of Old Rag Mountain in Shenandoah National Park
View from Old Rag Mountain Rock Scramble in Shenandoah National Park
View from Old Rag Mountain in Shenandoa National Park
Their dad and I discussed our options while the kids ate granola bars and the wind whipped our windbreakers against our skin.
“Is there another way off the mountain?” I asked. “That scramble is going to be really tricky on the way back down.” Our son had been pretty freaked out on the descent off of only one rock at Dragon’s Tooth in Blacksburg. There were scores of boulders to navigate here. And to be fair, I wasn’t excited about descending the scramble either.
“There’s another way down, but it’s five miles,” he said. Crap. That would add up to nine miles. Double the distance the kids are accustomed to doing.
“I want to go the long way,” I said.
“Me too,” said our son.
And so we did.
Near the bottom, our daughter took my hand and said, “We saw a lot on this hike today.”
Pink Wild Geranium on Old Rag Mountain in Shenandoah National Park
Dandelion on Old Rag Mountain in Shenandoah National Park
Spring forest with mountain azaleas on Old Rag Mountain in Shenandoah National Park
“Yeah, we saw lady’s slippers, and mountain azaleas, a hillside of trillium, and those wild geraniums you like,” I said. She had one of those tucked into her pig tail.
“And dandelions,” she said. “And a waterfall.”
“And those cute little white flowers, and the violets, and boulders perched on mountain tops, and spring climbing the forest. It’s amazing how pretty it can be when we don’t build all over everything. When we just allow nature to be nature.”
Our son nodded, a happy smile on his face. “I like it when nature is allowed to be nature.” And after nine miles that were supposed to be five, after climbing to an elevation of 3291 feet under his own power, after five hours of hiking, he ran off down the trail.
View of Old Rag Mountain from overlook on Skyline Drive in Shenandoah National ParK
One of my favorite things about living in a college town, now that I am a mom instead of a student, is running errands on a Saturday morning. After a cup of coffee and the paper, I hit the street around 10 or 11 AM, when I’ve been awake for three hours, but the town is just rubbing its eyes after its Friday night revelry. The scenery tickles me with every Saturday morning sojourn.
It’s 10:30 am. On my way home from the grocery store, where I bought popsicles for the kids for the first warm days of spring, I see a beefy young man strolling down the sidewalk in baggy gray sweatpants, flip flops, and no shirt. His chest is bare, not because he just finished up a run – his eyes are crusty (and he’s wearing flip flops) – but because he rolled out of bed cotton-mouthed and hungover, and he needed juice. He’s walking home now, sipping the Snapple he bought at the 7-Eleven. The April sun feels good on his skin, but it hurts his eyes.
Another day, on our way out of town – it’s 11 am and we are taking the kids on a wildflower hike – we drive along fraternity row, where young men move in slow motion under apple-green leaf buds. They lean over slowly, gingerly, on a Saturday morning and pick Friday night’s debris off the grass. On the front lawn of one frat house, a sophomore slouches over his garden tool. He rakes beer cans from last night’s party. A more senior brother stands on the porch, his feet firmly planted as he takes the air. He wears pajama pants and a tee shirt, yet stands tall as he surveys the pear blossoms and supervises the sophomore. He has one hand on his hip. In the other hand he holds a bloody Mary.
My favorite scene, though, unfolds at 10:45 am, as I drive to Goodwill. On my way to drop off outgrown kid clothes, I pass The Waffle House. Five bleary-eyed boys, all in maroon Virginia Tech sweatshirts, lay draped over benches like discarded coats. Last night, when I saw boys like them at Food Lion, when I was buying tissues and milk, and they were loading their carts with cheap beer and chips, their eyes were bright and laughing. Now, they are red-rimmed and suffering. Their heads lean on the brick wall, their arms dangle from burgundy sleeves. The Waffle House is full, and they wait their turn for greasy hangover food.
I smile as I drive by, my eyes clear and my head pain-free, remembering those days.
Butterfly Mind 