We've had some ghastly weather at the weekends this year and this one was promising more of the same. An ice storm with a small amount of snow was supposed to be moving in on Sunday afternoon and evening. But even though it was cold the strong winds from Saturday had abated a little and so I decided to get a short hike on Sunday. I found it difficult to leave my warm cozy bed where Rosie Lee and Tricksie Treat were snuggling with me. I'd been sipping a huge mug of tea while engrossed in my book and could quite happily have stayed there all day but the mountains and fresh air were calling out to me and so wrapping up well, with hand warmers stuffed into my pockets, I made for Luray.
I'd read about Kennedy Peak just that morning on a Meetup hiking group announcement, but they'd be starting their hike a good 90 minutes before me so I'd likely meet them on their way out. But when I arrived at the small parking area mine was the only vehicle to take a space. Maybe they canceled their event in case the ice came in earlier. I stood and chewed my fingers while pondering on this. Maybe I shouldn't chance my luck either, the air did have a 'snow feel' about it and the wind was biting. But I realized that I was simply trying to find an excuse to jump back into the warm car, and I'd regret it later if I didn't do the hike. Plus, seeing the summit in the distance was tempting, it was a peak that needed to be climbed.
I set off at a brisk pace to warm up. I was striding along a wide trail, an old forestry road, on top of a ridge. The wind buffeted me and I pulled my hat down over my ears. The path was rocky so I was constantly looking down to avoid tripping but every now and then I looked up at the summit standing proud ahead of me. With the trees bare on either side of the track I could see down into the valleys, brown fields, narrow roads weaving back and forth, and quietness, apart from the gales. It felt like I was the only person up here. Which I was...
The path was rocky but the trail was a relatively easy climb. As I passed around the sheltered back of the mountain, the winds dropped and the silence of the forest was deafening. There were no sounds apart from my boots crunching the frozen earth or kicking small stones. No bird cries, no rustling of undergrowth from small critters, everyone was sheltering, likely sleeping. As I reached the final turn I came across a sign indicating that the fire tower was immediately ahead.
After a short uphill climb over a rocky ridge I arrived at Kennedy's Peak. It was freezing cold, the wind whipped at my jacket and hat as I kept my hands deep in my pockets clutching the hand warmers. But I was amazed to see that the fire shelter had a deep enclosed area under its viewing deck, a fire pit at the front and even a small stack of fire wood ready to use. If I hadn't been concerned about the bad weather coming in I would have loved to sit up there, warming my hands in front of hot flames. Definitely worth considering for the future, especially if I remember a pack of sausages, biscuits and flask of tea!
The ridge line that I'd hiked along before climbing up the mountain.
Despite the cold I had to sit and relish the experience of having this impressive panorama all to myself. I tucked myself into the shelter but even though I couldn't escape the winds completely I wasn't so exposed. It felt as though I was the only person on earth. I couldn't detect barely any movements down below and no sounds traveled up to my perch, no voices from humans or animals, or growls of engines. Either the wind was blowing all noise away from me or folks were huddled in their warm homes. I don't know, but it felt strangely eerie as though I was the lone survivor of a major catastrophe. There were spectacular views of Luray Valley and the South Fork of the Shenandoah River to the east and the Massanutten Range, including Duncan Knob and Kerns Mountain to the southwest. The Bermuda grass in the fields below was sandy colored; come the spring they'll change to a lush green. It was an astounding view, and one that I'll definitely be back to admire again. My hands were frozen after just the few minutes I'd had them out of my pockets to use my camera, so very reluctantly I began my return journey down the mountain.
On the way back down I took my time. I had been concerned about being
caught in a snow storm while on my way up. The clouds were hanging lower
and there was a smell of snow in the air. I stopped to observe smaller
details, marveling at how even though most of the trail was colored in
earth tones, vivid splashes of color lit up the browns and greys. There were neon yellow patches of moss hiding under a ledge and some of the rocks I studied were veined with scarlet and orange or flecked with quartz that glittered in the changing light as I passed. Teal lichens and green mosses clothed the boulders and sides of the path. I heard one solitary crow as I sauntered down, his constant cawing either a warning of the incoming bad weather or a call to his family.
When I reached the bottom my car was still the only one parked by the ledge, used in the summer time by para gliders, but vacant today. Driving down the steep mountainside a turkey vulture swooped low across the road in front of me as I peered up at the houses balancing on tall brick or stone pillars to maintain their position on the precipitous gradients. I'd once viewed these homes as gorgeous but after having looked into the purchase of one, no longer do I see their advantages, only the downfalls of mountain life.
While up on Kennedy's Peak I'd spotted the yellow roofs of a farm I'd discovered a few years ago. It had clearly been vacated some time ago and was up for sale when I'd last driven up to it. I really wanted to explore all the buildings but after my trespassing demeanor a few years ago, exploring in this county makes me nervous.
But I drove down there anyway, just to peer over the fence and see if it
was now lived in. Unfortunately the grounds remain deserted. the
buildings looking shoddier and a few wooden structures falling down. Yet despite its tumbledown appearance, the bright yellow roofs managed to convey plenty of cheerful appeal and I longed to walk in and explore. I was itching to see if the buildings were open to photograph but the 'No Trespassing' sign held me at bay, still exuding authority over me despite its worn appearance. I took some photos and then drove away before my presence was reported. Better to be safe than sorry!
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