LYLE: Up on Old Rag Mountain

By HUNTER O. LYLE

SHENANDOAH NATIONAL PARK, Va. – As the golden sunlight began drifting away from the valley below, subtly crawling up and out of the hard ridges and deep gullies, the cool Virginia air breezed through my cabin, soothing my sweat soaked skin. I laid back on my bunk, taking in the last views of the daylight over the Shenandoah Valley through sinking eyelids.

Between swigs of water, my second gallon of the day, I studied the peaks and valleys that cascaded and loomed over the rolling farmland beneath. With an air of exhausted accomplishment, a smile streaked across my face as I bathed in the fresh memories of another completed adventure. In my mind, Shenandoah National Park had been tackled, at least for now, and the test voyage in my travel van, christened with the name the Red Cloud, had succeeded.

Twelve hours earlier, I was laying on the same plywood bed, slowly stretching my body and mind as I prepared for the final item on the itinerary: Old Rag Mountain.

I HAD ARRIVED to Front Royal, VA. on Friday in an attempt to stress test my Ford Transit Connect van that my father and I had converted into a rudimentary camper. We had taken care of the basics – installing insulation, laying down a subfloor and rigging the seven-and-a-half foot cabin with a simple bed which hinged open for storage – and now it was time to see what I was missing.

During my first two days in the Blue Ridge Mountains, I had dipped a toe into as many areas as I could. Following my initial five-and-a-half-hour southbound travel day, I cruised through the North District on the famous Skyline Drive, a 150-mile scenic tour of the park set upon the spine of the mountains. Stopping at as many overlooks as possible, I took in my first glimpses of the lush foothills that descended on the flatlands below.

All along the Skyline Drive, the main thoroughfare at Shenandoah National Park, there are countless viewpoints and overlooks where you can see the rolling waves of the Blue Ridge Mountains. | Photo by Hunter O. Lyle

After a brief trip to purchase some supplies, mainly a set of aluminum trekking poles, Saturday saw a further exploration down the Skyline Drive to the Big Meadow Visitor Center, where I checked off the tradition of purchasing a National Park pin and sticker and also collected some information about the daunting hike up Old Rag Mountain.

During my first two days at the Park, I tested my legs with a pair of short jaunts in the woods. Here, a fellow hiker looks over the cliff at the White Oak Canyon Falls. | Photo by Hunter O. Lyle

Having the summit on my ‘Shenandoah To Do List,’ I had hoped to go in blind, only knowing that AllTrails had listed it as a ‘very strenuous’ nine-and-a-half mile loop. But as the eve of the hike approached, a sense of intimidation set in. Mostly, the worries came from afar, from my dad who had done the research and shared his nerves over the phone Saturday evening.

“Seems tough,” he relayed through text from back in Connecticut. “Know your limits.”

I HAD PROMISED HIM, and to a false degree myself, that I would back down if things got too hairy. I had been on several sketchy hikes and had thrived on the excitement of literal steps to the edge. How much more intense could this one be than fighting against high-altitude winds on a sheer 7,000-foot cliff in Montana? But as the day went on, my own mind began poking holes in my confidence.

“Oh, it can be pretty intense,” echoed the advice from a Park Ranger at the Big Meadows Visitor Center. “There’s some hand-over-hand stuff, jumping from rock to rock.”

I settled on at least a ‘empty-the-tank’ head-strong attempt, and as the twilight began settling in on the National Park, I hopped in the van and took the hour long drive to the trailhead. Navigating the backroads of Rappahannock in quickly dispersing daylight, I picked a roadside pull off as the day’s resting place. Setting up shelter to the soundtrack of a neighboring creek, I decided to turn off my brain and tuck in. There was no sense in worrying at this hour.

WITH OLD RAG staring down at me out of my driver’s side window the next morning, its gnarly granite teeth protruding in odd angles out of the dense underbrush, I took the three-mile drive to the official parking lot at 8:30. By nine, I had repacked my bag, equipping myself with plenty of water and snacks, a hoodie, a wind breaker and a trail map. Showing my day-pass to the Park Ranger, I swiftly stepped once more beneath the canopy.

Waking up on the side of the road, my first glimpse of daylight came with a view of the task ahead. Staring down over me from the horizon laid Old Rag Mountain, the 3,281-foot "very strenuous" menace of Shenandoah National Park. | Photo by Hunter O. Lyle — Waking up on the side of the road, my first glimpse of daylight came with a view of the task ahead. Staring down over me from the horizon laid Old Rag Mountain, the 3,281-foot “very strenuous” menace of Shenandoah National Park. | Photo by Hunter O. Lyle

I was far from alone in my venture. When I arrived, the parking lot was teeming with other outdoorsmen, and I took relief in knowing this wasn’t an “only for the brave” excursion. Seeing people of all ages and physical aptitude, my fears quickly faded, replaced with a eager ambition to topple another mountain.

The first mile and change passed steadily. Leap frogging parties heading to the top, I chugged along the steep and rocky inclines that were cooled in the morning shade and filled with birdsong. Along the way, I met a family of four who were also taking a first stab at the summit, a middle-aged couple – Pete and Sydney from Washington D.C. – who had completed the loop over a decade prior, and several walks of life who were all legstrong marching through the wilderness.

On a break around the two-mile mark, I met Kirstin. After the initial hiking pleasantries – the usual out-of-breath ‘Hey’ with a wave or head nod – our footsteps eventually fell in sync and we began walking together. She seemed to have been everywhere. Her parents both worked in the travel industry which granted her family nearly free access to trips far and wide, an advantage she used fruitfully. From growing up on the West Coast, she had trekked across the Rockies, had spent time in Patagonia in Chile for a volunteer program and had even seen a family friend win a Silver Medal in the Athens Olympics in person.

Admittedly feeling a little light in the loafers as I antied my own stories to hers, the conversation ushered the trail underfoot and before we knew it, we were at the scrambles.

NO LONGER WAS the route a dirt path lined and speckled with rocks. Now, the stones dominated the way forward and we began keenly focusing on the placement of our feet as the rocks turned to boulders that soon dwarfed us. Looking for handholds as we started heaving ourselves against granite walls, sliding up and down creavesses and pulling ourselves over outcroppings, our conversations grew more sporadic, the work overtaking the afternoon.

Part of the challenge of Old Rag Mountain was having to scramble up, down and through a labyrinth of stone. While it was my first time having to scramble, it was the most exhilarating and exhausting part of the hike. | Photo by Kirstin Boulden

Eventually, we ran into a queue and as we waited in line for the next obstacle we met Abrahm and a girl – whose name we never got – who both hailed from the Pacific Northwest. Similarly, they were also avid travelers and once again the stories began to flow against gravity as we continued to ascend.

Riding the newfound camaraderie, we passed through the final crucibles, picking up a few scrapes and scratches along the way, and, after a false summit or two, we finally stood atop Old Rag.

Proudly atop the hardstone 3,281-foot podium, the full Blue Ridge mountains gave themselves up for inspection. Below us in all directions was a dense blanket of tree tops, coating the jagged ridges and valleys in a curtain of deep green foliage only broken by occasional house-sized boulders that reached out for a spot in the sun.

While waiting to crawl up another jagged wall, I was able to stop and talk with a handful of other hikers, swapping stories and experiences as we made our way to the summit. | Photo by Hunter O. Lyle — While waiting to crawl up another jagged wall, I was able to stop and talk with a handful of other hikers, swapping stories and experiences as we made our way to the summit. | Photo by Kirstin Boulden

Spread out across the summit were the familiar faces from the way up, all sitting and enjoying their packed-in lunches of granola bars and gatorade. As I made my way from one viewpoint to the next, the family of four sat huddled in a pocket of shade, exchanging a big grin and thumbs up in between gulps of hydration.

Through a few shared quiet moments of rejoice, our party began to break up. Abrahm hit the trail first, disappearing over another boulder for the last time as he blazed the descent, while our other friend sat to phone home with excitement. Finally, it was back to just Kirstin and I, and after another few minutes absorbing the immaculate beauty below us, we made our way down the path.

FOLLOWING A FEW MORE SCRAMBLES up and down the granite labyrinth, the trail finally began to even out, returning to a manageable dirt path, albeit, with a steady and presumptuous decline. Drained from the effort to summit, our descent was comparatively quiet. Instead of the exhilarated and eager demeanor that carried me upward, my mind had resorted to simple step-after-step mechanics, trying not to worry about budding shin splints and my depleting reserves of water.

Over the final four miles, our conversations drifted forward in time. She was planning on hitting Glacier National Park in late July – a topic I had to hold myself back from beating to death – and I was heading to New Mexico earlier in the same month. With our plans gifting us a second wind, we closed the distance. After just over five hours, we were back in the lot, happily and wearily standing in front of Red Cloud and reminiscing about the journey.

Before separating for good, I had one more favor to ask. Donning a drenched shirt and bandana, I sat in front of my tried and tested travel van, hoping Kirstin would help document the summit as an official success with one last photo.

Worn down from an afternoon on Old Rag Mountain, my final act of the day was to get a celebratory photo with the Red Cloud, my newly converted travel van. | Photo by Kirstin Boulden.

Throughout the rest of the day, I drifted, beat, battered and all but broken, throughout the Park, pulling my van up to various overlooks as I balanced admiration with moments of shut eye. Finally pulling up to the Shenandoah Valley Overlook, the last pull off before leaving the Park, I backed Red Cloud up to the edge, burst open the rear doors and fell back against the plywood.

THE SKY WAS DIMMING, the honey colored rays kindly swapping hands with a growing blue shadow that began filling the bottom of the valley and just before I closed my eyes I was met with a new and strange sensation. For the first time in a long time, I was excited to be going home.

Everything had gone according to plan. Red Cloud was battle tested, my body had survived the scrambles and another National Park was checked off the list. As my head hit the pillow, my mind floated with the giddy anticipation of what lay ahead: a much needed shower and a long awaited home cooked meal.