Grace in the Grayson Highlands: Days 42-45

I’m playing catch up after a week in New York for my sister’s wedding, starting with the Grayson Highlands!

Iridescent spider webs were strung like fairy rope bridges in the grass. Green piles of horse poop the shape and size of dinner plates were everywhere. What looked like the entirety of Southern Virginia ran away north.

I’m camping at mile 500, a dozen tents are scattered over a large, ridge top meadow. It’s the first sunrise I’ve seen in weeks, and it immediately reminds me of the preceding storms.

The Thrill of Powerlessness

What’s thrilling about a storm, a flood, a cataclysmic act of nature, is that they remind one they are powerless. This is terrifying

Richard Rohr, a Catholic mystic, has a line that goes something like, “healing is not something you can do for yourself, not completely. It’s something that happens to you through grace.”

I am not religious, but I believe in grace. For me it’s the flow of good luck, work towards future good luck, and the ability to be open to that good luck when it finds you. Embracing powerlessness in this sense is humility enough to let go of the need to control a situation, and to open yourself up.

Being caught in a storm forces us to lean into the realization that we cannot control the world around us. We learn to open up to new experiences and perspectives. We trust in the unknown, because that’s where we find new methods of not just survival and coping, but eventually thriving. 

Witnessing the raw, indifferent violence of a storm from inside that same storm will certainly leave you with few other options than to trust god, the unknown, or just your own ability to cope with rather than solve problems. 

With that said, I often don’t feel very good about it until after the storm passes. 

When the sun comes out I can stand up, dry off my gear, shake it off, and realize: I survived! Which means I’ll probably survive the next one too. Boom, resilience.

The Sun After the Storm

The sun shone the entire day. For all the attention Grayson Highlands gets (and rightly deserves) you’d think it’s a longer section of the trail, but only really constituted about dozen or so miles. Still, in my humble opinion, those few miles were prettier than the whole of Tennessee. Though that may have a lot to do with actually getting views rather than being socked at every peak. 

There is a blue blaze where the trail used to run just inside the state park. It shaves about 7 miles or so off your hike, but don’t fall for it. You’ll miss the best part of the highlands. I was tempted— I’m feeling single mindedly driven to make miles these days— but I’m glad I passed it up.

The high, boulder strewn meadows, tremendous vistas, longhorn cattle and ponies roaming amidst the scrub transported me to a more western landscape. The only thing missing were the cattle guards.

Ponies were plentiful, though I didn’t always see them. Often I’d hear them scream from off in a grove of trees. Scream is the best descriptor I can come up with. I heard no naying, no braying, just a sustained, multi-tonal note that could have belonged to a less petit, much more dangerous animal. 

The hike down from the highlands came quickly , and I descended back into the green tunnel of magnolia, oak and maple. Every gap we came to seemed to have trail magic. Folks in town for Trail Days wanted to keep the support rolling before heading home to Vermont, Louisiana, Kentucky, or wherever.

The weather was the kind that seems tailor made for sitting in the shade with friends. Warm and sunny, the coolers full of Dr. Pepper and burgers made the prospect of a 20 mile day sound insane. 

Bootleg, Wigham and I would meet at a gap, load up on sugar and salt at trail magic, talk and laugh a bit, then hike on in our mismatched paces until the next road crossing. There we’d do it again. Each time I stood up to keep moving, my brain asked, “Why? It’s so nice here, what’s the value in leaving?” I had no good answer.

Sometimes the thru-hike whets the appetite for regular camping. A stay in the woods where hiking is something you do to kill the time. But that’s not the current mission. And I could take it slower, but ya know, weddings and rendezvous and big miles, etc. etc. 

I have a list of places I want to come back and visit properly. 

The Week Ahead

If you read my last piece about Trail Days, then you know I was a little anxious about the amount of time I ended up spending in Damascus, VA. My sister is getting married the first week of June. This means a little time off trail, which is complicated for a few reasons, starting with logistics: how does one get off trail?

Easy enough to get a shuttle into town, but for longer hauls coordinate with folks on the outside. My partner is coming from Kansas City on her way to New York to pick me up. Planning rendezvous with friends or family who want to visit on the trail has been difficult. One has to match hiking pace to work schedules to accessible road crossings to weather patterns. A few days out has been the most advanced I’ve been able to manage.  

With Damascus came a delay in the plans. Originally Roanoke, then Blacksburg, then Pearisburg, the rendezvous point for the wedding kept jumping south, to my intense frustration. But it doesn’t have to be frustrating. Plans can be flexible. We can adjust. So for the next few days I’ll be practicing letting go of my desire to control every single thing, and pounding out the miles.

Taking a break for my sister’s wedding in New York, but I’ll be sure to get back at it in mid June!