We drove along redbud-lined roads under a brilliant blue sky to hike not to the top of a mountain, but lower down, in a valley, where we hoped it’d be green and protected from wind. In spots where the sun shone on the trail, the air smelled like warm, golden pine needles. I heard bumblebees buzz in the quiet and saw yellow swallowtail butterflies flutter above the trail.
In February 2020, our son asked if we could go to Iceland. We told him if he still wanted to go in two years, then yes, we can go to Iceland. It’s two years later, and he still wants to go. We’re taking him at the end of May for his high school graduation gift. And after this hike, I want a new lens to take on that trip.
I brought my 35mm* lens on the hike and had fun photographing flowers and unfurling ferns. But when we stumbled on a waterfall that I had a hard time framing, I realized that my current lens is fine for the photography I typically do around here — everything I photograph is fairly close up. In Iceland, I’ll be photographing landscapes, and I want a wider, 23mm lens.
For today, though, here are some spring shots from an Appalachian forest, at Bottom Creek Gorge Preserve.
Bronze mushroomsFern fiddleheadI love spring chartreuse I can’t remember what these are calledTriliumFringed Polygala (also known as Gaywings)Spring BeautyWaterfall
*I bought a used Fujifilm X-T30 about a year ago. It is my first experience with a mirrorless camera, and the 35mm lens I have for it is the equivalent of a 50mm lens for a 35mm camera; a 23mm lens will be the equivalent of a 35mm lens on the cameras I’m used to.
My husband and I talked this morning about how we’re numb from the routine of life, day in and day out, every day the same since the pandemic began: same meals, same surroundings, same walk around the neighborhood.
Today we decided to break routine and go for a hike at the Cascades, a waterfall nearby that we’ve hiked to in every season: late spring when the rhododendrons bloom and the meltwater rushes in torrents down stream, summer when the canopy is dense and green, and no sunlight hits the forest floor, fall when yellow and orange and brown leaves fall, and winter when rock faces twinkle with icicles and the falls freeze over.
What we realized today, though, is that we’ve never been in early spring, before the leaves come in and shade the trail. This time of year, sunlight can reach the forest floor, and wildflowers bloom everywhere. I’ve never seen so many flowers on this hike. I was delighted for all the pretty things to photograph with my new camera and lens. I shot all of these with a Fuji X-T30 camera and the XF 35mm f1.4 lens.
Flowers and fiddlehead. 35 mm – ISO 250 – 1/1700 – f/2.0
Trillium. 35 mm – ISO 250 – 1/1500 – f/1.8
Moss and mini waterfall. 35 mm – ISO 250 – 1/300 – f/4.0
Gushing water. 35 mm – ISO 250 – 1/640 – f/4.0
Unknown flower. 35 mm – ISO 250 – 1/750 – f/2.5Trillium. 35 mm – ISO 250 – 1/1000 – f/1.8
Cascades waterfall. 35 mm – ISO 250 – 1/800 – f/8.0
With each season I think “this is my favorite season.” Right now, my favorite season is spring. Everything is fresh and bright and cheery: red, yellow, and violet tulips; sunny daffodils; purple hyacinth. And blooming trees.
Where I grew up, on the coast of Georgia, seasons were subtle. There were changes in temperatures, some trees lost leaves (though I can’t recall which ones), and in spring, azaleas bloomed. We were surrounded by live oaks, pine trees, and palm trees, which all remain green through winter, and which do not flower in spring.
I can’t tell you how much it still amazes me, after living 10+ years in Maryland, Minnesota, and Virginia — all places that burst into bloom in spring — that entire trees blossom. Where I’m from, bushes bloom, roses bloom, lilies bloom. Ground plants. Small plants. Annuals. But trees? No. Trees don’t bloom.
In Blacksburg right now, and in fact right out my window as I type this, we have 30-foot pear trees covered in white blossoms, 15-foot redbuds popping with tiny magenta buds, 20-foot dogwoods with their smattering of greenish yellow petals. In our neigborhood there is a 40-foot tree whose entire crown is dark pink with blossoms. I expect large trees to change color in fall, but in spring? Everywhere around here are cherry trees covered in delicate pale pink flowers.
I just can’t get over it. It is wondrous to me, that plants as large as 20, 30, 40-foot trees can burst into bloom. I expect flowers from small plants, but it still surprises me that I can go anywhere around here and see flowers on hardwood trees. And they occur naturally, in the woods — they are not just ornamentals in gardens.
Though I know it is basic biology — angiosperms reproduce via flowers — these flowering trees make me feel, every day, like I am witness to a miracle.
If you, too, love blossoms, I discovered yesterday that a colleague’s wife is a botanical artist: her medium is flowers. 😍. Her work made me feel the same way flowering trees do, like I was witness to a miracle. She’s amazing. Check out flora.forager on Instagram. You will be so happy you did.
For the month of April, I will publish a 10-minute free write each day. Minimal editing. No story. Just thoughts spilling onto the page. Trying to get back into the writing habit.
Appalachian Trail sign at McAfee Knob parking lot, Blacksburg, VA
Portraiture is possibly my favorite form of photography. Faces show character in every laugh line, every weathered wrinkle, in tan lines left by always-worn sunglasses, in the trickle of sweat through trail dust. In the scraggly beards of men who have walked the woods for weeks.
On our drive through Catawba valley, my husband said, “It’s getting close to peak thru-hiker season.” We were headed to Sawtooth Ridge, a portion of the Appalachian Trail between McAfee Knob and Dragon’s Tooth, near our home in Blacksburg, Virginia.
“It is?” I asked, my wheels turning. I had just checked my email and seen a photography challenge regarding culture, and I thought, oooh, maybe I can cover AT culture. Shoot portraits of rugged hikers.
“Yeah, if they left Springer Mountain [Georgia] on March 1, they’d start getting here near the end of April and in May.”
A local friend of ours said she gives away her chocolate snacks when she encounters thru-hikers on the trail. I thought of when my husband was thru-hiking, back when we were boyfriend and girlfriend, and how he would put an entire stick of butter in his ramen noodles at night. “I wish I would have brought more food,” I said.
In the McAfee Knob parking lot, I fingered my camera as large groups of day-hikers clustered around car trunks and tailgates, stuffing water bottles in daypacks, eating pre-hike sandwiches from Subway, mixing formula in bottles for the baby a dad would carry on his back. I wasn’t brave enough to ask to take their pictures. On the trail, I told myself. I’ll ask hikers on the trail.
We headed south while the crowds headed north towards McAfee Knob. For twenty minutes, we saw no-one. No day hikers. No thru-hikers. The only evidence of humans we found, besides the trail, was a “Home Sweet Home” sign nailed above a squirrel hole. “Kids! Look at this!” I crouched down and snapped shots.
Squirrel hole on Appalachian Trail
“Do you think a squirrel made that?” Our son asked.
“Or maybe fairies?” said our daughter.
I wondered about whoever had made this miniature sign, who had brought a screwdriver onto the trail to attach it to this little spot. A local day hiker? A Virginia Tech student? Whoever it was, they made me smile with this little surprise in the woods.
We rounded a bend and met a young man and his dog headed north on the trail. The man carried a full pack, with a pair of dusty gray Crocs tied on the side. His hands were red and raw as he gave his dog a treat for sitting obediently as our kids approached.
“Hey, how’s it going?” we said.
Hiker and his dog on the Appalachian Trail
“Good, good. I just picked this guy up in Pearisburg,” and he pointed at his dog. “I’m trying to train him.” The black and white mottled dog carried his own saddlebag pack and was calm and sweet as he sniffed my hand. His nose was speckled pink and black. The man gave him another treat.
“Well, y’all have a good day!” And he continued north as we continued south. I’m not sure if he was hiking from Georgia to Maine, or if he was just out for a weekend backpacking trip. I did not ask his story, and I did not take his picture, except from the back.
The next hikers we encountered were obviously thru-hikers. My husband and kids and I sat on fallen trees in a clearing, munching trail mix and baby carrots, when two women powered through the glade. They carried full packs, wore quick-dry nylon hiking pants in olive green and pewter grey, and their strides were long and purposeful. I wondered where they were from, when they had started, how many miles they were doing that day. Had they mailed boxes to themselves, filled with fresh food supplies, and cash, and lightweight spring clothing? Were they in a hurry to get to a post office and bury their faces in fresh tee-shirts? Clean socks? They said a quick “Hello,” which we returned, and then they were gone. I did not photograph them, or ask them their story. “The next one,” I told myself. “I’ll talk to the next one.”
On our way back to the car, we passed a scruffy young man smoking a cigarette on a slab of rock by the side of the trail. He sat atop a bulging backpack, stuffed full like a giant army-green sausage. He was backpacking, not day hiking. Carrying cigarettes and wearing New Balance sneakers, he didn’t fit the profile for a thru-hiker, but he could have been. I’m sure he had a story. He was lounging, I could have easily asked for his portrait. But he wore headphones, and I didn’t want to intrude, so I hiked by with a nod and a smile.
By the time we arrived at our car, where five dusty, bearded, twenty-something men lay draped over their backpacks, or sat on them as chairs, or propped their backs against them in the white gravel parking lot, I knew that I would not talk to these hikers either, nor photograph their faces. I am fascinated by journalists – by their grit, by their ability to shove in and get the story, by their speed in turning stories out – but I realized on the trail that that is not the stuff I’m made of.
Instead of shooting photographs of “the next one,” or of those prone hikers reclining not 20 yards from our car, I knew I’d bring their images home in my mind, and l’d write their portraits with words. I’d hole up at home, in retreat like many hikers seek, contemplating solitude, and the Appalachian Trail, and a culture that includes power-hikers, dog-rescuers, smokers, families of four, and those who would nail a tiny sign over a tiny hole, in the wilderness, for smiles they’ll never see, but that they’ll know, quietly.
White daisy-like wildflowers on the Appalachian Trail, VA
Appalachian trail, Sawtooth Ridge near Blacksburg, VA
Pink mountain azaleas in bloom on Appalachian Trail in April, Sawtooth Ridge, VA
Tiny green succlents on Appalachian Trail in spring, Sawtooth Ridge, VA near Blacksburg
View from rock outcrop on Sawtooth Ridge hike near McAfee knob, VA on Appalachian Trail in April
Pink mountain azalea buds on Sawtooth Ridge on Appalachian Trail, VA
Tiny blue feather on Appalachian Trail in April, Sawtooth Ridge, VA
Fern unfurling in spring on Appalachian Trail, Sawtooth Ridge, VA
Lichen covered log and white wildflowers on Appalachian Trail in April, Sawtooth Ridge, VA
(R) Repost – I am away, chaperoning the fourth grade trip to Jamestown, VA. I’ll be on a bus with, corralling, and sleeping in cabins with 60 ten-year olds for 48 straight hours, and am prohibited from drinking alcohol during that time. I know you’re jealous. Anyway, I was rummaging through my archives and saw this post from a year ago today and I thought I’d repost it to herald thru-hiking season in Virginia.
Portraiture is possibly my favorite form of photography. Faces show character in every laugh line, every weathered wrinkle, in tan lines left by always-worn sunglasses, in the trickle of sweat through trail dust. In the scraggly beards of men who have walked the woods for weeks.
On our drive through Catawba valley, my husband said, “It’s getting close to peak thru-hiker season.” We were headed to Sawtooth Ridge, a portion of the Appalachian Trail between McAfee Knob and Dragon’s Tooth, near our home in Blacksburg, Virginia.
“It is?” I asked, my wheels turning. I had just checked my email and seen that the theme of this week’s WordPress photo challenge was culture, and I thought, oooh, maybe I can cover A.T. culture. Shoot portraits of rugged hikers.
“Yeah, if they left Springer Mountain [Georgia] on March 1, they’d start getting here near the end of April and in May.”
A local friend of ours said she gives away her chocolate snacks when she encounters thru-hikers on the trail. I thought of when my husband was thru-hiking, back when we were boyfriend and girlfriend, and how he would put an entire stick of butter in his ramen noodles at night. “I wish I would have brought more food,” I said.
In the McAfee Knob parking lot, I fingered my camera as large groups of hikers clustered around car trunks and tailgates, stuffing water bottles in daypacks, eating pre-hike sandwiches from Subway, mixing formula in bottles for the baby a dad would carry on his back. I wasn’t brave enough to ask to take their pictures. On the trail, I told myself. I’ll ask hikers on the trail.
We headed south while the crowds headed north towards McAfee Knob. For twenty minutes, we saw no-one. No day hikers. No thru-hikers. The only evidence of humans we found, besides the trail, was a “Home Sweet Home” sign nailed above a squirrel hole. “Kids! Look at this!” I crouched down and snapped shots.
“Do you think a squirrel made that?” Our son asked.
“Or maybe fairies?” said our daughter.
I wondered about whoever had made this miniature sign, who had brought a screwdriver onto the trail to attach it to this little spot. A local day hiker? A Virginia Tech student? Whoever it was, they made me smile with this little surprise in the woods.
We rounded a bend and met a young man and his dog headed north on the trail. The man carried a full pack, with a pair of dusty gray Crocs tied on the side. His hands were red and raw as he gave his dog a treat for sitting obediently as our kids approached.
“Hey, how’s it going?” we said.
Hiker and his dog on the Appalachian Trail
“Good, good. I just picked this guy up in Pearisburg,” and he pointed at his dog. “I’m trying to train him.” The black and white mottled dog carried his own saddlebag pack and was calm and sweet as he sniffed my hand. His nose was speckled pink and black. The man gave him another treat.
“Well, y’all have a good day!” And he continued north as we continued south. I’m not sure if he was hiking from Georgia to Maine, or if he was just out for a weekend backpacking trip. I did not ask his story, and I did not take his picture, except from the back.
The next hikers we encountered were obviously thru-hikers. We sat on fallen trees in a clearing, munching trail mix and baby carrots, when two women powered through the glade. They carried full packs, wore quick-dry nylon hiking pants in olive green and pewter grey, and their strides were long and purposeful. I wondered where they were from, when they had started, how many miles they were doing that day. Had they mailed boxes to themselves, filled with fresh food supplies, and cash, and lightweight spring clothing? Were they in a hurry to get to a post office and bury their faces in fresh tee-shirts? Clean socks? They said a quick “Hello,” which we returned, and then they were gone. I did not photograph them, or ask them their story. “The next one,” I told myself. “I’ll talk to the next one.”
On our way back to the car, we passed a scruffy young man smoking a cigarette on a slab of rock on the side of the trail. He sat atop a bulging backpack, stuffed full like a giant army-green sausage . He was backpacking, not day hiking. Carrying cigarettes and wearing New Balance sneakers, I didn’t think he was a thru-hiker, but he could have been. I’m sure he had a story. He was lounging, I could have easily asked. But he wore headphones, and I didn’t want to intrude, so I hiked by with a nod and a smile.
By the time we arrived at our car, where five dusty, bearded twenty-something men lay draped over their backpacks, or sat on them as chairs, or propped their backs up against them in the white gravel parking lot, I knew that I would not talk to these hikers, nor photograph their faces. I am fascinated by journalists – by their grit, by their ability to shove in and get the story, by their speed in turning stories out – but I realized on the trail that that is not the stuff I’m made of.
Instead of shooting photographs of “the next one,” or of those prone hikers reclining not 20 yards from our car, I knew I’d bring their images home in my mind, and l’d write their portraits with words. I’d hole up at home, in retreat like many hikers seek, contemplating solitude, and the Appalachian Trail, and a culture that includes those who would nail a tiny sign over a tiny hole, in the wilderness, for smiles they’ll never see, but that they’ll know, quietly.
White daisy-like wildflowers on the Appalachian Trail, VA
Appalachian trail, Sawtooth Ridge near Blacksburg, VA
Pink mountain azaleas in bloom on Appalachian Trail in April, Sawtooth Ridge, VA
Tiny green succlents on Appalachian Trail in spring, Sawtooth Ridge, VA near Blacksburg
View from rock outcrop on Sawtooth Ridge hike near McAfee knob, VA on Appalachian Trail in April
Pink mountain azalea buds on Sawtooth Ridge on Appalachian Trail, VA
Tiny blue feather on Appalachian Trail in April, Sawtooth Ridge, VA
Fern unfurling in spring on Appalachian Trail, Sawtooth Ridge, VA
Lichen covered log and white wildflowers on Appalachian Trail in April, Sawtooth Ridge, VA
Summer, fall, winter. We’ve spent one of each here in the Appalachian mountains of Blacksburg, Virginia. And finally, we get to see spring. We took a walk at the Falls Ridge Preserve on Sunday, a 655 acre plot of land owned and maintained by The Nature Conservancy. It’s only about 15 minutes from our home, with an easy half mile trail packed with a lime kiln, shallow caverns that provided at least an hour of entertainment for our kids, a stream, a waterfall, and of course, wildflowers.
White Anemone Appalachian wildflower at Falls Ridge Nature Preserve
Yellow spicebush flower buds at Falls Ridge
Lime Kiln at Falls Ridge Nature Preserve
Pink anemone flower at Falls Ridge in Appalachia
Buds on a bush in Falls Ridge Nature Conservancy Preserve
Spring fed waterfall at Falls Ridge Nature Conservancy Preserve Blacksburg, VA Appalachia
Funky green Applachian bud (or flower?) at Falls Ridge Nature Preserve
Redbud tree buds at Falls Ridge Nature Preserve
White Trillium wildflower at Falls Ridge Nature Preserve
Buds on a bush in Falls Ridge Nature Preserve in Blacksburg, VA
Spring fed stream at Falls Ridge Preserve Blacksburg, Virginia
I know it is totally cliché to post photographs of spring for an April “Change” photo challenge. While this photo essay does embrace all the conventional themes of spring transition – new life, hope, color, potential – the type of change these photographs signify to me is one of having roots, being established, and consequently, being able to bloom. For the first time in our married life, my husband and I aim to stop wandering. This is unprecedented for us, to stay put in one place, possibly for the rest of our lives. It seems significant somehow, to wrap up our first year with the season of spring, the season of new life, hope, color, and potential. To put down roots while we watch our new world blossom.
Directions to Falls Ridge Preserve from Blacksburg: From South Main Street, just north of 460, turn onto Ellet Rd. (which becomes Cedar Run Rd.). Follow Cedar Run Rd. to the end and turn left on Jennelle Rd. at the railroad tracks. Follow Jennelle to the Food Time store (you’ll pass another Ellet Rd) and turn right on Den Hill Rd. Turn left on North Fork Rd and drive about three miles. On your right you will see a super rickety bridge on your right, with red railings and a sign that says “Use at your own risk.” Turn right and cross that bridge. Cross the railroad tracks and make an immediate left on a dirt/gravel road. Follow about .25 miles and you will see a parking lot on the left. There is a Nature Conservancy Kiosk in the grassy meadow. Follow the meadow to the woods and you will see the caves, kiln, and waterfall.
Butterfly Mind 