Breaking out from COVID-19 Confinement

Despite the COVID-19 pandemic spreading rapidly across the US, I had to get out of the house for some fresh air. I've only been out to dinner with one friend in about 3 weeks and although I missed seeing my friends, the countryside was what I craved more. A photographer buddy had wanted to go out exploring but we would have had to travel in separate cars to retain the 'social distancing' the government is demanding, a phrase I'm beginning to loath. A day out in separate cars with someone who doesn't want to talk on the phone because he will only text did not appeal, and thankfully he failed to get out of bed on time, so I was spared the ordeal. But once I'd had breakfast and relaxed with the cats over a huge mug of tea I jumped into Stanley and headed for the mountains.
The roads were quiet, few people were out socializing or exercising in the Shenandoah valley. But Skyline Drive had opened the park for free, encouraging hoards of city folk to stampede our quiet little town, causing panic among the locals that these strangers would infect us with the virus which
is naturally spreading faster in the DC and suburbs areas. There were huge queues of vehicles waiting to go into the park, a mass of DC, MD and even PA plates, a throng of people who, with all the restrooms closed in the park, would be leaving a huge mess to be cleared up, as they have done in the past. I was sad that I wouldn't be able to use the park after seeing photos posted early of overflowing parking lots. So much for keeping apart for health reasons.

I was content to drive along rustic roads, the window down so the sweet smells of spring could waft into the car. It was chilly, the skies grey and metallic, but Mother Nature had obviously thrown off her winter cloak and was beginning to paint the landscape with color. Forsythia bushes were abundant, golden flowers cascading to the ground, dandelion flowers were untwisting from tight buds, and bright green leaves sprouted from the damp woodland floor. I stopped by a small creek, its crystal clear water tinkling over rocks, olive mosses softly wrapped around stones and new watercress was abundant in the shallow stream. I wished I'd brought some bags to take some home but contented myself with chewing on a few peppery leaves.
After driving over the mountains in George Washington National Forest I pulled over at a trail that led to the Woodstock Tower. I had hiked a lower trail a couple of years ago and looked up at the construction and now thought investigating it would be a good idea. As I pulled over on the side of the road a couple walked to their vehicle and drove away. Wonderful, I would have the trail to myself.

It was lovely to be outside, even with the brisk winds up here on the mountain. I passed a lone cherry blossom tree and was happy to see the pink blooms, happier to be here rather than down in DC where the cherry blossoms were more prolific but currently not a wise place to be visiting. I'd heard that despite the Corona Virus there were still many visitors walking about the blossoms, ignoring the call for social distancing. I was content to be isolated and admiring these few flowers on the trail.

The observation tower is a steel construction, used for recreation and fire spotting, and although solidly built, it is very open and the wind was cold as I climbed to the top. The handrails were freezing, the steps and sides allowing the cold to blow through. At the top the metal floor had been daubed with ugly graffiti and I spotted a few padlocks hanging on the fence, initials scratched onto their surface.
The valley below appeared completely empty, the bare mountains on one side and the seven bends of the Shenandoah weaving through fields on the other. The clouds were like a pack of cotton wool that had been unrolled. I stood with my hands thrust deep in my pockets, wishing I had a hat and scarf. It felt a little strange to be here on my own as I thought about the masses invading the Skyline Drive, and I was glad not to be among them. Looking down from the 2000ft mountain top, I could see for miles and stood enjoying the solitude for a few minutes before the frigid breezes drove me back down. Descending the steps was more daunting than climbing up. I was acutely aware that I could easily tumble over the edge or slip down the steps. The metal shrieked and rattled as I worked my way down, the structure trembling underneath from either the wind or my movement, I wasn't sure. I was glad to reach the bottom and walk the trail back to the car.

Although the trail at first appeared drab and dull, bereft of life, closer inspection as I walked slowly revealed small yellow spice bush flowers, and then further along, pink witch hazel. Tiny buds of green and pink were sprouting along the branches while green fingers of new leaves and grasses poked through the dusty brown leaves on the ground.
Just as I clambered into my warm car, rubbing my cold nose, another car pulled up and people climbed out. Great timing, we were avoiding contact. I drove down the mountain cautiously, the road in places dropping steeply on one side, tight horse shoe bends making me slow to almost a walking pace. Driving back through tiny towns with little activity I eventually returned home, and retired to my sanctuary, unsure of how many trips outside I'd be able to make before the government calls for a total lock down.

Strasburg and a Sty

I found myself driving through Strasburg on Sunday, a beautiful bright day, a little breezy, but sunny and warm. With my windows rolled down I admired some of the town's older and more attractive buildings. I miss the ancient stone residences with mullioned windows from England, built centuries ago, but there are still some interesting structures over here, even if only a couple of hundred years old.

I had the sun shining directly into my lens whenever I wanted to take a photo, so some points of interest I had to give up on, but I greatly admired this grand home, (top), on one of the back streets, built about 1910, and was amazed to find photos of its interior online. Take a look! Bit too big for me, but gloriously restored, it's gorgeous.
Dosh House, built after 1778, has also been preserved and is now under the able stewardship of the Strasburg Guards, Sons of Confederate Veterans, and looking very maintained. They open it to the public periodically, I'll have to watch out for that. As I was about to pull out on to Rte 55, my nose was suddenly assailed with the wondrous aroma of bacon. My mouth immediately began watering and I flipped my head from side to side to find out where this tantalizing fragrance was coming from. A tiny brightly painted caravan was perched in front of a restaurant, and I remembered reading about it recently, but knowing that it hasn't began business yet, it therefore wasn't cooking bacon. I didn't discover where the succulent scent came from but it did remind me to make a mental note to come back and try The Pancake Underground once their frying pans hit the burners

I went up and down the road a few times before I realized that this was the house I'd been looking for, Hupp House, the oldest home in Strasburg, dated 1755.It has a 1937 sign at the front telling that it had been used as a fort in Indian attacks and a newer sign, seen in the photo, which was completely illegible. Thankfully, I found a blog which explained its history.

 

The house was in dire need of repair and is evidently lived in, 3 or 4 baby strollers folded up at the porch, a huge ashtray overflowing with cigarette ends, and equally full trash bins by the road side. The decorative woodwork was crying out for a new paint job. I would have liked to walk around the back and explore further but respected the inhabitant's privacy and kept away, very happy to notice that their neighbor's home and garden was a different story, a pretty cottage scene, and definitely worthy of a photo. Watercress was mentioned on Allen's blog and I had spotted that behind the house. Many of the creeks in this county have this leafy green growing and on my next trip out here, I'll bring containers and a cooler to pick some. lovely in a salad or cheese sandwich!
I then began driving to a battlefield site, now a park, and approached the tiny village of Fisherville.

I spotted a river with a road running alongside it and made a detour, delighted to discover waterfalls, which I clambered down to, and sat for a while on the rocks, enjoying the warm sun and the splashing water as it thundered by me. the banks were carpeted with tiny blue and white veronica flowers, green buds sprouted from branches. Spring had sprung, and I hoped it was here to stay.
I entered the tiny picturesque village of Fisherville and stopped on the bridge to take in the pretty scenery. Old wooden buildings dotted the green slopes, a vintage truck leaned inside an old barn, while a bubbling creek tumbled over smooth rocks, and clumps of watercress emerald green bobbed on the crisp clear water.

I stopped by an old mill building to take some photos, loving a line of concrete ducks that had been dressed up in spring clothing in a front yard. As I bent down to stand one up that had fallen over, an elderly gentleman in a vintage Camero pulled over, a huge grin on his face, as he declared while waving an arm, "Take as many photos as you want, We own these buildings!" I thanked him and he pulled away with another cheery wave. Just a short way up the road I stopped again when I saw him parked by a small pond, admiring a couple of Canadian gooses enjoying the spring weather. We both sat in our cars for a few quiet contented minutes watching the birds, not wanting to exit our vehicles and disturb their peaceful moment.
Just further down the road I saw a huge hog by a gate set back from the road. I drove by but then braked, thinking that I should really go back and say hello. And I was glad I did.

Mr Hog was standing by a shady sty and looking very proud of himself. I was so enamored with his expression that it was a few seconds before I realized the source of his joy. Tiny squeals made me move over and look down so that, down by his feet, I could see five, and then six, tiny piglets. They had just been born, their umbilical cords still attached. Mom was lying on straw in the shade, likely feeling very tired and showing no interest in me whatsoever. But Dad was grinning from ear to ear. I swear if I had handed him a cigar he would have smoked it, he was one extremely satisfied father. He snuffled his babies after posing for a couple of photos, very pleased with his new family. I didn't stay long, not wanting to upset the mom or cause her anguish with my presence. I congratulated Dad and went on my way.

I arrived at Fisher's Hill Battlefield, discovering that I was the only one here. The wind had picked up, feeling cold in my ears, but I decided to see what the trails in this park were like. I crossed over a small creek and walked through a beautifully made entrance with a heavy kissing gate. This is a relatively new park area of 179 acres where Gen. Jubal A. Early's army, already beaten and wounded from the Third Battle of Winchester the day before, tried to strengthen their position here but lost, outnumbered by nearly three to one. "Our position was naturally strong but our army was too small to man it." - Confederate Capt. Samuel D. Buck.

There was only about a mile of trails here so I followed them all, crossing fields spattered with the dried trademarks of previous grazing cattle. Walking up Ramseur's Hill, named after one of Jubal Early's division commanders, I noticed a tree which made me stop and stare. It appeared to have a soldier standing on a bough, his rifle held on his shoulder as he aimed at something in the distance. Right in the middle, see it? I finished my hike and began the drive back towards Front Royal, where a lazy evening would be spent with Rosie Lee and Tricksie Treat before another week of work would begin.