A Night at Grayson Highlands

     I take the last bites of my dinner; a tortilla filled with whatever vegetables were left in my cooler, and finish it off with a coconut cookie. It's simple but satisfying. I'm settled on the tailgate of my car in the backpacker parking lot at Grayson Highlands State Park. As I look around, I see birds returning to their trees for the night, and watch the sunlight soften from the bright rays of noon to the ambient glow of evening. There is a pleasant buzz of energy in the lot this evening as other backpackers mill around, preparing their gear and organizing their groups to set out for the night. I hop down from the tailgate and turn my attention to my own pack. It's time to get ready. 

    I have been looking forward to sleeping on the Appalachian Trail here for a while now. My plan is to hike a mile over the gorgeous balds of Massie Gap to some campsites right outside the boundary of Grayson Highlands. Everyone I've talked to says the sites are wonderful, and based on my foray to Massie Gap earlier today, I know that the area is achingly scenic. I pack a simple bag for the night: tent, sleeping bag and pad, phone, flashlight, and my favorite hoodie. The pack has a pleasant weight as I settle it onto my shoulders. It's like I can feel it grounding me; pushing my feet into the earth below me so I don't drift away into the sky. 

    The trail starts out in a mossy, shaded hemlock grove below the balds. I follow the path over knarled roots and through patches of soft, silty soil that feel cool and comfortable on my feet. The trees are massive and silent, and even the air feels ancient in the damp understory. Bit by bit, the trail slopes upwards to ascend the mountain and the trees thin out. As I emerge from the forest onto the open meadows of Massie Gap, I pass a wild pony grazing in the grass. It looks up at me with liquid eyes, then snorts and returns to its dinner. They see humans every day, so I guess I'm no big news. I follow the trail up to the gap. It's like a saddle of earth in between two pinnacles. Everything is covered with grass and rhododendrons, with the occasional copse of knarled hemlock trees. The peaks on either side of me are crowned with rock outcroppings that jut out of the ground and point to the sky like avant grade jewelry pieces. 

    Up here on the balds, the air is always moving. A breeze wafts from the East and whistles through the rhododendron thickets and grass. It picks pieces of my hair and tugs them across my face. As I walk across the high ridge exposed to the air, my skin feels burnished bright by evening sun and highland wind. There are a few low hanging clouds behind the ridge, and I can feel the air hum with the rumble of distant thunder. I continue down the trail and leave the last few hikers behind. As the noise and color of other people fade away, the quiet presence of the land floats to the front of my mind. 

    I pick a clearing on the side of the meadow for my campsite. The back and sides are sheltered from the wind by earth and trees, and the front opens to thin air and mountain views. It feels good to set my pack down, making my body light like a cloud. I inspect the ground for any rocks that would disturb my sleep, then unroll my tent and start the meditative process of constructing my shelter for the night. It is a routine that I know well. First pole here, second pole there. Bend the poles one at a time and attach them in perfect balance so it doesn't collapse. Every step crystalized into effortless muscle memory after countless repetitions, as if the tent is raising itself into being without my help. 

    Once the tent is set up, with my sleeping bag waiting inside, I sit in the opening and slip off my shoes. The sky in front of me is streaked with red and gold. As the sun reclines, it sends beams of light and shadow shooting across the valley. Behind me clouds still rumble, and every now and then distant lightning lights up the sky. The soft sounds of thunder prick up the hairs on the back of my neck and soothe me at the same time. As though it woke up some ancient human part of me who has been here many times before, who knows what thunder and sunset means, what it is to spend your life outside, where the only choices are to fight the elements or befriend them. This is the part of me, crystalized by centuries of storms, that insists it is always better to befriend the world. You can only fight your home for so long, but at some point you must come to a rest. I am thankful, in this moment, to know that I am friends with the world. It makes it easy to drift off to sleep, with the thunder and mountain breeze keeping me company.