We've arrived in Shenandoah National Park this Saturday evening, but it wasn't handed to us easily. We had already ridden thirty miles of hills when we bit into one of Lester's peaches in the 700-foot-elevation town of Sperryville. From there, we looked up into the Appalachians at our campsite, waiting patiently at 3,200'. We kicked the dirt around a bit, talked about riding back to Maine, but ultimately end up spinning out of town in our granny gears. With all the lovely dips included, the ~3,000' climb actually wasn't as bad as we expected. Reaching the top, my legs are definitely spasming a bit, but I think that's understandable when the bike and gear alone weigh 115 pounds. We briefly hiked a mile section of the AT as the sun set and therefore claim ourselves to have hiked it all, just as Bill Bryson does.
Kate and her friend Angela have come over from DC to camp for the evening and get in a day of hiking tomorrow. I've made our common meal of Zatarans jambalaya with two onions and a whole beef sausage. We sit around and chat until we recognize the time and realize we have a day of hiking ahead of us tomorrow. I've retired to my tent, underwent my nightly flossing routine and now listen to Bon Iver as I record my thoughts. We have a day of hiking and waterfalls ahead of us.
It's Sunday night and I've found myself laying in my hammock as I stare up at the massive canopy swaying above. It feels completely still here, close to the ground, but I can hear the wind whipping along the tops of the trees. Leaves above are swaying back and forth, creating a tide of shadows on the moonlit sky. Leaves of one branch all move together, yet contradict the allowed rhythmic movement of the leaves on another branch. Moments of complete stillness occur, but only for brief periods of time. Sounds of the wind hit the senses first, followed by an occasional draft on my nose, then chased by the fluid movement of the trees in both a singular and collective dance. Looking at one tree, everything seems peaceful and even possibly humdrum. Focusing attention on the collective scene, it becomes a turbulent rush of excitement.
Setting up our hammocks this evening, we quickly realized we had bears hanging out with us on polar sides of our camp. People always seem to think they hear bears in the woods. Realistically, it usually isn't and is instead a squirrel dropping something out of a tree, the falling of sticks or dead branches, or even a deer. However, to somebody who knows what a bear sounds like in the woods, it can be very obvious. Bears tromp among the forest in an aloof manner, because they can and should. There is little reason for a bear to prance around the woods quietly like a deer, because it is indeed the predator. They may not be stumbling through the woods, but they certainly aren't avoiding sticks for the breaking noise they make when stepped upon. Setting up our hammocks, we each had a bear over our shoulder. They had no care of our presence and simply seemed to continue on with their routine. Not too worried about it, but we still washed all the dishes well and hung the food a few hundred feet from camp. More for their safety than ours.
We had another bear encounter earlier today while hiking. Coming around a corner, we saw people ahead of us waving their arms in the air. We looked behind us to see if we were in the middle of one of those awkward moments involving two unknown parties on both sides of a confused individual. Like a game of pickle using waves rather than a baseball. We quickly realized we weren't playing such a game and looked elsewhere. One hundred feet away, in a clearing, was a mama black bear and her two cubs. Foraging around and not giving a care in the world about us. Standing and admiring, I snapped an unfocused photo. Hearing the shutter, one of the cubs took off in a precious little run and both the mother and other cub ended up following it. The density of black bears in Shenandoah has been estimated at 1.1 per square mile. Some sources even say 2 per square mile. Bound to encounter them at some point if one comes here!
The hike itself was gorgeous. It was a short 7 mile jaunt, but filled with some beautiful sights and sounds. Arriving at Dark Hollow Falls in the middle of the day, we admire its numerous pools of cascading water. The guiding rocks of the waterfall outcropping are covered in moss and so are the little shallow lines of water connecting the pools below. Wes and I jump up to the highest pool and take a dip in the frigid mountain spring water. It isn't the warmest bath, but we have to rinse off somehow! We don't have the luxury of a shower waiting for us at home in the evening. Rose River Falls is equally gorgeous and accessed by a trail following along a shallow creek. Brook trout group in the shaded areas of some of the water holes. Roots and rocks make up a majority of the trail and it makes foot placement a form of puzzle.
With the day now at its end, I find it hard to sleep rather than stare up at the whirling mass above me. I heard Wes stop moving a couple hours ago though and realize it's also probably time for me to shut down. I hope I'm treated with another night of this sight soon.
It's now Monday morning and I remain in my hammock. At 9am, I woke up to a light sprinkling of rain. We don't enjoy using our rainflies because they block out the gorgeous view of the canopy. Waking up in a hammock to the sight of sun only lighting the tips of the trees is quite the way to start our days. Therefore, unless we can tell rain is guaranteed, we keep them off but strapped to the hammock, for quick access. This morning found us both jumping out of our nests and setting up our flies before the rain could drench our sleeping bags. The rain looked as if it may stick around for a while, so I gathered up all the gear I would need for the morning. Stove, water, toiletries and chair, as well as the food down from its hanging spot. People on a nearby trail would get a laugh out of two guys running around the woods in their boxers to gather possessions from the rain. We were then able to retire back to our hammocks.
The scene is very similar to last night, although different in how it presents itself. The presence of rain adds an additional aspect of sound while the rainfly cuts back on sight. Although it seems to be continually raining, there are still long periods of silence in which very few rain drops are heard. The dense canopy above shelters us from the continual spattering of water. Instead, the leaves of the canopy collect all the rain as it falls. With no wind or motion, the water gently rests on the leaves at a sort of midpoint. Occasionally, gusts of wind similar to last night, will rush through and again disturb the wet canopy. What ensues is the falling of all the rain drops collected over the span of a few minutes. For a few brief seconds, it sounds as if I'm getting hit by the spray from a hose, charged by somebody's thumb over the end. It feels like we're back in Maine for a bit. Some of the water beads seem unaffected, while others jump with excitement to join their neighbors and create a mass heavy enough to overcome the rain fly's cohesion. Little streams funnel down the fly and shoot onto the ground. The rain drops have finally reached their destination and are now showing their purpose. Which seems to be getting my bare feet wet once I decide to exit my hammock.
Monday night finds me hanging my hammock in a sea of dogwoods (Virginia's state flower), with sparsely-spaced deciduous trees of which I am unfamiliar. This is what Wes and I refer to as 'hammock heaven'. All the trees are about 20 feet apart, with nothing in between them to effect the stringing of our hammocks. We hang in peace, right below Big Meadows, at about 3,400'. We barely moved camp today. Midday rain prevented us from breaking camp until 4pm and from there we pedaled up to the next summit in the park.
Being a weekday, the roads now had much less car traffic and therefore much more animal traffic. While riding, we came across about thirty deer throughout the short seven mile distance in which we road today. Deer in the park have become far too comfortable with humans and therefore let me ride up to within fifteen feet of them. I feel as if a deer should run at first sight of a man on a strange metal machine. Pedaling up the climb, it was our first day riding in brisk weather. The morning of rain and continual cloud cover had left us with an air temp of about 55 degrees. It felt wonderful and left a slight dampness on the road. Not enough to be dangerous, yet enough to keep the crisp feeling of rain in the air.
There is one gas station on the 105-mile Skyline Drive. With the gas station, comes a little diner to satisfy the carnivorous cravings of AT hikers and touring cyclists, as well as grandma and grandpa in their motorhome. We balance out the labor of the short climb with a cheeseburger and chase it down with a blackberry milkshake. Upon leaving the diner, we stumble upon one of the most beautiful sunsets of our trip. Uphill from us, we see about fifteen deer, softly lit on a amber hillside, with the moon lofting slightly above. Downhill, we view the sunset over the Shenandoah Valley, with West Virginia in the distance. We travel down the road a few hundred feet and find ourselves in the Elfin looking forest in which we now lay. It's so picturesque and fantasy-like, that I expect a fairy to bump against me at any moment. I can't wait to see it through the morning fog.
There's an owl perched up on a limb about 15-20 feet away from us. It snuck in without us knowing its presence and will now occasionally hoot at us. Naturally, I recorded its call and have been repeating it back to it. No response yet. It sees me as another silly human with one of those iPhone things. I hope it hangs around for the night.
Tuesday morning has presented itself exactly as I had hoped. I've opened my eyes to the Elfin dogwood forest, now shrouded in with fog. My sight doesn't reach more than 50 feet before it ceases in a haze of fluffy wetness. The sky is bright, signifying the presence of a sunny day above, although from my view it is merely a canopy of suspended precipitation. Some of it is condensing on the leaves and falling as an imitation rain. We've strung our hammocks under a large maple tree and allowed its grand leaves to act as a rainfly. Occasionally it falls a little faster and we share looks of uneasiness, but then realize the view is far too beautiful to mask with a rainfly. I'll start to worry if I see my sleeping bag getting wet. I've only felt three drops so far.
I've just received an email from my wonderful mama, telling me to listen to "Country Roads" by John Denver. I think all of you should do the same. While my hammock is everything I desire in the areas of comfort and coziness, the song gets me itching to get back out on the country roads.
It's Tuesday night and I'm now in Waynesboro, Virginia. Only about four miles outside of Shenandoah and I already miss it. Today was a stunningly beautiful ride. As we packed up camp, the fog burnt off and the first rays of sun hit us as we plopped our butts atop our saddles. It stayed in the mid-50s all day, allowing us to keep our shells on without overheating. Shenandoah is slowly starting to show its fall colors. While a large majority of everything is still green, branches of yellow and red leaves jet out randomly from some trees. The color outbursts seem completely random, as if some branches simply think "Meh, I've waited long enough." Outlooks dominate almost every significant turn of Skyline Drive and it's difficult not to stop at every single one. We wisely pick the ones with the widest views and highest prominences to eat our Clif bars topped with dollops of honey. Side note...we pretty much live on Clif bars for lunch and sometimes even breakfast.
Although there were still significant climbs today, a large portion of the day was spent zipping down grades at 40mph. Sometimes for miles on end. The canopies of trees connect over the road in most places and creates our own little tunnel of speed. We often try to yell some form of excited blabber to the other, but the wind usually takes it away before it can travel the few feet. I smile and give a thumbs up as a fully restored Chevy Bel Air cruises past us on a steep grade. Its baby blue paint blending in with the sky as it rounds a corner without trees. I'd love to spend my retiring years doing just that. Across the northern tier of the United States, for I'll have seen the southern tier slow enough via bicycle.
The final descent from Shenandoah is a quick thousand feet in six or so miles. Dropping right into the town of Waynesboro. Walking through a grocery store, I'm quite possibly too excited to find locally produced orange cream milk. I love orange cream! We find camp, string our hammocks, and I gulp down the milk in between bites of our wild rice and beans with salami dinner. Stretching out the 62 miles we rode today, I smile as I already begin to reminisce of the sights, sounds, smells and textures of Shenandoah National Park.
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