Perspectives From A Peak

I’ve accomplished a fair amount of stupid activities in my life, but this one by far prevails over them all as the most foolish. 

It’s October, but the weather in Shenandoah National Park ignores the memo. The trees around me hold steadfast onto their leaves, reluctant to discard them. The leaves themselves are hesitant to change, surrounding me in a sea of emerald shrubbery. When I look out across the valley, a few pockets of forestry have surrendered to the changing of the seasons. Though their colorings haven't reached the vibrancy of a Midwestern forest.

I stare at the map of Bearfence Mountain in the parking lot across the street from the trailhead. Uncertainty sprouts in my stomach. Like the weed that it is, it steals from me the minute bits of courage I had stored up for exactly this purpose. Scrolling through pictures of the trail and watching endless amounts of YouTube videos had given me a confidence that I could conquer this mountain. It was only a mile and a half after all. Not very long by any means.

I steal my gaze away from the map after snapping a picture with my phone. I look both ways across Skyline Drive before crossing to the trailhead. What greets me is a semblance of a staircase constructed from horizontal beams of wood lodged within the earth. An indication that, yes, indeed, one is about to hike up a mountain. Painted onto one of the tree trunks is a blue marker, beckoning me forth in its direction. 

I am the only soul fearless enough to attempt this hike during the birth of daylight. Darkness hovers over the horizon, conceding ground to the golden hour. “Fearless,” perhaps, is not an adequate characterization. 

As I ascend the staircase, I scan the forest for the wildlife that calls Shenandoah their home. The park is well known for its black bears, creatures that I thought little of until I arrived the previous night. Huddled within the confines of my sleeping bag, I couldn’t imagine the thin sheen of tent fabric putting up much of a fight against a three-hundred-pound barrage of teeth and claws. And though Shenandoah might be famous for its bears, thankfully it is not as well known for its bear attacks; a statistic in which I took little solace in as I sat in my tent, cringing at every snap of a twig or rustle of a bush.

Suffice it to say, I am not as well-rested for this hike as I should’ve been. 

In my pack, I carry a can of bear spray. The clerk at REI checking me out didn’t believe I would need it after I relayed to him the destination of my trip. 

“Black bears are like chipmunks,” he said. “They’ll run away as soon as they see you.”

Yes, if chipmunks were a few hundred pounds heavier, covered in black fur, and capable of mauling a human being to death. 

If the bears fail to be my undoing, then the next obstacle I face carries that potential. 

I’ve never rock scrambled before, but a quick Google search for the team makes me realize exactly why I’ve not yet attempted the activity. I’m no climber; I don’t pretend to be one and I’ve no desire to change that part of myself. That being said, I’m not above trying new things and seeing where they lead me. 

Rock scrambling, however, might lead me to my death. 

A few minutes into the hike I reach the first scramble. I keep the words of a travel blogger in my mind as I approach, that if the first scramble is too much, then turn back. But to my surprise and delight, I traverse the rocky ground with ease. I’m no Michael Phelps or Simone Biles, an athlete at the top of their game. I weight train and get a fair amount of cardio in during my weekly workouts, but I haven’t met a cake I didn’t like or a cookie I wouldn’t eat. 

Still, when planning this absurd expedition of mine, failing to prepare means preparing to fail. And failure, in my pressurized mind, is never an option. Because of this, my legs strut about the rocky interface as if they belong to that of a mountain goat; sure-footed and confident in every step. 

First level complete, I continue along the trail until I come to the next one. This rock scramble is as elementary as the first. The rocks that jut forth resemble the spikes of a Stegosaurus, and I place each booted foot in between them as I walk. So far my introductory experience to rock scrambling hasn’t involved much climbing, for which I am grateful. But I’ve also seen pictures of what comes next after. My excitement dwindles when I approach the third scramble. 

The first two involved more heightened inclines than actual climbing. But what stood before me was a wall of stone. Various boulders protruded from the wall, offering their services as access points for my hands and feet to grab a hold of. A blue marker is painted onto the interface at the very top, confirming that this is the trail, even if in my head I’m thinking, “There’s no fucking way.”

I stare at the scramble, my mind conjuring up a plan of attack. Place that foot there, then that hand there, then another hand over that side. My palms begin to sweat thinking of myself climbing, but there is no other path forward. It's either proceed this way, or turn around and go back down the first two scrambles. 

I begin the ascent, placing my hand on the first rock, and then adjusting my footing. There’s a rule in climbing called “three-point contact,” meaning that you either maintain contact with other two hands and one foot or two feet with one hand. I apply this rule diligently as I make my way up. The muscles in my legs feel weak, and they begin to wobble. My heart thrums in my chest and my thoughts berate for me doing this, especially by myself and with no one else around to help should some unfortunate travesty befall me.

I should mention here that I’m terrified of heights. I can’t stand them. I went on a date one time to the John Hancock building in Chicago where we paid extra for the Tilt experience. My date at the time didn’t know about this fear of mine, but I wasn’t going to tell him and chicken out of the experience. Poker face intact, I stepped onto the platform and placed both hands as instructed on the handles on either side of me. The operator began the ride, and my entire body pitched forward. I’d never felt a fear so palatable, where my body reacted so forcefully. I froze in place, prepared to be propelled from the building down thousands of feet to the ground below. The occurrence was no longer than a minute, but my fear-addled mind believed it to have lasted hours long. 

The difference in this case is that I have to work as an active participant against my fear. I can’t remain rooted to the rock forever, but what I can do is go at a pace I’m comfortable with. Slow and steady wins the race, as the saying goes. 

And this is not only one race I tend to win, but to conquer. 

A thought that diminishes as I scrutinize the fourth and final scramble of the hike. The familiar blue marker tells me that I haven’t descended into madness. This is the correct way. Not the safest by any means, but at least reassuring that I haven’t gotten myself lost. 

Without dwelling too long on the insecurities plaguing my gut, I find a perch for both hands, then lift my right leg off the ground as I start to climb 

With the other scrambles, I’d managed to take a few minutes to scout a path before. This one is not so decipherable. The way up isn’t immediately evident, and I have to pause midway to think. Continue forward based on my current trajectory? Or should I peddle backward in the chances of uncovering an easier route?

Before I have the chance to decide my course of action, I hear a voice call down from above. 

“Excuse me.”

I look up to see a woman about the same age as myself making her way to the ground. The distance between us is only a few feet, which makes me wonder how trapped I was in my fears and determinations that I’d failed to hear any oncoming traffic. I can’t see her face, only her profile as her eyes stare past her shoulder. 

On the other hand, how had this woman failed to notice my ascent as she began her descent? Had I found someone on the same level of inadequacy when it comes to scrambling as myself?

“Going down?” I ask, immediately berating myself after. 

“Yes,” the other woman replies.

No shit, Sherlock, I think to myself. 

I take stock of my surroundings. There isn’t much wiggle room here for either of us to maneuver efficiently. There is one small ledge to my right that, if I can get to it, I can perch while she lowers herself past me. 

“Just a minute,” I tell her. 

But the woman, for some reason, fails to listen. She resumes climbing down as I climb up. I hurry to make it to the ledge before we collide. 

“Wait a second,” I instruct. 

Again, my words fall on deaf ears, and as I place my hand on a boulder, the woman lowers her foot right onto my fingers. Realizing that what she’s stepped on isn’t solid rock, she retracts her foot. But the damage is already done. 

The pain causes me to lose my grip as well as my balance. I see the tragedy before it befalls us. Me slipping from the scramble to my death, the omniscient thud my body would make as it hit the ground; the ensuing shattering of bone and splattering of blood. Proceeded by the call this woman would have to make to authorities. The questions that would follow suit. Then the newspapers would pick up the story, igniting an age-old debate on park safety versus personal responsibility. 

With these thoughts in mind, instinct takes over and I grab a hold of the woman’s boot to steady myself.

“There’s a ledge to the right,” I inform her. “Move that way, please.”

“Are you sure?” Her voice tremors, no doubt the same images swirling around in my mind also churning within hers. 

“Yes.”

I take her boot and place it on the ledge to assure her that I am not lying. She moves more confidently after that, navigating her body to the intended destination.

With the other woman now secure on the ledge, I climb past her, stopping for a few seconds so that we can acknowledge one another as well as the disaster we’ve successfully avoided. From my brief glance her way, I see the woman is about my height, her limbs more lean than my own. She wears a plain black hat over her curtain of black hair, and though she’s adorned herself with the proper footwear for this kind of terrain, she has no backpack. Not even one of those strange fanny packs that people wear slung across their chests these days. She also wears a pair of body-conforming purple leggings and a baggy sweater. 

“Thanks,” she says as I pass her. 

“No problem.”

“Better up than down. I should’ve gone the other way.”

“This is the hardest one,” I assure her. “You’ll be fine.”

Though really I’m not so sure of this. 

What I am sure of now is my ability to act in precarious situations. For a minute, my fear of heights vanquishes, conquered by this newfound conviction. As foolish as I believe myself to be, my encounter with the woman reminds me that some people are far worse off than I am. Yeah, I tend to over-prepare from time to time. But not even water?

Seriously, girl?

And you would’ve been the one to kill me?

Figures fate would’ve taken my mother’s side, that my undoing would not be by my hand, but by another’s. 

“I’m not afraid that you’ll crash your car,” she once said to me. “But that someone will crash into you.”

Suffice it to say, I have yet to meet that car. And I’m glad it’s not being driven by someone who doesn’t bring water with them while on a hike. 

I leave the woman to finish her climb down the mountain while I continue up it. Finish line in sight, I crawl the rest of the way forward until I reach the mountain’s peak. 

Like most mountains, at least, as I imagine they’d be, the top of Bearfence Mountain isn’t exactly what I’d describe as ‘flat.’ My legs wobble as I stand to my full height, worried that a swift wind, or even a gentle breeze, might knock me off. But as I turn my gaze upward, I realize that what lies before me is something I would otherwise not have had the opportunity to see had I not taken a chance. 

I have an unobscured, full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the Virginia Piedmont region and Shenandoah Valley. I pull my phone out of my pocket and snap a few quick pictures and video clips. Then I unclasp the straps of my bag and retrieve what I’ve nicknamed, “the Big Boy.”

Flicking the power switch to “on,” I adjust my camera’s aperture and shutter speed accordingly, playing around with the settings in order to strike the right balance between the sunlight over the valley and the darkness that still haunts parts of it.

But of course, none of the photos I take compare with the absolute vision before me. For some reason, cameras never have. At least not without serious editing adjustments made after the fact. The eyes are a lens that no manufacturer has yet managed to replicate, a sensor no corporation can package into a sensor's rectangular shape

I set my camera aside and bring my legs up to my chest so that I can clasp my arms around them. The fear of my potential demise hasn’t faded despite the blossoming strokes of pink and orange across a faded blue jean sky. But I’ve less interest in permitting it to keep me from admiring all the jewels within nature’s crown. Or of capturing those jewels in a state of permanence for me to look back upon, recalling the literal barriers I’d had to trounce, including an overeager hiker who refused to keep water on her person. 

Because that’s what photographs do. They not only present an image of a memory frozen in place, but they act as a trigger for those we failed to catch in time before they fled the scene. 

I stay on the mountaintop until more people arrive on the sun’s coattails. I follow a young couple down, making their footsteps my own until the last scramble. And then we part ways.

When I reach my car, service returns, and my phone pings with several messages. But there’s only one I read and then respond to.

Are you still alive? My mom inquires, somewhat jokingly, but more seriously than she’ll admit. 

I send her one of the pictures I’d taken earlier with my phone’s camera. 

Her response is immediate. 

Beautiful.