Damascus Highway

Where to go with the keyboard this Friday in September, 2011.

The weather is rainy out today. It will make for a soaking day in which to walk dogs.
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May, 2010.

My son and I were finishing up 30 miles of backpacking along the Appalachian Trail. We had started in Grayson Highlands, Virginia, and were now at Damascus, Virginia.

It was my first trip backpacking in almost 30 years and Son had agreed to be my mentor, to teach me the ropes of hiking with all I need on my back. How to hang a food bag to keep the bears from stealing my supply. How to set up my tent. How to get water. How to rest while standing. How to lift my then much-too-heavy 48-pound pack on and off my 51-year old back. Then there was the trail lingo. "Yellow blazing." "Pink blazing." "Slack packing."

My goal was around 120 miles. The last 90 miles I'd hike solo, without my son.

I'd rest for a day in Damascus, finding a place to stay overnight. I'd take a "0 day," which meant I'd hike 0 miles.

My feet were killing me as I slowly made my way out of the woods down the wooden stairway toward the paved walkway that paralled the two-lane highway. Son had already descended. He took a snapshot of me hobbling down the stairs.

We'd started at Grayson on Monday afternoon. It was now Thursday afternoon.

I stepped onto the pavement.

"Come one Mom. Dance a jig." My 20-year old son was spry and lively as he sang, "if you're happy and you know it stomp your feet..come on Mom!"

I sneered at him.

"I'm walking to that driveway up there and I am stopping." The driveway was an entrance to a barbeque restaurant.

Son tried to talk me into walking with him to get the car.

"No way. I ain't walking past that driveway. I can barely walk now." My gait was slow, my steps tender and calculated.

He chuckled.

My son had been my hero the past few days carrying my pack for me after he'd drop his at the top of a mountain and run back to where I was, seeing as I stayed at least a mile behind him most of the time. He literally lifted me up a couple times; once when I fell backwards in the rain on the trail and landed right smack on my butt and like a turtle with a shell on my back, I couldn't get up. Another time we had to climb a ledge and I got stuck sitting on the flat table-top rock ledge; he put his arms under my smelly armpits and hoisted me to my feet.

Once to the driveway some 400 yards away, I unloaded my pack and plopped down on the green, lush grass.

"I'll be back in a few to pick you up." And away hiked my son to fetch his white '99 Toyota Corolla which was parked a mile or so further in a parking lot for backpackers in the small town of Damascus.

I untied my loosely-tied hiking shoes. My feet were swollen enough that I didn't need the shoe laces tight. I pulled off the shoes and then my stinky socks.

The grass felt good on my feet. Fresh. Cool. There isn't much grass on the trail.

I stretched out my body on the green manicured, but not overly so, lawn carpet.

The sun in the clear blue May late afternoon sky bathed my body. I absorbed the rays. There isn't much sun on the trail.

I listened to the sound of cars passing by.
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