The Hike, Part II

Not till we are down the mountain does Sophie tell me she wasn’t sure she could do it. Tell that to my legs and knees, which will be recovering for days from our eight-hour hike. If my thighs could move they might up and smack her. She was worried! All day I followed her up that rocky trail, 8.8 miles in as many hours, trying to keep pace with a teenager and telling myself,  well…this isn’t so bad. Our mother-daughter weekend in DC, planned last winter and given as a birthday gift in February, went down with Covid and all the un-planning I did in March and April to shutter the windows, close the doors and hunker down at home. It was made more sad by the “last chance” aspect of the stuff we cancelled—graduation, prom, last chance to spend time with college girl. But in the serendipity that is life, even in a pandemic, I see a break in the clouds. This. Recently back in the planning saddle I put it on the calendar, thinking, at least the mountains are safe. What else do you do on 98-degree Saturday in July with a heat index of 103?

You pick the hikes, I said to Soph. She comes up with three: Hawksbill Peak, Old Rag, and Dark Hollow Falls. The first is the highest point in all of Shenandoah National Forest. Four thousand feet up with a moderate 860′ elevation gain from start to finish of the 2.9 mile loop. Easy peasy! Our novice enthusiasm alone will power us up. Which is good, since that’s pretty much all we arrive with. Having driven three hours straight here, no stops, we’ve blown through our water and snack supply, so that as we pull-off at the roadside trail head I am suddenly confronted with the reality: we were going to stop on the way here. Oops. Hastily I remove the idiocy factor from my daypack so I can load first aid kit, half bottle of day-old water, and an umbrella–and up we go. That would be the key word here: Up.  It was so sudden and so steep, and so $#@! hot, that honestly for the first hour or so all I saw was the backs of her knees. I had to hike looking down, scanning the trail in front of me for all the rocks and roots that could trip an old lady and end our adventure before it began. College girl ahead of me seems to glide up the mountain. I thought I was the one with misgivings… I assumed her resolve was as solid and fresh as her hiking ensemble and as sure as her stride.

This is not our first trip to Shenandoah hiking; in fact, we are staying at the same AirBNB that I found when we made our first of the six college tours I took with his girl. The very first. When I tell you two secrets you must keep them or let them go quietly where no one will hear them. One is, that first college visit two years ago didn’t involve a college at all. Or barely. Instead, we spent the weekend hiking, figuring we’d answer questions at home off the brochures we’d collected. I had scored a room for two nights spitting distance from UVA, on the other side of their brick wall. I tried to talk her into an evening walk on campus, you know? Stretch our legs, don the evening like a light sweater, get warmed up to the idea of college girl. Instead, she didn’t want to go anywhere near. I knew she was holding back. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to apply and go to school. This was 2018, top of her game. She wasn’t contemplating a gap year, or going on the road with her band, or chase a boy or take a year to find herself, or any of that. Part of it, I think, was the scope and size of “college admissions world” felt huge. It scared us both.  She wanted to unpack the weekend trip one piece at a time, engage the moment as planned and given, not steal one beforehand. Just a peek, my girl, we’ll just go walk around the lawn, the quad, the corner, the campus, the strip—whatever this particular school calls its beloved spaces. The Grounds. She turned her back and refused.

So, we took our backpacks and headed for the trails, hiking through two of our two-and-a-half day college tour, rambling along mountain trails and streams—the peaks and valleys of our mother-daughter journey. It was a glorious fall weekend, and as I followed her through the woods I tried to get my brain around of launching this girl. We stood at the beginning of her junior year, which would swallow her whole and begin the crucible that now coming to an end. At the time, she had no interest in UVA. But the student who showed us around, a senior engineering major, was so blunt and down to earth you could trip over him. Something in his matter-of-fact manner made this school matter for her. In any case, it went on the list. What a hike that was! She got in almost a year ago, early decision. But I knew that day on humpback mountain that this journey would be a hard one. I followed girl with her beautiful back to me along the rocky trails, trying to keep up to her long-legged gait in my hustl-y middle age mom pace. True then, true now: no matter how hard I walk she is always ahead, slipping away.

Two is, I was there at the moment she hit “submit.” Girl who won’t give me three sentences of herself in a row, whose school life has been as free solo as it gets since she quit homeschool after five weeks at age five and kept right on climbing, committed to a plan she refused to show until the very end. It was unheard of to be invited in like that, to the formation. For the main essay she wrote about—guess…! What American college didn’t have a question on there about “overcoming hardship”? Four months ago, that story, whatever it was, set you apart from your peers, made you more or less desirable based on your cleverness and resolve in overcoming. [triple weeping smiley face emojis here]. Hah! Today, I’ll bet the schools will strike that prompt from their admission essay along with every third desk and the fondue fountain from their dining hall. Hardship??!  They’re handing it out with the hand sanitizer these days, and a face covering to hide your stunned sadness.

For the two UVA essays she chose one about “making community” and the other, of course, about a “difficult challenge.” “In sixth grade I took strings because my sister did, but I wanted to be different,” begins her essay. “El Torreador” is the song, from Carmen, a real challenge of a piece. She talked about this indomitable and difficult music playing in her mind but thwarting her fingers, of carrying the score with her everywhere and making the bowing movements with her pencil. This would have been typical Sophie: practicing, pushing, rehearsing in private until her achievement crashed out in fullness and completion. The El Capitan of her middle school strings experience. Ironically, she did directly reference Mt. Everest.  (As if any one of us knew about uphill before Covid.) I’ll bet UVA liked that. The musical metaphor for life. The grit of a girl still in braces going up against this cultural obstacle with unflagging determination. Of course they took her. Give her some harder music and just listen.

Unlike the other peaks in Shenandoah, some of them higher and equally beautiful, only Old Rag has an exposed summit—and hence the name. The mountain is underlain by Old Rag Granite,  a form of very hard and resistant crystallized magma that underlies the elevation… So says the geological website I looked up. It formed during the “Grenville Orogeny” –a “mountain-building” geological event about a billion years ago. That makes Old Rag about 900 million years older than the Rocky Mountains. No wonder she picked it—geological wonderland notwithstanding, this mountain is ranked most popular in Shenandoah and a “must-do” among the most-hiked peaks in all of Virginia. In one overblown article I look up, the climb we are apparently going to attempt is on the list for “The 25 Best Hikes in the World Right Now,” alongside other spectaculars such as Everest Base Camp in Nepal, Lares Trek in Peru, Fisherfields Round in Scotland, and the Kalalau Trail in Hawaii. Impressive! I’m glad Sophie knows what she’s doing. After all, early-decision-living-in-ulcer-ville-girl is not not going to do it. I, her sidekick, have signed on the dotted line as well: legally binding. If I get in I will go…but I have that same sick feeling I get waiting in a roller coaster line with an eight year old, sitting in a dentist chair waiting on a tooth extraction, and now…trying to peer ahead into Covidland. My third secret is relatively new, ever since I laid this Shenandoah hiking trip on the table and Sophie threw Old Rag on top of it. I am truly, legitimately scared to make this hike.

One of the most popular hikes, it’s also touted as the most difficult and the most dangerous, with an elevation gain of anywhere from 2200-3000′. Apparently, several hikers are air-lifted off each year. Great. Dehydration and exhaustion are the main reasons, but so is falling, cardiac distress, and lately, a concern for black bears. Aggressive bears! Wonderful! Bring it on. The website warns of the dangers. The climbs on Old Rag are between 50 and 100 feet in length, and all of them start with a 5 on a range of 1-5 on the Yosemite Decimal System, a standardized measuring stick of mountain climbing. For me, any hike involving a uniformed official at the trailhead asking me to “register” with a photo ID and checking my gear and water supply is enough to make me turn and “hike” for the car. Least he didn’t ask for a copy of my dental records. Let’s face it, in middle age, life presents plenty of its own mountains. I certainly don’t need expensive gear or to wait in line to be put out of my element.

So our mother-daughter mountain climb is clearly one of a kind, an unusual demographic on this, what must be “Co-ed Saturday.” Though we rose before dawn, set out by 6 (Sophie’s idea), and made the trailhead by 7, the gravel parking lot is nearly full and swarming with ski poles, Starbucks and hybrid cars. Day hasn’t yet got her boots on and the Patagonia set is out in full force, looking like pros in their eco-gear and tight little tushies, long legs and fresh faces. Me, I’m already looking for a bathroom in the first 20. Yes, my girl, I do plan to take that walking stick. It’s not a cane, it’s a hiking aid.

Sophie takes stock of her ensemble: proper boots (Columbia) paycheck clothing (as in, costs all of one to procure it), and handy nylon daypack (Eddie Bauer), courtesy of Ebay. At least she has the proper branding to make this hike—or a full page spread for the REI catalog. Me they most likely will not feature in the next issue of Outside Magazine. I’m wearing her cast-offs on my feet (which feel better and fit better and hike happier because they were free), some Old Navy hand-me downs and a rummage sale tee my sister sent me. Parts of my outfit are older than the people on the trail ahead of us. Perhaps more alarming, at least to my assessment, is there’s no one over 30 out here! I see maybe a few older men (as in 40) and that’s it. I’ve got 25 years on these yahoos—er, Wahoos and probably that many pounds, but here I go. Lesson 6,542, Sophie, my girl: you don’t have to look the part the be the part. Grandma and the gang, here on the Ridge Trail—half hour in, eight more to go.

It’s not as though I am totally out of shape. In quarantine I rejoined my walking love. Keyword: flat. I have walked every day except two since March 13th. My shortest route is 30 minutes, with a neighbor, and my longest is a 1:50 loop I make alone that leaves my legs rubbery and my knees wooden. On those days I can usually get my steps to 10,000. Yes, I have been paying attention to “steps.” Late to the “health app” party, I am enjoying the one Sophie showed me on the old iPhone she installed me on last month. I look up my steps each day trying to nudge the daily average closer to 10,000. So far, I’m holding at 6,500 even with the morning walk. Not so easy in quarantine when our house is less than 2000 square feet and I’m not supposed to go anywhere. So, the hikes we’ve done help a lot–back in June a trek up North Mountain at Shrine Mont gets me 16,585 steps, then that speed-hike up Monument Mountain (See The Call of the Void – July 2020) with non-stopping teens got me a gasping 10,113. Even a hike across the James River to Belle Isle, when combined with my long loop in the morning, gets me 15,623. That day was a long one! In summary, even though we are in a global pandemic and semi-quarantine, it’s been quite an “elevated” summer this far. Emotional hurdles and heights aside, I have climbed a combined 10,415 feet into the air. Nothing virtual about that: I have climbed one third the way to ol’ Everest herself.

As Sophie warms up to the hike, and the day, and me, her comments make me know she was on the same websites I was, researching our prize. And it is a beautiful hike, to be sure. According Outside Magazine’s description, “After a two-mile switchback ascent through thick deciduous forest, the trail scrambles around granite boulders, up a natural staircase of quartz and feldspar, and tops out at numerous false summits before reaching the true summit 3,284 feet and the best view of the sprawling, 200,000-acre Shenandoah National Park.” Let’s stop here and talk about the term “scramble.” It’s a rock scramble. The last time I did one, on the “Bear Fence” hike two years ago, I was (go figure) on all fours scrambling across a rocky surface, like an overgrown crab. This scramble is much more a climb, like walking out the front door of your house and deciding to climb on the roof. And when you can’t, vaulting the car instead. I see now that you also will have to squeeze through crevasses, shimmy down boulders or clamber over them and, in places jump across–quite the challenge the guide books warned about. As there is no place along this portion of the trail that I am in danger of falling to my death from a sheer rock face, I settle down and focus on getting my fifty-year old self over these boulders. Sophie and I develop a system—a mother-daughter leap frog of sorts, me planting my hand firmly on her rear and pushing while she hoists herself up, then sits atop the bolder and reaches down to grab either my hand or walking cane—er, stick and in turn pull me up beside her. At one point, offering to push her, I turn to the young man close behind me and tell him that I will not be needing a “push on the toot.”

Remember the three hundred cars in the parking lot? Their occupants are all up here, on the mountain ahead of us, though it is not yet nine-thirty am. We actually passed a pair of hikers coming back down at—I checked my watch—8:15 in the morning?! I am now palpably aware of the crowds and of the hot, sweaty, air and close breathing of all the people in line waiting to climb at the top. Looks like billion-year old granite is not the biggest exposure going on up here; we are shoulder to shoulder with 20-somethings, who if you read the news think that their youth and vitality have armored them against the dreaded disease. As the clusters of climbers get more squished, the banter and verbal exchange grows (oh please oh please let it be verbal only…). Fly on the rock cliff, I discover that college kids have truly foul mouths. Yet, people grow friendlier and funnier as the climb grows steeper and we are pressed together. At one particular bottle neck: What is taking so long? Is it always like this? “Oh, you know,” says a young man, “Gotta get a good one for the ‘gram. It’s all about the gram.” I misunderstand his meaning with my witty quip, which instantly makes me wish I didn’t speak: “I am the Gram.” No one laughs, so I figure they are wishing the same thing.

Remember those steps? My daily average going into this hike is somewhere near 7,800 – 8,000, which is good but not great. I’m trying to get to the recommended 10,000 per day. Lots of low-paced days with grand spikes on Saturdays from the hiking. Well… all that is about to change. On the day Sophie and I spend eight hours on our feet in God’s country, we have no service, but a million bars. Later that night, feet singing, legs stiff, I open the app and take a look at my steps for the day. Are you ready? Not 10 thousand, not 15 or 18, but 25,349 steps, the equivalent of walking 12 miles and climbing 141 flights of stairs. My eyes weep and my feet just look at me stunned. Because of this, my average for the week has rocketed to a daily total of 11,000 steps—even if I don’t get out of bed for the next two days. And maybe I won’t.

It’s a good feeling, to have met your best. The climb is too simple a metaphor for what college girl will be up against this fall. As if going away to school for the first time is ever easy, now it is fraught with all the rock scrambling life can amass. Later that evening, showered and still standing, for some reason we decide that more walking is in order. She wants to go over to UVA campus—er, sorry, grounds—with a carry out dinner. It’s hot and heavy, even at dusk, and the campus is deserted. Different world from two years ago, when students outnumbered squirrels and the sidewalks were full. My legs beneath me are mad we are still walking and this time wearing pants, two bad calls. It is so hot without those mountain breezes.

As I walk and think, and make my observations, I ask the campus if it is ready for my child. I ask these buildings if they are clean, and whether they have central, purified A/C and the dining hall if it knows what it’s doing. Will they really be able to take care of her? There’s no catalog gear that will make this climb safer—other than a mask, which they will issue in place of a trendy drinking tumbler or keychain. Sophie walks for a different reason. We are headed to find her dorm. I know what she is doing, trying to make this place her own while no one is watching. Memorizing the placement of buildings and paying more attention to their names etched in the lintels above the doors. Two new lines of vision for the screen set: up and out. Steps, of one sort, that will make her hike here in the fall a little certain, her footing a little more sure.

For a while, we sit and eat our dinner on low brick steps in sight of the Rotunda. It’s quiet, the grounds are empty, so we are silent, lost in our own thoughts. Mid-mouthful, this: “I never thought I’d get in.” I look up, at her. Did I just say that, or did she? Did she say anything at all? I think back on the day’s heights and the long, long hike. My knees feel like they’ve just removed the casts so I can go to PT, and I notice that when I sit for any length of time my body molds to that shape and can’t move. But I did it. My girl…. We did it. Bask in that for just a minute while you eat your supper, and let the great unknown save for tomorrow. “To be perfectly honest, Sophie,” I had said on the third day of trail, more heat, hot and endless hiking into woods, “hasn’t what you have been through taught you what you are made of?” I let the question hang in the trees, bending to us on the trail. Spun from mercy, made in love as pure as these mountain streams and plentiful as the high, gentle air, molded by grace and walked with every weary step of the way—why, Sophie girl! You are made of steel.

And I…I am made of old rag granite.