Alternative Paths

Let me tell you a story about plan C.

Very often when we hike something goes wrong.

Our gear isn't up to the task.

Our bodies give out or get injuries long before we thought they would.

Bears eat our food.

Part of the hiking and trail camping experience is a systematic and constant experience of figuring out what to do next.

Brian was driving up for the weekend. It was March. I convinced him to go with me and spend the weekend camping in the cold on the Old Rag Trail. It's a great hike, not strenuous, and I thought it would be a good gear test for some new things I was taking out for a longer hike in May.

Brian is a person of excellence, and would often repeat as we hike, "Hey, I'm just here for you," being up for whatever, and allowing me to set the pace.

We loaded up our gear, prepared the last of our meals and headed out.

We also made the rookie mistake that a lot of hikers make when they have done several hundreds of miles of trails and camping -- we didn't really take this weekend jaunt very seriously.

I didn't check the weather. I didn't check the roads leading up to the trail. I didn't really even know the trail maps that well (but at least we had maps). I thought, "it's two nights," which are really good famous last words.

As Brian and I started driving out things went great. We were hitting the road, talking, laughing and listening to good music. Then, it started to snow.

The closer we got to the mountains the more snow we saw. It accumulated. It piled up. It made drifts. By the time we got to the place where we were supposed to turn off the highway, it was at least 2 inches and still coming down. Welcome to the Shenandoah Mountains.

When we pulled off the highway, which had been clear, Brian voiced concern for the first time. Which, was his right, it was after all his car we were driving. Well, I was driving. He said something to effect of a nervous calling of my name as we pulled off the highway and saw that the ramp was completely covered in snow and ice.

I grew up in West Virginia and Ohio. I am undaunted by a little snow.

I drove through it and we came up to the gate that led people onto the Blue Ridge Parkway, and there was a ranger in the booth. In an effort to quiet Brian's fears I said, "I'll ask them what the road is like up near the trail. They can tell us."

They did tell us.

They told us that the whole parkway was shut down and that we needed to turn around.

Okay. Plan B then.

We picked out a new trail that we could easily make an up and back trip over two nights. It was on the Appalachian Trail and we could get onto it at a point where the trail crosses over the interstate, which was still clear. Solid. Thought out. It was the kind of decision adults make. Responsible adults. So we set back out

We drove another 50 minutes and came out to a place we could park. The wind and snow were still blowing, and we didn't even bother to take a temperature reading. It was 1 pm and we planned on hiking 6 miles to the shelter for the night. We both had the gear. We had really good gear. Merino wool, many layers, extra hand warmers, I was even caring a full lumber axe for fire wood. We were ready.

(spoilers) Brian and Christopher Survive

We headed out after getting situated and I told Brian again, not to worry, that once we were against the mountain, under the pines, things would warm up, the wind would die down. And I was right. Relatively.

We started hiking in good spirits as many of us do at the beginning of a hike. All those god parts of being "out" get to you and start kicking off endorphins and whatever else our biology cocktails up in the mix of excitement and exercise. We hikes for a while, even saw a few day hikers out there. We had nothing to worry about.

We did see that one inevitable day hiker that seems to come out on every trip. You know the one. The sass. The comments. Once they see the gear you carry that labels you as an overnighter the phrase is always the same. "You all spending the night? (chuckles) Well, good luck." It's worse than the curse of an Macbethian trio of witches.

But we were undaunted. At least for a good many hours. The light started to dwindle, and we had yet miles to go before our proverbial sleep. We stopped for a break and the cold started to seep in. We hiked a good while more and crossed the Parkway, still covered in a heavy blanket and that easy exit route gave us a chance to rethink things. We hiked about a 1/4 mile along, talking about what we should do before I gave in and we put our packs down.

"Let's make a fire, cook some dinner, and think about some options." So we did. Out came the axe, we found a prime rock against which we could build and I quickly built up a pile of firewood from fallen trees and had the fire blazing. Before we could get out the food, we noticed something.

The cold.

This was not the cold we thought it was. This was the high mountain cold of an abnormal March, the little leftover perhaps of a vortex that brought insanity down on the Midwest not that long before. Even right against the fire, even building the fire up, didn't seem to do anything to abate it. We had a realization then. Out gear, and our resolve, weren't ready for however cold this was. We made the choice, Plan C, to hike the road back to the car, and spend the night off the mountain.

The folly of Man...

We had Mexican food that night, and slept in a seedy motel for not very much money. And I experienced some of the worst reactions to being overheated and dehydrated in my entire life. I shook uncontrollably, I had waves of nausea and migraines that followed. Salt tabs, Advil and water all came too late. The thing about really good gear, it that it wicks away all your sweat. In the windy cold of the mountain, I didn't even notice how much I was sweating, and with high spirits, I didn't replenish nearly enough. As I lay awake that night, I could only think how much worse it would have been in a 3 walled shelter on top of the mountain.

The next day, after a hearty breakfast our spirits, and my body, were restored somewhat. The freak cold was gone, the snow was melting, and we went back out to hike some side trails and enjoy what was left of our time.

Our plans often have to change, and maybe that is one of the biggest lessons that the wilderness can teach us. Flexibility and not rigidity are our greatest assets to the most healthful life that we can lead, which is a hard lesson when we perceive our lives being built on eternal foundations. Maybe we can't live in endless flexibility, maybe that feels to unsure, or too dangerous, but being able to respond the pliable nature of the world seems like a great asset to hone.