View from the Pier

Today is your day! Your mountain is waiting. So…get on your way.

~Dr. Seuss, 1904 – 1991

Skyline Drive, Virginia

In a silken voice, the radio announcer intoned “Generations—your music” and indeed, as I headed out of Charlottesville, Virginia on Route 29, my path was strewn with nosegays of nostalgia.  With my cherry red rental VW bug a fitting chariot for my chug along this particular stretch of Memory Lane, I found myself singing along to songs I hadn’t heard since the era I had lived in these parts.  As I climbed higher into the hills, the playlist provoked powerful memories of my teenage self and the myriad and mercurial moods of that age with its high-flying hormones.

Easing onto Route 64, I headed north toward Shenandoah County and almost immediately the tense voice emanating from my GPS snapped at me that the signal had been lost before she abruptly went silent.  I felt a momentary stab of anxiety and then shrugged it off, figuring my route would be well-marked.

Soon enough, I was sailing down the side of a steep summit, belting out “I’ll Take You There” with the Staple Singers. Despite the warm sun beating down on my arm as it rested on the rolled-down window, I felt goose bumps rise in response to the gospel refrain.  I know a place, Ain’t nobody crying, Ain’t nobody worried, Uh-huh, Let me lead the way, Mercy!

Foot pressing on the accelerator as I embarked up another incline, my stomach muscles tightened and tears sprang to my eyes with the twang of the first few chords of John Denver’s “Country Roads.”  Life is old there, Older than the trees, Younger than the mountains, Growing like a breeze…Driving down the road, I get a feeling I shoulda been home yesterday, yesterdaaaay.

Flying over the top of the next hill, my mood shifted gears along with the driving bass line of Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive.”  My fingers thumping on the steering wheel, head bobbing, and shoulders shrugging to the tempo, I passionately shouted out the disco diva’s classic anthem to independence. I spent oh so many nights just feeling sorry for myself, I used to cry!  But now I hold my head up high.  And you see me, somebody new!…I’ve got all my life to live, I’ve got all my love to give, I’ll Survive, Hey! Hey!

East of Waynesboro, I reached Rockfish Gap and Shenandoah National Park.  At the entrance to Skyline Drive, I paid the ranger the $15  fee for access to the 105-mile ribbon of road that traverses the crest of the Blue Ridge Mountains.  She handed me a map and told me that there were 75 scenic overlooks along the drive.

I pulled into the first of these, McCormick Gap Overlook and got out of the car to stretch my legs and absorb the rich hues of a sea of undulating green waves reaching to the horizon.  Tall grasses merged into brambles and bushes that folded into leafy trees that became an endless cushion of canopy.  I happen to look down and noticed a thick fat caterpillar lolling on a stick, master of his domain.  It occurred to me that in my day-to-day life I would likely have been oblivious to his existence.

As I drove on, it struck me that I hadn’t yet seen another soul. While just miles from a major interstate highway I was nonetheless truly in the wilderness.  I felt a tinge of uneasiness and then caught sight of a tree laden with unusual, heavy purple flowers.  Eager to photograph the blooms, I felt a spurt of impatience that there wasn’t shoulder space along the road for me to pull over for several hundred yards.  Finally able to nestle my car along the road, I jumped out, slammed the door, and back-tracked at a trot then happily began shooting.  A loud rustling, from where I couldn’t tell, sent a jolt of fear through me–I may now be a city girl but I knew there were bears in these hills. I immediately walked quickly to the car, shifting into gear and leaving far behind whatever had made the sound.

I spent five hours meandering along the spine of the Blue Ridge Mountains, stopping at overlooks named Calf Mountain, Sawmill Run, Riprap, Doyles River, Rockytop, Eaton Hollow, and The Point.   At each, I was awed by the expanse before me, primeval forest across which fell the shadow of passing clouds, verdant peaks piercing a brilliant blue sky. At one overlook I saw a lone turkey peck his way across a small field; at another, I beheld a soaring bird aloft on wind currents, swooping above one mountaintop to the next without a flap of his wings—perhaps a Peregrine falcons, which are making a comeback in the park. Spring is said to climb up these mountains at a rate of about 100 feet per day starting in March.  In late May I was witnessing streaks of magenta azaleas and swaths of creamy rose-colored mountain laurel within the infinite green expanse of the forest.

Shenandoah National Park has over 500 miles of trails, including 101 miles of the Appalachian Trail, which crosses Skyline Drve 28 times.  At one overlook, four teenagers each bearing massive backpacks and carved walking sticks emerged from the abutting woods and a trail marked by white blazes painted on trees that signify the path as part of the AT.  A sign post told me that the spot on which I stood was roughly two million steps from the AT’s southern end on Springer Mountain, Georgia, 860 miles away. Three million steps in the other direction leads 1,280 miles away to the AT’s northern end atop Mt. Katahdin in Maine.  Each year, about 150 “thru-hikers” pass here as they trek the entire AT.

At another overlook, another sign commemorated the efforts within the Park of the Civilian Conservation Corps, a public work relief program that operated from 1933 to 1942. A part of the New Deal of President Franklin D. Roosevelt, the CCC was designed to provide employment for young men in relief families who had difficulty finding jobs during the Great Depression while at the same time implementing a general natural resource conservation program in every state and territory. The first two CCC camps located in the national parks were established at Skyland and Big Meadows in the area that was to become Shenandoah National Park.  At any one time, more than 1,000 boys and young men lived in camps supervised by the Army.  The earliest CCC projects were concerned with the building of trails, fire roads and towers, log comfort stations, construction projects associated with the Skyline Drive, and picnic grounds within this narrow corridor.

At almost exactly the halfway point on the route I came to Big Meadows, which more than lives up to its name. Located at mile 51.2 on Skyline Drive, the area is named for a large grassy meadow where deer often graze. While I had long been seeing signs that the landmark was ever-nearing, I was nonetheless taken by surprise by the immense expanse of the wide open space.  My half-day’s drive had consisted of either narrow road carved through dense forest, or pockets of panoramas that looked down at dramatic valleys below.  This terrrain of flat fields was exhilerating in its spaciousness.
 
Arriving at almost 2:00 p.m., I was famished.  Enjoying lunch in the lodge’s dining room, I felt transported back in time by the primitive but charming architecture.  The first two CCC camps located in the national parks were established at Skyland and Big Meadows in the area that was to become Shenandoah National Park. The interior structure of the lodge, including the paneling, is made from native chestnut trees, which are now virtually extinct.
 
Continuing on, I stopped at Skyland Resort for a cup coffee and to sate my curiosity about Massanutten Lodge.  The property here has a storied history involving a chain of owners that included a Brooklyn couple who purchased 21,371 acres of land in 1854 for $4,750, selling the land one year later to the Virginia Cliff Copper Company for $1,000,000.  With the mining venture unsuccessful, the property came into the hands of a promoter who organized elaborate balls, costume parties, teas, jousts and tournaments, musicales, pageants, and bonfires.  The land became part of Shenandoah National Park upon its creation in 1936–this year the national treasure celebrates its 75th birthday.
 
In line at the concession stand for my afternoon cup of java, I eavesdropped on the conversation the woman in front of me was having with the cashier, and heard rave reviews about the blackberry ice cream.  The woman said she had first come to Skyland thirty years ago and had never forgotten the sweet tartness of the homemade dessert.  She added that she looked forward to its taste more frequently, saying that she had recently moved back to the area from Chicago to care for elderly parents.

At Thornton Gap, I left Skyline Drive to make my way to Warrenton where I would be spending the night at an inn.  I followed winding rural Route 211 around hairpin turns, slowly descending in elevation.  Reception to the radio station I had lost long ago suddenly resumed and like tinkling chimes in the breeze, the notes of “Dust in the Wind” from Kansas blew in, simultaneously sad and sweepingly uplifting. Don’t hang on, nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky…

The melody was a fitting elegy to the day and my week in Virginia.  I reflected on the visit with my mother at the assisted living facility in Charlottesville that had preceded my journey along Skyline Drive.  Like our relationship, the time together was bittersweet and full of paradoxes.  Not the least of those quixotic circumstances was our respective rites of passage.
A fiesty woman of fierce will, Mom had just agreed to surrender her driver’s license, and to her mind, her autonomy, at the same time she resigned her body to a wheelchair.  I prepared to sally forth into the mountains, solo behind the wheel—a significant sojourn for someone who had battled life-long fears of driving, heights and being alone.

Rounding another sharp corner, I saw a pull-off area in front of a green glade, with a well-trodden path disappearing into a tangle of luxuriant growth.  A car was parked under the shade of several trees.  What held my attention and piqued my curiosity was a swirl of magical airborne movement, a cloud of small specks of luminous blue and pale yellow that glinted and flashed in the sun.  After several blinks of my eyes in attempts to focus on the shapes flitting in a haphazard formation, I realized I had stumbled upon a swarm of butterflies.

Choosing to banish the notion that the lone Nissan on the shoulder belonged to a potential Charlie Manson lurking in the thick woods, I swerved off the road and onto the sandy drive. Getting out of the car, I was enveloped in a strong floral fragrance while also engulfed in a pulsating plume of delicate but huge butterflies.  The wingspan of the creatures reached close to a half-foot and my heart rate revved in panic as my skin was tickled by the flutter of the insects’ wings.  As they followed their random flight patterns around by body, my brush with fear was soon transformed with laughter at the wonder of the situation.

I later learned these were Eastern Tiger Swallowtails, Virginia’s state insect.  The first known drawing of a North America butterfly was of this species, created in 1587 during Sir Walter Raleigh’s third expedition here. The artist named his drawing “Mamankanois,” believed to be the Native American word for “butterfly.”

Feeling like Bambi, I followed the procession of darting, brightly-colored creatures into the woods, past bushes bursting with white blossoms.  I heard the sound of rushing water become louder and louder and then entered a clearing through which a brook coursed, swollen with recent heavy rains.  The sweet smell of spring blooms was replaced by the pungent odor of wet earth, another equally welcome scent of the new season, long-awaited after a brutal winter.  I stood there for a long time, my senses soaking up the tranquility.  My reverie was interrupted by two butterflies alighting on my arm and I reluctantly turned down the path and back to my car.

Eastern Tiger Swallowtails are usually solitary; adults are known to fly high above the ground, usually seen above the tree canopy. During courtship, males and females fly about each other prior to landing and mating, with the male releasing perfume-like pheromones to entice the female into mating—perhaps a factor in the grove’s heavily perfumed air.  Despite attempts to capture the scores of swallowtails in flight with my camera, my techniques were not adequate to the task of recording the enchanting but erratic motion. I had to be content with the moment and trust in my ability to remember it without preserving it on film.

That night, sunk into the soft mattress of a four-poster bed at the Black Horse Inn, I closed my eyes and saw the timeless landscape of the Blue Ridge Mountains, and relived the sensation of feeling small and humble.  It occurred to me that while I had traversed isolated terrain with my husband or others, I had probably never been by myself in such a remote location.   In the dark, I smiled with the realization I had not felt alone; despite an instant or two of trepidation, I had felt a sense of warmth, comfort and peace while on my way that day.  I said a little prayer that my mother felt the same certainty about the next leg of her journey.

Watch the slide show to the blog’s “soundtrack:”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zXvKRZRofDE
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oN86d0CdgHQ&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZBR2G-iI3-I
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1qxSwJC3Ly0

http://www.visitshenandoah.com/
 
http://www.nps.gov/shen/index.htm