By Tom Robotham
In the woods…a man casts off his years, as the snake his slough, and at what period soever of life, is always a child. In the woods, is perpetual youth. – Ralph Waldo Emerson
One of my great fortunes in life is that I grew up in the woods.
There’s a sharp irony in that fact. I was born and raised in New York City, the mere mention of which conjures images of concrete, asphalt, skyscrapers, storefronts, traffic jams and hordes of pedestrians briskly going about their business.
Fair enough. These things characterize much of the city, especially Manhattan, and ever since early childhood, I have loved that urban energy. And yet, growing up in Staten Island in the 1960s, I was far removed from all of that most of the time. My love of “the City,” as we called Manhattan, was ingrained in me when I was toddler, due to frequent trips into Manhattan with my parents. The ferry ride across New York harbor was thrilling, as we passed the Statue of Liberty, and approached the soaring downtown towers. But those trips happened once a month, at most. Day to day, my life was defined by the woods that, until I was 7, surrounded my neighborhood on three sides.
Behind my house was a stretch that had once served as a Boy Scout camp. The city leveled it in 1963 to build an elementary school, which I attended for grades three through six. But those woods served as my first playground
—as did the woods on both ends of my block, which survived until after I went off to college.
Staten Island is also dotted with large hills, which I loved climbing. They were my preparation for actual mountains, and when I went away to the State University of New York in Plattsburgh—just north of the Adirondacks high-peaks region—I was in heaven.
Norfolk, by contrast, is depressingly flat and largely devoid of rocks, other than those that are trucked in for landscaping. Real woods are also scarce.
Because of this, I was pleased, when I began visiting this area in 1985, to discover that the Blue Ridge Mountains were only a three-hour’s drive from here.
When I finally moved here in 1991, I began driving out there as often as possible—initially with my wife and kids, and then, after a divorce, by myself for a few days of solo hiking. I became especially fond of Shenandoah National Park, the Skyline Drive that traverses it, and the charming lodges at Skyland and Big Meadows. Soon, I also discovered that the Potomac Appalachian Trail Club maintained six primitive cabins, which were available for rent for next to nothing.
By the late ‘90s, I’d also discovered the Tidewater Appalachian Trail Club, which owns a stone cabin in the woods, just off the Blue Ridge Parkway, about 20 miles south of the southern entrance to the Skyline Drive. I’ve stayed there several times over the years, and I regard it as a gem. If you love the woods and the mountains, I highly recommend getting involved with the club.
That said, I’ve continued to hold a special place in my heart for Shenandoah National Park—all the more so now that we have administration that is hostile to the very existence of the National Park system in general. As Ken Burns’ wonderful documentary series on the Park system expresses so eloquently, it is the very embodiment of democracy: America’s most beautiful landscapes owned not by royalty or aristocrats, but by we, the people.
Unfortunately, due to a variety of circumstances, I’d been unable to make it out there for the last 10 years.
Last month, I finally returned.
Initially, I’d wanted to stay at Skyland or Big Meadows, but they were all booked up. My girlfriend and I opted instead for a charming bed and breakfast, the Acorn Inn, about a half hour south of the park entrance. The property—owned by a lovely older couple, Martin and Kathy—includes a cozy private cottage in addition to the main house and a block of rooms in a converted stable, and it proved to be ideal.
Before checking in, we stopped for dinner at the Blue Mountain Brewery in nearby Afton. I’ve been to a lot of other breweries in the region over the years, but Blue Mountain stood out to me for its ambience—we ate on a large terrace with an expansive view—fine food and excellent beers. On a regular basis, I generally prefer traditional bars and restaurants, but if I lived in the area, I’m sure I’d become a regular Blue Mountain patron.
After settling back in at the cottage, we had a lovely conversation with Martin and Kathy on the back deck. I was especially struck by Martin’s vigor. At 79, he still rides his bicycle every day, often all the way to Charlottesville, 20 miles away. More astonishing still is that some years ago he was in an accident that broke every bone in his face. After recovering, he got back in the saddle, as it were, and has continued to ride ever since.
Listening to him, I felt somewhat sheepish. I’m 10 years younger but already feeling the sense of caution that comes upon many people as they enter old age.
In spite of this, I was looking forward to hitting some mountain trails the next morning.
Since the government was shut down, I wondered whether we’d face any impediments entering the park, but all went well. In fact, due to the staffing shortage, the ranger at the entry gate waived us on without collecting an entry fee.
And so, on up the Skyline Drive we went, rounding its graceful turns and admiring the stunning views that open up when you least expect them.
About 50 miles up the road is Big Meadows, where we stopped for lunch, then took a short hike to nearby Black Rock summit, which I’d done many times before. It’s a good warmup hike and on a clear day it offers panoramic views of adjacent mountains and the valley beyond. This time it was quite misty but no matter. It was good to be back on a mountaintop.
The walk back down was another matter. Short as the trail is, parts of it are rocky, and the mist had made them slick. Suddenly, I was afraid I might fall, so I proceeded gingerly, grabbing hold of rocks and branches to brace myself. It was also hard on my knees and thighs, and this was disconcerting. For most of my life, I’ve bounded up and down trails like a mountain goat, with no thought of falling and seemingly endless stamina. Now I felt fragile.
Not wanting to exert myself again just yet, I suggested we hit the Limberlost trail, about seven miles to the north. It’s largely flat but lovely—a 1.2-mile circuit passing through an old orchard and a grove of giant hemlocks. At one point, it crosses the Whiteoak Canyon Trail, which brought back fond memories of a 10-mile hike I did years ago. If you do the whole thing, you encounter six waterfalls and all manner of other woodsy wonders. I suddenly felt a burning desire to do that hike again. On this particular trip, though, that was not realistic, given our time constraints and my realization that I’d grown terribly out of shape.
Instead, we drove a few more miles up the road to another trail I knew well—one that leads to the summit of Stony Man Mountain. It’s pretty much a steady slope, and rocky in sections, but never steep. Still, halfway up, I got winded and had to rest several times before getting to the top.
At one point, I thought about giving up, but a quiet voice within told me to keep going. When we reached the summit, the view was again obscured by mist. We were literally in a cloud, which was a shame because on a clear day the view is spectacular. I remembered one hike in particular when I sat in solitude on the summit boulders, watching the sunset and feeling on the verge of tears as I pondered the magnificence of creation.
It reminded me of a comment Thomas Jefferson once made about the wonders of the Blue Ridge. “It is impossible,” he wrote, “for the emotions arising from the sublime to be felt beyond what they are here…The rapture of the spectator is really indescribable.”
This time, my rapture was dampened by my fatigue—and I was relieved when we got back to our car. But then something strange happened. After resting for a few minutes, I was suddenly overcome by exhilaration. Our day in the mountains had reconnected me with a fundamental truth: a simple walk in the woods is one of the greatest pleasures that life has to offer—and I’ll be damned if I let anything, save death itself, deprive me of that.
