Raven Rocks (Appalachian Trail – Northern Virginia)

Tuesday morning started off with low clouds and just a little chill when I woke up. I put the chicken and Cajun sausage stew that I had prepped the night before into the slow-cooker and filled my Camelbak container with water. Then, I went to get breakfast and coffee and head out to Raven Rocks, which was located in Bluemont, Virginia.

I had wanted to do a little segment of the Appalachian Trail since I finished reading A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson. The book outlined the history of the Appalachian Trail, which is relatively recent—within this century. According to the Appalachian Trail Conservancy, a former forester by the name of Benton MacKaye, decided that there needed to be a refuge from work, a “super trail” that went from the highest peak in the North to the highest peak in the South.

Although MacKaye promoted the trail, hikers set about creating the first sections and designing that iconic diamond trail marker. MacKaye, in 1925, formed an organization to concentrate on bridging existing trails to create a single long-distance trail. Nothing happened, though, until three years later, when Myron Avery joined the cause and MacKaye became less active.

Avery was able to get activists and hikers to start blazing and identifying routes while also negotiating with bureaucratic administrations to establish routes. His local clubs started to create maps and guidelines. After all was done, the AT went from Mt. Oglethorpe, GA to Baxter Peak on Mt. Katahdin in Maine.

Unfortunately, things were put on hold during the chaotic years between the Great Depression and World War II. Then, when things started to pick back up in the 1950s, the trail was threatened by highways and private lands, which Avery had tried previously to prevent. The ATC’s chairman at the time, Stanley Murray, went to DC to negotiate for protection.

Now, the ATC spends most of its time protecting the AT and maintaining the trails, which is difficult with the increase in backpackers, day hikers, and thru-hikers threatening the wilderness that the AT travels through.

There is more to the history, such as the animosity between MacKaye and Avery, which you can find in books, on the ATC website, and throughout the internet. This synopsis is just to show what an amazing feat the AT truly is. Without the US government and these men, there would be no AT and no long-distance hiking.

Anyways, I decided to go on a hike from Route 7 in Bluemont, Virginia on the AT. I knew that the hike would be a little more strenuous than my usual day-hikes on Tuesdays, and the weather was dreary, with a lot of fog, but I was excited to get going.

I drove almost an hour and arrived at the trail head parking lot, which was completely empty, around 10:20 in the morning. As soon as I opened my door, the rain started to come down in earnest. My day pack was already getting soaked before I even grabbed my trekking poles from the trunk. No complaint out of me, because this was the third Tuesday that it had rained. I missed hiking and I wasn’t going to let some chilly water ruin my day.

I grabbed my umbrella, hoping to keep my pack from getting completely drenched, and started up the built-in steps to the first ridge.  I held a trekking pole in my other hand to keep from slipping on the mud and leaves that littered the trail. Soon, my car and the trail head disappeared behind a screen of trees and fog as I slowly picked my way down the other side of the slope.

I realized I was in for a treat when the ground became strewn with rocks and boulders. I also discovered why this was considered the tail end of the famous “roller coaster” of the AT. There were three steep-ish climbs along the route. Two of the descents had a stream crossing at the bottom.

Within a half hour, I was gasping for air as I struggled up an incline. Gigantic boulders loomed off the side of the trail, barely visible through the mist. The trees creaked as they swayed in the wind. I lost the trail a few times through the obscuring fog as it switched back and forth, but thankfully the AT is well blazed, so I was quickly able to find the trail.

At the top of the incline, a large boulder sat off the edge of the trail, slick with wet moss, but inviting for me to climb nonetheless. I walked up its smooth slope to the peak and looked over the top. I could barely see through the mist and trees, but I saw parts of the Shenandoah Valley in the distance. A lone domicile with its farm nested between the two short mountains. I could still hear the traffic from Rt. 7 as it echoed down the valley.

I crested the hill and started to descend, and the rocks were starting to become larger. Soon the entire path was covered in rocks, and I had to balance from one to the next without slipping, using my trekking poles to keep myself from falling. It was a little harrowing, with my muddy boots slipping on rocks occasionally. My whole being, mentally and physically, was focused on where to place my next step and the next.

Near the middle of the descent, I noticed a sign that said “1000.” For a moment, I stopped and stared at the sign, my brain not realizing that this was the 1000-mile marker for the Appalachian Trail. I pondered whether this meant elevation for about a minute until I remembered my geography. It was interesting to see the second sign made from a privacy fence post, also saying “1000,” in bright green. I imagined trudging along for days and finally coming to this sign. It must be heart-breaking to walk for so long and only be 1000 miles along, with more than 1000 more to go.

I carefully descended to the bottom, where a few small switchbacks meandered around the valley floor. I was rather thankful for the respite, but then I heard the water. I swore that I chose a part of the trail without a stream crossing, it being a rainy day, but I had already spent a good while on the trail and I wasn’t going to turn back.

The stream crossing wasn’t too difficult because the stream wasn’t large or deep. Large boulders as well as smaller rocks were perfect for hopping across, while my trekking poles dug into the soft mud. I was terrified of falling in. Being soaked in the chilly air would not have been ideal, especially when I was already getting damp from the mist.

The next incline was killer. It was more strenuous than the first, steeper with more boulders and rocks to hop and balance on. I managed to get halfway up when I stopped, leaned on my poles, and gasped for air like a fish out of water. What was I doing to myself? Was this going to be worth it? I always seem to have these questions at the beginning of a hike, when the exertion becomes more than I thought it would be.

I peaked the hill, twisting around and between trees, only to see that there was another descent. I began the descent, more confident in my stride now that I had started to get used to the poles as a balancing device. I took a step on a large, flat boulder that was sloped downwards and sank into the ground with only the top showing. My boot slipped and I went down. It was quick—I hardly knew what happened until I landed on my tailbone. Thankfully, I had placed my larger fleece in my day pack, so it cushioned my back and kept my head from touching the ground. I stood up, yelled a few profane words, rubbed my behind and took the next step. I was suddenly overly cautious of every step that I took, which made the next few meters take longer than they should have.

Around three quarters of the way down, the trail looked as if it ended. I stared over a ledge, where I could see the white blaze below, and wondered how I was going to get down there. I noticed that the rocks of the ledge made a natural staircase, so I started down, getting stuck rounding the corner. I always get twisted up when I go down crevasses and ledges, my brain forgetting that I need to have room to swing my legs downwards. I ended up pushing my poles as hard as I could into the ground as I squatted down and jumped to the next large rock. Fortunately, there was a small tree to grab on to, its bark well polished by thousands of hands from the people who have traversed this trail over the years. I picked my way down without further incident, proud of myself for not panicking and for thinking my way through the problem.

There is water under here...somewhere...
The trail was gradually downhill at this point, until I could hear more water bubbling from somewhere. I looked ahead and saw what looked like a river of rocks and boulders. I couldn’t see the water, but I could hear it. I carefully picked my way across, making funny noises as I bounced from one stony surface to the next for entertainment and calming purposes.

On the other side, I realized that I was going up again. No wonder they called this the “roller coaster.” Truthfully, all I wanted to do was sit down and take a break. I looked at my topographic map, making sure that I hadn’t accidentally missed Raven Rocks, which I hadn’t, and kept moving. This was the longest of the inclines. At one point it leveled out, dipped a little, and then headed back up again. Finally, I was staring up at the steepest part of the entire trail.

I started to climb up, bracing myself with my poles to help my poor knees, which had started to ache a little. Maybe I had picked a trail that was too challenging for me, but I was determined to go up. The rocks made natural steps in most areas, so I was able to simply walk on top of them. In a few places, I played a little game of the-ground-is-lava for a little entertainment as I continued to gasp for breath. Several times, I stopped and leaned into my poles to catch my breath. It’s rather difficult to breathe in the cold air, especially with asthma, so I had to be careful.

I was at mile two by now, only making a mile every 49 minutes or so. I was beginning to wane as I burned more calories. Finally, I found the West Virginia-Virginia border, marked with a small wooden sign off the side of the trail. A sudden flow of energy flooded me as I realized that I was going to walk across the border to another state. How awesome! Like a little kid, I bounced back and forth over the imaginary line, joyfully singing “I’m in West Virginia, now in Virginia, now in West Virginia” for a few times and took pictures to send to my mom, who worried about me while at work.

After a few minutes of playing, I decided it was time to trudge onwards. The trail up ahead, still on an incline, was surrounded by a small tunnel of bramble. The vines were still green, with a few leaves still on them, but mostly just composed of thorns waiting to scratch the unobservant.

Suddenly, the whole trail opened up and I was there! Two and a quarter miles from the trail-head, almost two hours later, I reached Raven Rocks. The lookout was made of several rock formations that sat on top of a ridge. The wind gusted here, making the few squat pines on the edge squeak as their branches rubbed against one another. I looked out from the lookout, but all I could see were the clouds and fog below me, with a few glimpses of barren treetops as the clouds shifted.

I sat on one of the rock formations where someone had a fire at one point, unpacked my lunch of crackers, hard salami, and cheese, and stared into the mist. The rocks were damp and I shivered as the wind gusted, but I found peace in the moment. I wanted to stay there forever, but I knew that I had to return back before the sun set. I lingered for a moment more, watching as the fog started to gain elevation and started to cover some of the surrounding trail back. Guess it was time to return.

I started my return trip, heading southbound on the Appalachian Trail and back to my car. After warming up again in the first thirty minutes or so, my mind went into a trance-like state. I couldn’t feel the burn in my glutes and quads as I hiked along. My brain didn’t need me to focus on each step.

I walked back across both stream crossings, cursed at the rock that made me fall, and climbed the ledge without incident. I was on auto-pilot until I realized that Bing Crosby’s Mele Kalikimaka (Hawaiian Christmas Song) was stuck in my head. I tried to force it out, but nothing would do so and I gave up, listened to the white noise of the wind, and allowed the quiet meditative state to come back.

At first glance, I imagined it had snowed.

Surprisingly, the last ascent was the hardest on the return trip. It wasn’t because it was overly steep, but it seemed so long after all the work I had already done. The trail switched back and forth, with rocks that were ready to trip my tired legs. Halfway up, I found a nice boulder on the side of the trail that I could sit on and just rest for a moment. I took the time to drink water and check in with C and my mom. I listened to the wind rustling in the trees overhead and the soft sounds of the few birds still lurking around. I watched as the sun lowered below some of the mist that was heading my way. Finally, I stood up and made it to the end of the trail, where the mist was so thick that I could barely make out my car below.

To be honest, I thought that this was not as challenging as the Billy Goat Trail A and the Little Devils Stair that I had previously hiked, but it was exhausting work. The pay off was amazing and well worth the effort. It would be one of those great spots to have a picnic during the warmer months or read a book away from the world. I was so happy that I had hiked the trail that I couldn’t wait to do it again with C in tow, which is exactly what I did on Sunday, a mere five days later.

On top of Raven Rock on Sunday! Beautiful! 

The second trip was better—no slick rocks and a fun hiking partner. There were more people and dogs on the trail, but we managed to snag the Raven Rocks alone for our picnic of grown-up lunchables (crackers, cheese, and salami) and a piece of dark chocolate. We walked about half a mile longer, trying to find the Blackburn trail cabin owned by the Potomac Appalachian Trail Conservancy (PATC), but turned around when we realized the time and incline.

So far, this is one of those places that I could return to over and over again. I’m so glad I got my 20 seconds of confidence and just did it, rain and all. One of these days, I’m going to try to backpack from Rt. 7 to Harper’s Ferry, spending the night at either Blackburn Trail Cabin or the shelter a mile or so beyond.

Until next time!