Down on the Ground
...where life happens; summertime, humility, the Allegheny Trail and fireflies
Hello and happy summer! All of a sudden we live in a jungle here. The forest is rich in birdsong and ripe with all manner of green. Waterfalls and rivers may be diminished from recent drought, but still cascade delightedly and burble into inviting blue pools. Our spring toiling in the garden has eased up as we let mother nature do her thing, and the season of vacations and festivals is upon us. These are the halcyon days of summer, all balmy mornings, sultry afternoons, and languorous twilights laced by fireflies. I am soaking it up as much as humanly possible; I hope you are too.
This newsletter is coming to you from that early summer glow, with a lighter heart and more peace than usual. This likely also has something to do with the post-backpack glow I find myself in—body humming with contentment and mind clear in the way only miles of outdoor exertion and no devices can provide. Mike and I are fresh from the year’s first extended backpack trip, wherein we hiked a section of the Allegheny Trail from Gaudineer Knob to Davis in Canaan Valley. Over the course of those 60 miles we traversed old growth red spruce forests and mossy, scrubby alpine ecosystems; endless, blissfully flat sections of river-walking alongside the winding Glady Fork; and grueling road-walks with soul-crushing climbs into Canaan. We lucked out with pristine late-May weather, bluebird days and trees so green they seemed electric. And you better believe we ate a lot of delightfully shitty backpacker food.
In short, this trip was a godsend.
In case you’re not familiar—because I wasn’t until moving here—the Allegheny Trail (ALT) is a 330-mile long trail which runs from the PA/WV border to the Appalachian Trail (AT) near Pearisburg, VA. While not as famed or lengthy as the AT, the ALT has its own appeal—sightseeing the gorgeously mountainous spine of West Virginia, for one, and the relatively rugged trail conditions meaning very little in the way of fellow backpackers, for two. Plus, this trail intersects Route 33, a stone’s throw from our home, and passes right through Durbin, a small town on Mike’s commute. It was perfect for a section-hike, with multiple drop-off and pick-up points.
The itch for a solid, week-long backpacking trip had been coming on strong this spring anyway. I know better, in this season of my thirties, than to put off life-giving adventure for long. Periodically high-tailing it to the woods for an extended period of time is my personal cure-all for the general malaise of too much routine, responsibility, and over-stimulation. Of course bite-size, daily doses of adventure are good and necessary too; I love a day hike as much as the next person. But I am also a firm believer in clearing mental house via grinding my bones over a few mountains for at least a week.
So, heeding the itch and ridiculously convenient location of the ALT, we plotted our course, triple-checked our packs, and headed to the woods. I spent the first two days solo, as Mike was working and I had another goal for this trip, apart from a mental/physical/emotional/spiritual overhaul (nothing major.) My secondary goal, quieter and more precious, was to form a personal relationship with these mountains. They are, after all, my new home. And it’s no secret that these past few months have been characterized by transition as I’ve fumbled to find my sense of belonging here. With the green of spring full-on and the nights swinging balmy more often than not, it was high time I get myself to the mountains, my go-to place for the most fundamental grounding, connection, and solace no matter where I am.
Additionally, it was important to me to not only be in the mountains but also with them. Semantic nit-picking maybe, but it is my personal opinion that there is no finer way to get a feel for a place, and your own within it, than walking through it for a few days. You are no longer just out for a quick jaunt, but participant (if only slightly)—waking with the birds, lunching by the rivers, finding shelter under the trees at night. The slow pace affords the patience, attention, and presence necessary to truly meet another (whether that “other” be person, plant, or geographic feature.) And in that blessedly quiet, spacious place I can truly breathe, unfettered by the innumerable distractions of modern life. In this way, I can more wholly be and be with. I can more fully meet and be met.
It’s not just mountains I was meeting, either. In order to connect rugged and remote areas, the ALT relies on sections of road-walking. And like every long trail, it skirts small towns, neighborhoods, and residences tucked away in the woods. So while I was acquainting myself with the local geography, I was also quite literally getting to know my neighbors. Granted, I was traipsing through residential areas with my dirty pack and general hiker-funk. But my sweat and grime are a signal, I like to think, of my sincerity and humility. The responses from cars and porches ran the gamut, from cold beers given freely to territorial dogs with their hackles raised to bemused indifference. Overall though, I experienced enough endearing interactions to lift my faith in humanity generally and in this area specifically.
This is really saying something, because I’m usually quite vulnerable as a backpacker. Bear spray and GPS-tracker can’t entirely erase the fact that I’m often solo and sticking out like a sore thumb. But there is a subtle power in this, centrally located—I think they call it confidence? Not the ego-tripping kind, but the solid brand that arises from relative self-sufficiency. After days of living close to myself and close to the ground, I feel more in tune. Put simply, I trust myself. Whether that means I keep a low profile with a shady individual or jovially engage with a generous soul, this sense of inner strength is invaluable. And I especially love that it arises, of all places, from vulnerability and living humbly.
Humility and, more accurately, being humbled is a familiar feeling for me. This applies to life generally but especially backpacking. I always know I’m about to be served a slice of humble pie when some expectations I have for myself or an experience start to go awry. It could be anything—I’m not going fast enough or this trail is in shit condition or who put these bugs here. Ad infinitum, you get the picture. Whatever the complaint is, resistance follows immediately and unfailingly—this isn’t how this is supposed to be! That resistance could last minutes, hours, or days. Depending on the context, it can take awhile for the god of reality to beat its way through my thick skull. But what happens after the resistance—and often, temper tantrum—can only be described as grace. I know it as the cleared-out feeling, when you don’t have any fight left. In this state, I am softened, maybe even a little gutted, but raw and finally, available.
I am reminded that the root word of humble is humus. Humus as in fecund, organic matter which retains moisture and nutrients in the soil. Humble as in, off my fucking high horse and close to the ground. I don’t consider myself overtly self-inflated but there is an insidious form of self-importance that I suffer from, and that is thinking I should have answers/some grand purpose/everything figured out. What a visceral relief it is, to take off that impossible psychological burden in favor of clipping in my 30-pound pack and simply taking it one step at a time. This is where true connection happens—down on the ground where life happens, versus up in the air where social media and my anxieties live.
Forgive the tangent but this is the approach of fireflies too, by the way. Just the other night, Mike and I caught first glimpses of their intermittent, flickering glow. Mercurial, minuscule pops of light shimmered in the velvety black treeline bordering the field right outside our front door. We stood transfixed by the simple magic of the scene and utterly unable to go back inside. Of course, fireflies have perennially mesmerized children and adults alike for time immemorial, both for their beauty and the fact that they herald high summer. But I learned something new that night, as Mike and I whispered in low tones (the glory of it all subconsciously hushing us.)
This glittering show, Mike explained, is only a small portion of the firefly’s life. The majority is spent underground, hibernating and awaiting warmer weather for their annual courtship display (I also learned that each species of firefly has a unique pattern of flashes to attract a worthy mate, and that some species of firefly will lure in unsuspecting males—choosy females calling the shots, of course—of another species by mimicking their pattern and then eat the gullible victim. Nature is so metal.)
Seeing as I was knee-deep in the writing of this newsletter centered around summertime and humility, I couldn’t help but draw the parallel. You mean to tell me that the insect most associated with warmth, wonder and magic spends most of its life rooting around as an unimpressive blob of larva? C’mon—that’s just begging to be a metaphor.
I find inestimable comfort anytime someone—be they human or bug—affirms the reality of living close to the ground. It’s such a relief to know, via felt experience, that the deepest forms of connection are rooted in humility. Backpacking is the most surefire way I know to lay down my ego, get out of my comfort zone, be humbled and ultimately, awed. This trip on the Allegheny Trail was no exception. Like any adventure, it was somewhat unpredictable, unruly, and at times unyielding. But it was also exactly what I needed, because it simply was. There was very little second-guessing or debating choices or room for the static noise that swirls in my head most days. I wasn’t in charge of much, ultimately, and what a gift that was.
What follows are a few of my notes, reflections, and observations from our Allegheny Trail backpack. There is no seamless way to weave them into this essay-narrative so they are jumbled and scattered like river-rocks below…
Glady Campsite, Day 2, mile 25
I forgot what 15 miles on your feet with a 30-pound pack does to a person. My muscles are strung taut, so that rising from a seat is like prying open a closed spring. Even supine in the cocoon of my trusty 1-person tent, I feel my entire body humming as if still in motion. And my nerves are ragged, rubbed raw from scrambling over the final section of trail preceding this campsite: narrow as a tight-rope and precipitously steep.
I am utterly, utterly spent.
This whole day was overall lovely though, really. Almost all 15 miles of it sailed by on the coolest, clearest breeze. I coasted down from alpine ridges, past a trail intersection for the locally famous High Falls, and finally landed on the West Fork Rail Trail. After a day of alternately hummock-y/muddy/eroded trail conditions, a level, double-track gravel path was a godsend. But of course, even that blessing quickly turned to boredom, as road-walking so easily does. A mid-morning break to relieve my shoulders from pack-weight and a snack of peanut butter crackers + cold tea did wonders to break up the body-and-mind-numbing monotony. Still, I was very relieved to walk through the town of Glady and reach a springy, shady, forested path again.
Maybe the highlight of the entire day was the all-too-inviting, sandy banks of the Glady carpeted in moss and fern just around lunchtime. I nestled in the fuzzy pocket of green with my salami-and-cheese wrap to gaze at the lolling water and the life occurring quietly there: tiny white violets with tender faces upturned; slugs shimmering on slender stems; and just downstream, a deer picking her way delicately across the rocks, leaving perfect hoof-marks deep in the wet mud.
The loveliness continues as evening edges over my campsite on the banks of the Glady Fork. Rhododendron cast prismatic shadows and Glady murmurs to herself. The towhees and chickadees are demanding their usual: drink your te-e-e-ea! and the ever-plaintive, cheeseburger!, respectively. The last gold light was molten on the trees as I savored my ramen-and-tuna dinner (salty liquid gold, MSG-infused manna from heaven.) But the sky is bruised blue and dusky now—prime backpacker bedtime—with nature’s riverine white noise to lull me asleep.
As I doze I reflect on the Glady. This river is different from what I know—tucked between steep holler-canyons, mountain-fed. I’d expect it to be a trickling thread or a skinny tributary, like Mountain Run in Fridley Gap or Hone Quarry Run, both old Shenandoah haunts of mine. But the Glady Fork is broad and coiling, at turns lazy and robust. Sapphire whirlpools froth fiercely against rock, then mellow out into lolling sanctuaries of glassy water and surrounding glades (hence the name.) And the Glady is big.Rightfully so. Glady is one of five principle headwater tributaries of the Cheat River, alongside the Dry Fork (which Glady technically feeds,) Laurel Fork, Shavers Fork, and Black Fork (formed by the confluence of the Blackwater River and the Dry Fork.) Collectively, they are known as the Forks of Cheat and mapping them out mentally has taken me months. It feels important to know these waterways though, however vaguely, as their path eventually tracks all the way to the Mississippi. The sensation that knowledge gives me is not unlike the wonder that accompanies stepping on a long trail: think of all the places this path touches.
Lower Glady Campsite, mile 35
Our 2-person tent is tucked cozily in a rhodo-thicket creekside, embers of our fire nearby popping and crackling. The white noise of wide, gentle Glady is unlike anything, being at once soothing and alive and entirely itself. The waters of this river are akin to the blood rushing in my own veins, pulsing with quicksilver unrelenting life.
Today was a gem. I awoke with the first light of day, having fallen dead asleep at 8 pm. The early morning was unnervingly frigid in the river valley, dew-damp and penetrating. The only way to cope was to get a move-on, out of my tent and into my dirty clothes. I was shaky from the cold but also from giddy anticipation at the prospect of meeting Mike that morning, just two miles north at the route 33 trailhead. Somehow I made good time, arriving at our meeting spot an hour early despite stumbling blearily and as of yet uncaffeinated through the continuous tunnel of ferns and rhododendron. With time to kill and a growling stomach, I unpacked my fuel canister and food bag right at the edge of the misty Glady. The burgeoning sunlight beamed in gold and sweet, the coffee was hot and the oats hearty—I was in heaven.
Nourished and with the promise of beloved company pending, I spread out contentedly on a sunny rock near the trailhead to await Mike. It was still early but local fishermen were already there, wading the waters for brook trout. I must’ve stuck out like a sore thumb because the fishermen were gruffly inquisitive, one fellow even kindly gifting a canned shandy that made a fine lunch accompaniment for Mike and I later.
Speaking of Mike—what a glorious sunburst of a moment, to see his black truck pull into the trailhead parking after two days apart and with only my GPS pings as contact. I was more lonely than I expected, missed him more than my highly independent self could express. While I was grateful for a prolonged two-day meditation in the mountains, I was even more grateful for the easy warmth of our companionship.
After unpacking, trading out my solo gear for our dual systems (tent, cookware, etc,) and repacking, we set off into the gleaming mid-morning. Sunlight streamed through river-side rhododendron like a shimmering patchwork quilt, and we basked in the glow of it and each other. All afternoon the trail all was gentle, wide and even, minus a few brief, steep climbs up the mountainous shoulders surrounding Glady. We had time to kill—a luxury for backpackers—so we lazed on our foam sleeping pads for lunch and rolled into camp early that day (but not before wilting in the late afternoon heat right as we walked into a crowded site of Memorial Day campers. The running joke between Mike and I is tongue-in-cheek “manifesting,” and that day we envisioned many an ice cold beer tucked away in the campers’ trailers. Lo and behold though, our manifestation practices paid off, as a jovial man happily gifted us with two glacial Miller High Lifes. We floated to our tentsite then, buoyed by generosity, good humor and of course, beer!)
Birds, That I Remember
wood thrush (so many); eastern towhee; chickadee; pileated woodpecker; red-bellied woodpecker; cedar wax-wing; kingfisher; barred owl; bald eagle; black-throated blue warbler; merganser; blue jay; dove; crow
Plants, That I Remember
chickweed; painted trillium; lady slipper; violet; maypple; phlox; buttercup; jack-in-the-pulpit; stinging nettle; american ginseng; new york fern; rhododendron; red spruce; hemlock; mountain laurel; ramps; milkweed