Shining Woodlands and Water and Rusting Wrecks

I'm not sure now how long 'shelter in place' has been in effect with the coronoavirus, but it must be 4 weeks at least. I've been going into the office only twice a week, working from home the other days, and any extra days have been spent painting bathrooms, housework, gardening and watching tv shows. Binge-watching a few since I temporarily have internet in the house while the pandemic lasts. I'd managed to get in a few hikes but thanks to so many people from cities and even other states flooding the parks, upsetting locals who feared their contagion, and also dumping their trash in these beautiful areas, the Skyline Drive is now closed, and the trailheads outside the park that touch on the borders are also closed. A few that have remained open are now swarming with people who refuse to stay in their own area, so my local hikes are now few. I do know of a few remote spots and one morning I got up early to hopefully enjoy a hike without bumping into groups of other people.

The trail was deserted and cold. The sun was heaving itself over the mountain top, casting warm rays through the branches and creating golden spider web effects, but in areas of shade it was decidedly chilly and I was glad of my jacket, even wishing I'd worn a scarf. The spice bushes were in full bloom, the edges of the flowers appearing as though they'd been dipped in glitter. White bloodroot and anemones peeked out from dusty brown leaves, so the whole trail was silver and gold. The birds were vocal this morning too, seeming to be singing their songs loudly so they'd warm up. I walked about 4 miles without seeing a single person and was soon back in my car again, glad I'd got up early to enjoy this mountain top.

Since hiking trails was getting difficult with so many people heading for the hills, I tried a local road that might also offer an opportunity for biking. The road itself wasn't paved, with multitudes of potholes and every couple of minutes I was enveloped in a dust storm as cars raced back and forth. It wasn't as unused as I'd hoped but I persisted along the course as I was hunting for a hidden quarry which had appeared a beautiful deep teal color in a few photos I'd seen.

 A well preserved small cemetery was at the top of the hill, which I later discovered to be the Marshall family cemetery. An attractive rugged stone wall surrounded the gravestones with a small black metal gate as the only entrance. I wandered among the headstones, noting that two were in place with a birth date but no date of death. There are literally people dying to get in here. I carried on across fields and then battled my way through dense woodlands where the brambles were already making their presence very apparent. But my persistence paid off when I finally caught a glimpse of aquamarine through the bare branches.

 I stood admiring the water for a while as I picked out twigs and thorns from my hair and clothes, then began battling back through the undergrowth, determined to find a way down to the banks of this pool. I eventually burst out of the trees onto a flat rock ledge. The sun was beating down, warm and welcoming. I would have loved to just sit on the rocks and enjoy the complete tranquility down here for a while but I wasn't sure if I was trespassing or not and didn't want any trouble. A pair of Canadian gooses were floating on the water, making we ponder if they were annoyed at me busting into their peaceful world, and so I snapped a few photos carefully so as not to scare them into flying off, and then I quietly backed away. I tried to find information on the quarry later but found nothing, only that there are two minerals that turn quarry water this beautiful color, malachite and azurite, and then wondered if I should go back at some point to find samples...
Walking back to the car I came across an old ruin that looked very much like a castle. This old building had been very well built and it saddened me that it was tumbling down here with few people aware of its existence.

This area would make a beautiful park area. I did find an article on the house after some research; maybe one day that park won't be a dream.
Over the past weekend I had spent an hour or two driving and exploring country roads, just wanting to get out of the house and get some fresh air. By chance I drove by an old scrapyard. I had discovered this a few years ago but failed to note its location, and had then been unable to find my way back. But today I recognized it immediately and was delighted to spot its owner chatting to another guy outside a workshop. His buddy left as I approached and I smiled then asked very politely if I could please take some photos of the cars. I'm not sure if I pissed him off because his friend left as I appeared or if he simply didn't like English people. He began making some supercilious remarks about my accent, and it soon became apparent he was trying to wind me up. I didn't bite the hook, I wanted to explore those old cars, so I laughed along with him, my hands writhing behind my back as I imagined wringing his scrawny neck. But then the conversation turned to working on older cars and riding motorbikes. When he discovered that I had been capable of replacing brakes, spark plugs, points, timing belts, alternators, starter motors and other components which had been simple on cars from the 70's and 80's, along with riding fast on motorbikes and performing basic maintenance on them too, he slowly changed from a testy old geyser to a friendly and sweet elderly gentleman, who after another discussion on snakes, finally relented and said I was welcome to go take some photos. As long as I trod careful since the place was crawling with copperheads and rattlers. Righty Ho! I pulled my socks up as far as they would go and trudged onward.

 I had a thoroughly enjoyable hour or so strolling around and inspecting the cars inside and out. I didn't want to outstay my welcome, and hadn't wanted to inquire whether I'd be OK to explore for two or three hours in case I upset him and he ordered me to bugger off. So I kept an eye on the time and kicked through the leaves and rotten wood, having completely forgotten his warning about slithering critters. Even though many of the cars were in bad shape there were still plenty of opportunities to get photos, with hood ornaments still intact, along with much chrome work and light lenses. I particularly loved the sunlight shining through a vintage 7-Up bottle which was caught in a web of wire and throwing a green shadow below it.  I even found a vintage plate. Rusty embossed letters on a thin metal sheet caught my eye among the dead leaves, and pulling it out the letters read 'FRONT ROYAL, VIRGINIA' along the top, 'WHERE THE SKYLINE DRIVE BEGINS' along the bottom and a date of 69. I gave it to the old chap as I was leaving, thinking he'd clean it up and display it in his workshop, but he just took it, inspecting the letters briefly, and placed it on top of an old oil can in the shop. I hoped he wouldn't toss it away or back among the leaves. But he was in a good mood as I thanked him and drove away, hopefully good enough that he'll remember me favorably and let me return another day.

Up above the Clouds

I was up early on Sunday morning, before the sun rose. I wanted to hike a couple of trails along the Skyline Drive but knew the park would be packed by mid morning with out of town tourists, not a good thing when everyone is supposed to be keeping distant from each other. There are other locals, who like me, are frustrated at so many people invading our small town during a pandemic without any empathy towards the impact on our community. Resident hikers have also been complaining about the trash these people have been leaving behind, on the trails and the overlooks.
I drove down towards Luray, chuckling at a house by the road, its windows brightly lit by four Christmas trees, an act some folks are encouraging to lift people's spirits. It lifted mine.

It was difficult entering the park as the fog was so dense. I drove as slowly as possible because bunnies kept darting back and forth, evidently enjoying their breakfast of dew laden fresh grass shoots. And there were so many deers, I must have passed over fifty of them, standing by the side of the road, or running alongside me. It was a magical time of morning that the animals obviously enjoyed before the humans arrived to overrun the park. I only saw a couple of cars, people sitting on the stone walls waiting for the sun to peek over the horizon and turn the sky from blue to orange.
I drove down to Big Meadows, pleased to find that I was the only car parked here. The flat heathland looked dull and barren, herds of deers slowly roaming through the brown grasses, but I'd never stopped here before and wanted to explore.

As I walked along a trail I was suddenly aware of birdsong. Usually while walking in the woods I am constantly aware of the silence, never understanding how the natural landscape could be bereft of birds, but here the air was alive with the trills of robins. They flocked over the grass, presumably hunting for earthworms in the damp soil. They fluttered before me in huge crowds, occasionally bickering, and I was glad of their company. A crow, so large that I initially thought it was a vulture, peered down and cawed indignantly, while in the distance a woodpecker hammered on a tree trunk searching for his breakfast bugs.
I walked through woods, noting sprouts of spring flowers budding through the undergrowth, clumps of sphagnum moss, which was saturated with the previous night's rain when I bent down to squish it. The lichens and mosses were vibrant teals and greens on the grey rocks, and I stopped to take in the view across the meadow, the many golds, tans and browns that colored the landscape, which in a few weeks would turn to greens. It reminded me a little of the Yorkshire Dales.

I followed narrow trails, which I assumed had been made by the deers, and sure enough soon came across a herd. They watched me cautiously but didn't run, an occasional white tail lifted in warning. I stood still and chatted with them, rewarded with curious expressions and a few that dared to tip toe a little closer.
Walking back towards the car, small finches darted back and forth from stalks and seed heads in the grass. A family arrived as I approached the parking lot, but were friendly and kept their distance.

I drove back towards Front Royal, stopping at overlooks to photograph the clouds. At one of them the Appalachian Trail crossed the road to dip down into that fluffy fog that blanketed the valley, like descending into another world. I continued on before stopping at another trail that I hadn't yet hiked, Little Stony Man. There were already two cars here but I decided to take a chance and made my way up the track.

As I neared the summit a couple were hiking down towards me. I clambered upon to a bank and we exchanged greetings, the guy lamenting on the clouds of flies that were down by the cars. I'd noticed these too but thankfully there were none on the trail. The climb up was very rocky, living up to its name, and I had to keep my eyes down on where I placed my feet. After yesterday's rain, the air was fragrant with woodland aromas, wet earth and rotting wood as I passed fallen trees. Suddenly the trail leveled out and I was walking out on to a rocky outcrop, strong winds pushing me back as I looked into the distance, an ocean of clouds moving like waves towards me. It was spectacular. I stood watching for a few minutes and then continued along the trail, now skirting alongside a cliff of rock.

These rock outcrops and cliffs were caused millions of years ago by volcanoes, layers of rock forced up and outwards, changed today by mechanical weathering such as tree roots and ice. I walked about a mile and then turned back to sit on that wondrous bench of stone, watching the flow of the fog below me as I ate an apple and a banana, the winds strong but warm.The mountain peaks were only just visible in the distance, jutting up through the clouds, and a lone turkey vulture skimmed above my head. It was glorious to sit there enjoying this incredible spectacle on my own but I knew the crowds would soon be arriving, and so started on my way back down to the car.

On the way down I met a couple of groups, all of us giving each other plenty of space and soon I was in the parking lot, my morning of short hikes completed by 9:45am. I'd completed about five miles total and smiled as I thought of the visitors in the early 1900s who, staying at the Skyland Resort further down the park, had considered this trail an 'excursion'.
The sun was breaking through the clouds as I drove towards home but I stopped at two outlooks, which weren't full of parked cars, to stand and admire the foggy seas below me one final time, even finding another cherry blossom tree, resplendent in the bright morning light. Cars were pulling in as I drove away, it was going to be another busy day on the Skyline Drive.

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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.