Redrock Mountain, VA

In my first post, I mentioned that my outdoor pursuits typically end short of complete success. Far more often than not, I don’t attain my goals. It’s something to which I’ve grown accustomed. I have limits, both physical and mental, and Mother Nature doesn’t always comply with my facile demands. That’s 99% of the time.

Last Sunday was the other 1%.

The second day of fall was beautiful. Mid-sixties. Not a cloud in the sky.  With the gorgeous day laid before me, my plan was to accomplish what I could of the hike I missed the week before. Near Laurel Bed Lake above Saltville, VA, there are two mountains, Redrock Mountain and Whiterock Mountain. I didn’t know if I could hike both in a single day, but it was my intention to try. My plan was to reach Redrock Mtn. first; from all accounts, it’s a nicer hike, provides better views, and is geologically more interesting. Once I reached Redrock, I would assess the situation and determine if I had time to make it to Whiterock and back before dark.

I’ll tell you now, Whiterock didn’t happen. I half-expected it wouldn’t. There’s a much easier route to Whiterock that would make a great, short stand-alone hike in the future, but I made Redrock my priority Sunday.

I parked at the beginning of a gated hunting road on the lake-ward side of the ridge from which Redrock and Whiterock Mountains rise. The mid-morning start of my hike was cold and foggy and I was alone, save for a sole hunter training his dogs for the season ahead. A rifle range was nearby, and though it was abandoned when I started out, it made for an exciting end to my day.

The first hour or two of hiking was gentle and pleasant – I was led through idyllic high-country meadows in which the sun had burnt away the fog.

 

The hunting road made for easy hiking, but that was short-lived.I knew the road would end and that a small trail began a few hundred yards beyond. When the road ended at a seemingly endless briar patch, I realized – having searched the area for an alternate route – that going straight through to the trail. was my best option. Best isn’t quite right; “least bad” is better. After a few hundred yards and an hour later, I was defeated. I was bleeding from everywhere and the trail for which I had hoped was nowhere in sight. I knew that I couldn’t make it to Redrock through the thorny nightmare I had chosen – I simply didn’t have the time (or the blood volume).

So close, yet so far...

Given that I’m easily frustrated, I wasn’t pleased with my apparent failure. In my anger and disappointment, I turned to find my way back when I ripped through a sharp gnarl of briars into a thin clearing – the trail! Ignoring how I could’ve missed it, I set foot on the trail and hiked as fast as I could, empowered by my relief, stopping only to keep my heart from pounding its way out of my chest.

After 2 hours straight uphill, my leg muscles were as shredded as my arms, but I was so close to my goal. I purposefully looked away from the clearings in the canopy - I didn’t want to ruin the surprise awaiting me at the top. After a last push with my calves cramping and every gasping breath a pain, I made it. I lumbered onto the first outcropping, threw my pack on a rock, and I yelled out above the valley in joy. Or, as Whitman would’ve said, I sounded my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

 

Whiterock Mountain

An unnamed outcrop facing the ridgeline.

 

Whitetop and Mount Rogers towering on the horizon.

The views were everything I had expected. The sky was so clear and calm. I could see for miles. I sat down and enjoyed my lunch while the breeze and the sun battled to influence my body temperature.

I was stirred from my restful meal by a rustling in the thinning brush along the ridge. I stealthily made my way toward the noise and found an old man carrying a mattock and a countless number of little orange flags. His name was Clint. I introduced myself and asked if he was surveying the area; he was not. Clint must have been in his 50’s or 60’s and it was clear that his work, maybe his life, was taking a toll on him. He was doing his best to make a trail. As he explained to me, the view upon which I had marveled was his wife’s favorite. And she was dying.

With a worn and rusty hand-tool, Clint had set out to ensure his wife could make the hike one last time. By his account, the cancer eating at her brain made her too weak to walk, and he wanted to be sure he could maneuver a wheelchair along the narrow, crumbling ridge. The idea of making such a rugged and remote place handicap-accessible seemed almost comical to me, but I didn’t argue. I stood awkwardly, observing his failure as he repeatedly smashed a birch root with his ancient mattock; I suppose he was used to the futility. I offered my axe and what energy my lunch had afforded me to help clear some of his trail.

Clint had managed to access various logging roads up the other side of the mountain in his Jeep, and the trail he was making from his parking spot to our spot on the ridge was admirable. He had been working on it for weeks, he admitted, and doubted he would finish before the death of his wife. But he was trying. The ground was crumbling on the exposed ridge and rocks tripped every step. As I parted ways with my new friend, I recall thinking how the flags stabbed into the loose dirt stood a poor chance in the wind, but they remained nonetheless; stubborn just like Clint.

I reflected upon my meeting as I made my way back to my 4Runner. The only distractions from my thoughts were the slugs slamming into the hillside just beyond the rifle range. I was close enough to hear the impacts. By then I was exhausted, but boy did I move. After my talk with Clint, my pack didn’t seem nearly as heavy.

I admire Clint. I admire his passion, his dedication, and his resistance against forces we'll likely never understand. So I dedicate this blog post to Clint and Mrs. Clint – may they find relief, in one life or another.

...and for those still wondering: yes, Clint heard my barbaric yawp.