Hiking Old Rag.

[Atop Old Rag.]

There’s a camaraderie established somewhere early on during a hike: when you’re blowing up the fire road and ease of step gives way to striding, conversation becomes a bit more staccato while your lungs warm up. No one wants to sound out of breath, but the rhythm isn’t quite established enough yet for silence.

In our case, camaraderie came earlier, from both having to go to the bathroom before even getting to the trail head, boots shyly nosing into the forest floor: “But… I have to do more than pee.”

Whomp.

[E is 6’1″ and bearded, and made every girl we passed stumble over rocks while trying to get a second glance at him. I enjoyed watching this scenario unfold time and again along the trail, so mostly played caboose.]

I hadn’t hiked Old Rag Mountain since I was a kid. Despite the lack of foliage and brisk temps, it felt pretty much just the same. My compadre and I plowed along most of the morning, stopping once to put some preventative bandaids on my wheels, spending the day talking about work and growing up and spirit animals and various superlatives: scariest, happiest, weirdest, best, worst…

“Hey, you got a couple extras by chance?” a passing father of two sons asked, gesturing to my backpack while I eased the wool sock back over my bandaided heel.

“Just one more,” I apologized.

“If you did, I’d only need two: one for each mouth back there.”

It was pretty nippy at the summit, and we found a little nook between two big boulders and set to work on making sandwiches, divvying up beef jerky, talking about cats, and generally acting like dorks. I didn’t realize how good the air was going to be—both for breathing and for thinking.

We had peanut butter and apple butter sandwiches (“Peanut Apple Butter²”), string cheese I had to make inappropriate gestures with, and Gatorade, and ate until both our quads were twitching from the cold.

[Serious goose bumps.]

[Peace of mind.]

The last of this year’s color grazed the hillsides like an angry rash. I offered up a little prayer of gratitude for beauty and things bigger than myself, then eased up off the rock.

[This happened.]

Our descent was a little more subdued, heads down with dusk approaching, and a little game of leap frog going on where the trail widened then narrowed. Once, we passed a fork around a little tree. The trail split for about 3.5 feet, then fused together again. I skipped ahead and veered to the left.

“Alright, well, I’m going this way, so I guess I’ll see you later!”

“Ok, cool. Byebye,” E replied, unphased.

Two seconds later: “Oh, hey!” “Hey! How’s it going?”

I only wish the Rag lady was closer; I’m sure I’d hike her once a week. If you live in VA and by chance haven’t done this hike, I suggest you do. And feel like a kid again.

Just what the doctor ordered.

-Carey

[And snag a bottle of Cab Franc from Horton Vineyards on your way home.]

[Johnny Flynn and Laura Marling, “The Water”]