Backpacking at Greyson Highlands: Day 1
Mare and Foal off the Rhodedendron Trail from Massie Gap, Grayson Highlands, Virginia
Most of the week preceding this trip was spent in tears.
When we planned our second backpacking trip, we invited my Dad—an avid adventurer—and Mom—a compulsive self-improver if ever I saw one—to come along for the ride. My dad was ecstatic, and we were soon accepting package deliveries of kit items. My mom was tentative—she has a back injury that flares up every now and then, and ground-sleeping can be tricky—but then enthusiastically preparing for a new challenge. We planned to revisit Grassy Ridge Bald for an easy 2-night trip, and Chris and I busied ourselves researching and upgrading our gear. We couldn’t wait to try out our new sleeping bags, tent, sleeping pads, titanium mugs, and zip-off pants.
With a little over a week to go, my Papa was hospitalized. We hoped he would recover, and tentatively planned on my parents still coming. But he didn’t improve. He was discharged to hospice.
The next few days were a blur. I didn’t want to go on this trip anymore—a trip we planned with family felt empty now. I wanted to get on the next flight home. I wanted the pandemic to disappear. I wanted to wean my baby. I wanted to be with my family. I wanted to see my Papa. I wanted to do anything but stay home, work through lessons, clean, feed children, prep for a useless trip I didn’t want to go on anymore.
My papa was an original adventurer. He was a newsie and street fighter kid. As a boy, he travelled across the US, stealing chickens and learning cowboy songs along the way. He enlisted at 17 to fight in WW2, and confidently told my Grandma “you’re going to marry me” the first day he met her. He loved beautiful women, fishing, growing tomatoes, and going for walks. He is the reason I eat bread, cheese, and salami on every hike and beach trip. He taught me to swim, eat dessert first, and be kind to everyone I meet. Even the nurses who cared for him in his final days called him “Prince Ed” because he was so kind—and, I suspect, just a bit flirtatious. He knew how to live with joy and appreciation for the world around him.
I didn’t really make any kind of a decision. Travel wasn’t an option, and staying at home was intolerable. So we continued preparation for our trip. But there was no wind in our sails.
By chance, I stumbled upon Greyson Highlands one evening on Instagram. We changed our itinerary only days before our departure, and I pieced together a 15-mile backpacking route from various maps, backpacker’s forums, and Instagram posts. A new location breathed new life into our trip. I was grateful to discover that I could still be excited about a new trail. I let go of what was outside of my control and focused on being present with my husband and children.
Starting off from the backpacker’s lot towards Massie Gap…look how clean everyone is!
It was a beautiful, sunny day when we started out. I’d made a reservation online to park at the Greyson Highlands Backpacker’s lot, and it was pretty simple to hike up the connector trail to Massie Gap. The wildflowers were in bloom, the trail was open and easy, and we were confident.
We hadn’t even gone a mile along the Rhododendron trail before we spotted the wild ponies. They were grazing in a loose group along the horse trail, skinny-legged colts wandering about their mothers, while the fathers ranged up on the side of the hill. Adelaide, ever cautious, couldn’t be coaxed within 100 yards of them until we offered to leave her behind. Idris charged in and had to be reminded repeatedly to not feed the ponies. He plopped down on the ground and was eagerly snuffled by a curious colt. They were beautiful ponies, placidly grazing and generally ignoring us, though Idris received a half-hearted nudge with a hind hoof when he approached a mare from behind. They were happy to be fed and petted by passing hikers—and I couldn’t help but think sadly that they were about as wild as a pony would be in a free-range petting zoo. (Please, if you visit—take photos, but do NOT feed the ponies. A colt died in the Outer Banks this summer after choking on an apple. Let them keep their natural feeding skills and stay a bit more wild for the next generation.)
We left them and continued on our trail, connecting into the Appalachian Trail and climbing up, up into the mountains. The photos of grassy, flat paths hadn’t prepared us for this—steep stone step after steep stone step, up and up and it was raining and cold and the ponchos didn’t fit and the baby wanted to nurse and the weight of my pack was so much that I knew, I just knew I wouldn’t make it up the mountain. The clouds rolled in, obscuring the dramatic views we were earning but missing. Chris was carrying Idris on his shoulders, and Coco’s baby carrier dug into my shoulders under the weight of my backpacking pack. This was about the time Chris told me, “I have bad news.”
“What?”
“We left the freezer food at home.”
I was dumbfounded.
“I just thought you would rather find out now, than when we arrive at camp and you’re excited for dinner”
The night before, I’d put a beef kielbasa, a chunk of Dubliner cheese, and a package of Naan bread into the freezer, planning to pop them in our packs and allow them to defrost just in time to be eaten for dinner night 1 (kielbasa with baguette) lunch day 2 (crackers with cheese and pepperoni) and dinner day 2 (Indian Tikka veggies with rice and naan). We had forgotten them at home. 3 critical elements of our 3 main meals, all missing.
“Well, we can have half the pepperoni for dinner tonight with the bread, and half tomorrow with the crackers. I’ll cook together some dried apple slices and granola with some water for an apple crisp to fill us up after dinner tonight. We have rice, so the naan won’t be missed. And we have trail mix and protein bars. We just can’t over-eat, that’s all.”
We hiked on, slipping over wet rocks, shivering with cold. I promised myself I’d buy everyone packable rain coats and fleece pullovers for the next trip—the ponchos were shredded by now, and Coco refused point-blank to have one at all. We were all dripping wet. When we made it over the mountain to the plain below, I yelled in triumph and raised my trekking poles to the grey skies above. My back wasn’t protesting anymore. I felt alive.
When we reached the fork, we took the left trail to Thomas Knob shelter and started to see campsites pop up along the way. We’d already decided to skip Mt. Rogers. It’s the highest peak in Virginia, but with only a view of tree trunks we didn’t want to waste our time—or calories—on an additional 2 miles. We spotted an incredible camp on the side of the mountain—grassy, with trees nearby for shelter and a wide-open view of the blue ridge mountains receding into the distance. The rain had stopped earlier, so we let the kids down to run (kids WILL run at camp, regardless of how many miles they’ve hiked that day) and Coco crawled about happily while we set up the tent.
Colette crawling around the campsite after a day of hiking in the rain
We boiled water from our camelbaks and made hot cocoa. I can’t even describe the feeling of a warm titanium mug of hot cocoa in your rain-chilled hands, sitting on the moss under an enormous evergreen tree, looking out at the mountains in the distance. Nothing ever tasted so good. …though the apple-crisp after dinner came a close second.
The clouds rolled in, and we decided to go to bed. Chris cleaned up from dinner and hung our cookware and food in a tree while I attempted to wrestle Idris into bed—quite literally. Here is where we discovered the limitations of compostable diapers. Idris, laughing hysterically, made a dive for the tent door. I seized him by the back of his pajama pants, determined to keep him inside the tent and out of the mud. His diaper shredded in my hands. It quite literally ripped on each side, creating a perfect rectangle of diaper hanging down with a rosy little bum completely bare to the world. Idris thought this was hilarious. I cursed the absence of elasticity in compostable diapers, and grimly wrestled him into a fresh one—which ripped as I pulled on a side tab. I hopelessly tucked it into his pants, and hoped for the best. I would have more cause to mourn the compostable diaper.
…continued in part 2