Chimney Rock - High Knob, VA

For the past few months, I’ve been considering starting this blog to chronicle my various outdoor pursuits - hiking, hunting, bushcraft, etc. I knew the biggest leap to make, just as the first line to a great novel, is the first post. I knew it had to be a good one: a post that would grab your attention and not let go, one with poignant thoughts and pretty pictures; I really had to bring it.  Eventually, I chose a short hike - not too complicated, not too strenuous - that's scenic and photo-friendly. After serious map-study, I came across a rock formation within the High Knob massif near Norton, VA - a formation called Chimney Rock.

Little did I know, but my choice was far more appropriate for this first post than I had realized. It was complicated. It was strenuous. It turned out to be far more difficult than I had thought. Prior to the hike, I researched the area hoping to find information about Chimney Rock and the surrounding wilderness, but I found nothing. Frankly, this is typical; I often set out to destinations for which I can find no directions or guide. I have merely a crude map, a compass, and my wits. Rarely is there a discernible trail. This blog, in part, is intended to serve as a crude guide to the places I explore which so often are remote and undefined. So, setting out on this excursion, I really didn’t have much of an idea of what to expect.



Turning off of US23 in Norton, my 4Runner and I made our way into the Jefferson National Forest, deep into the High Knob landform. Once at the top, I had to take several interconnected forest service roads to reach the area at which I planned to park. In some places the road disappeared into tall grass, in others the road was covered in the largest gravel I’ve ever seen – we’re talking baseball-sized chunks. It was a rough ride. About 5 minutes after losing radio reception, the dark and bumpy road spilled into a field flanked by spruce trees – my parking lot.

Examining my map, I set out to follow the listed trail down to the creek which carved the gorge below Chimney Rock. The trail was easy to find and surprisingly well-kept for being so remote. After almost ½ mile, I discovered why it was so convenient: it led to a tree-stand mounted high in a red oak, a survey bearing tree at the corner of the national forest. This was where the trail stopped. As is so often the case, when there is no more trail to follow, you find trails everywhere. To keep going in such a situation is an easy way to become lost. Since I knew I was at the very nose of the ridge, about to descend the face down into the gorge, I followed the age-old survival axiom – I went downhill. Leaving simple blazes along my path, I hiked (read: tumbled) down the steep ridge and had to jump the final 5 feet onto an old logging grade. The creek, a tributary of Chimney Rock Branch, was flowing steadily several feet below.

The logging grade I had found and which was, presumably, the continuation of the trail which had abandoned me 800 feet up the ridgeline, would have made for smooth, pleasant hiking. Yet, in what I can only imagine was an ironic retaliation against the lumber industry, the years of harsh weather had downed tree upon tree obscuring the old road. It was a mess. In some places I could jump trunk-to-trunk, but I spent most of this stretch crawling on my belly. After a torturous mile of doubting the success of this venture, the road forked and I chose the branch which hugged the ridgeline (and the creek). After less than 100 yards, Chimney Rock was in sight.

  

A glimpse...

  

Chimney Rock Branch

 

Chimney Rock Branch

 

Once I laid eyes upon Chimney Rock, the ideas I had for the extent of this outing changed. Despite much research into the area, I could only find vague references to the creek, Chimney Rock Branch, and nothing on the formation itself; forget about finding pictures. Before seeing it, I had only a crude satellite picture and a topographical map to give me a sense of scale. I was way off. Chimney Rock is massive. It was still ¼ mile away, but I could already tell that I wouldn’t make it to its peak.

Nope. Not gonna happen.

Even with rope and a partner, I’m nowhere near experienced or brave enough to attempt the climb required of Chimney Rock. Crumbling sandstone. Gaping overhangs. It was formidable. I reached the creek-bed – which provided a welcome relief from the humidity – found a mossy rock to sit on and examine my options. My goal had been to reach the top and show everyone reading my new blog how manly I am. Well, that wasn’t going to happen. I studied my map and saw that the ridgeline forming the rock formation flattened out slightly as it ran up the mountain. So I climbed and climbed. I guess it was more “technical scrambling” than “climbing”, but it was exhausting nonetheless. When I reached the top of the wooded ridgeline above Chimney Rock, my legs were useless and I was openly bleeding from several places. By this time, the sun was directly overhead, it hurt to stand, and my sweat was burning in my scrapes and scratches. But I was near the top.

As I descended and reached the back of the cliffs, I still lacked a shear 70 vertical feet from reaching the top of the first rock formation. I carefully maneuvered around the cliffs to the next rock formation separated from the first by a gap of less than 3 feet running from top to bottom. I squeezed through, managed to shift my way up to a ledge, and found my way to a nice outcropping beneath a fragile, disintegrating overhang. I rested for a moment, took a few quick pictures, and climbed down the cliffs before I proved right everyone who thinks I shouldn't hike alone.

My disappointingly revised mission complete, I decided to make my way down the other side of the ridge. I knew the previous side was terrible, so I took a chance. Well, better the devil you know than the one don't. The scrub and laurel were so thick on the steep ridge-face that I couldn't fall. I tripped a few times on roots blocked from view and ordinarily would've gone tumbling down, but the branches were so thick and stubborn that they caught a clumsy hiker of my size. After getting poked in the eye a few times and fed up with the God-forsaken ridge, I laid down on my back and slid the rest of the way beneath the thickest bramble imaginable. I reached the bottom, stumbled upon a pool formed in the creek, shed gear and clothing all over the bank, and jumped in with the last power my legs had left. Six hours of exertion, pain, and disappointment for 30 seconds of bliss. Totally worth it.

…Then I had to hike back up to my 4Runner.

As I said before, this was an appropriate  hike for the first post of this blog; it was nothing short of typical. Unrealized goals. Mental and physical anguish. Losing the trail only to find it again. Despite struggle after struggle, the few moments you have to sit on a ledge and feel the cool, September breeze freeze the sweat on your brow, or the startling reflexes when diving into a mountain stream on a 90-degree day, make it worth the trouble. I don’t understand why anyone would do drugs when they could experience such grace with only slightly less ridicule. Though I didn't accomplish my goals and have nothing but scrapes and aches (and a blog post, I guess) to show for my trouble, I consider this outing a success. Come to think of it, no matter what went awry, I've never had a failure.

I thank you for patiently reading almost 1300 words to describe a fleeting moment and feelings that I wouldn’t trade for anything. I hope I've managed to convey the wonder I enjoy in my life and hope you'll find in your own. As you can tell, I’m no poet; but Robert Service was…

          

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Have you swept the visioned valley with the green stream streaking through it,

Searched the Vastness for a something you have lost?

Have you strung your soul to silence? Then for God’s sake go and do it;

Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost.

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The most sincere thank you to Micah Salyer and James Walsh - without their kind friendship and inspirational spirit, you wouldn’t have had to read all this.