I decided, as I did errands in Warrenton, that it was a
perfect day to climb Old Rag. So, buying a chicken sandwhich, and a couple
bottles of water and tea, off I went. Near Old Rag, however, I saw a sign for
“Graves Mountain” and changed course. Or rather, kept going straight instead of
turning. And kept going straight. And straight. And straight. Did Graves
Mountain even exist??? Drove thru several little towns with names like “Criglersville”
that were comprised mostly of closed antique shops and Baptist churches. The
type with bunches of century-old buildings crowded close to the road. For towns
that can’t even boast of a post office, they have a lot to look at. Driving
thru them is distracting, and gives you the feeling that you’re running thru a
stop sign, when in fact the nearest stop sign is 12 miles away. Anyway, there
was finally a small un-official sign for Graves Mountain, assuring its
existence only 2 miles away. I was also reassured by there being a car in front
of me. If that car was going somewhere ahead, then I must not be toooo lost.
Then the car turned, leaving me alone, with a sign that helpfully informed me
that the road was going to dead-end soon. Nothing about Graves Mountain. Naturally,
I kept going. Sure enough, the road ended, and a trail kept going. I parked,
ate the Chic-Fil-A sandwhich (that was actually not a million degrees anymore,
proving just how long I’d been driving), and struck out on foot.
What a lovely, wide, level trail. So much easier than Old
Rag! Perhaps I’d turn back in just an hour or so; I really wasn’t feeling a
long hike. I enjoyed the fall leaves, a boisterous river, and relished all the
images of hobbits, fairies, and elves that the magical woods conjured up. It
was a good day to be alone in a peaceful forest, taking a short, easy little
hike.
Ha.
A couple hours later, I realized that a sign had been
grossly misleading – the trail was not a loop, but had taken me somewhere
completely different. Perhaps to a different mountain range, or galaxy. I found
myself on a gravel fire road which, after an hour or so of walking, brought me
to Hoover Camp. Hoover camp was comprised of lots of ramshackle buildings (one
of the cabin thingies was an old little museum with a voice recording playing
constantly. I could hear the voice from outside the dark little vacant shack.
Totes creepy.)
I back-tracked along the fire road to a curve I had previously
omitted by cutting thru the woods on a little trail. From that curve, another
road jutted, with a sign that said, “Criglersville.” Ah ha! I had come from
there! It was, under some very liberal definitions, *civilization.* Never in my
life had I been, or probably ever will be, so jubilant over seeing the word
“Criglersville”! With a spring in my step, and an almost-dead phone in my
pocket, I bounded towards to promised land of Criglersville.
About 2 hours later, I was still bounding, a little less
enthusiastically, along the same road. I wondered if my car would be towed, if anyone
would come looking for me when I didn’t come home that night, if I would be
able to sleep alone on a dark cold trail. I thought of the last texted words
from a friend: “don’t die on me” and how ironic it’d be if I died. From time to
time I’d turn my phone on. Sometimes it got enough signal to report the time,
but never enough signal to send or deliver messages.
I veered off the road to a trail that looked like the one I
had started on. Trudge, trudge, trudge. Then, crossing the river, I saw the
faint watery print of a boot on one of the stones. A person had been here not
too long ago! I quickened my achy stride. I yelled into the woods, but only
once because for some reason it made me feel scared and vulnerable. On and on I
walked. I knew I was not heading towards my car now, but there was not enough time
to turn back. My only hope was to find some rural house and use their phone. Even
that thought, however, was not the most reassuring. I’d seen the houses on the
way in… they gave you the feeling that knocking on their door would ensue with
getting drunkenly raped and locked in a chicken coop. But there was no house or
sign or person in sight.
Then, a ways off the trail, down by the river, I saw
someone! Oh what a miracle! She was an older woman with a nice camera. Probably
not even a chicken coop rapist, although at this point I hardly cared. She was
a person! Or, quite possibly, an angel. And, miracle of miracles, just a few
paces down an obscured little path by the river, was her truck, in which she
kindly offered to give me a ride. The drive back to where I had parked took 30
minutes. Ok, let me not exaggerate, it took 29. But regardless, that’s how
freaking off-track I was. Of course it would’ve been quicker if the bridge was still
in place, but the great flood of ’95 wiped that out, according to the angel.
And that is how, (PRAISE THE LORD!) I didn’t have to get
hypothermia or drink my own pee or anything like that. Ya gotta love nice easy
quick little strolls thru the woods. ;)
Next time it’d be great if I had a girl buddy. See,
for some reason, my boys (boyfriend & bro) are wonderful but aren’t into *adventure* as I do it. It
might have something to do with my adventures always ending up like the story
above, or like this:
(That's after rollerblading!)
But obviously I just have loads of fun and would love to
have someone to share all these near-death experiences with! So, even if you
don’t really know me very well, if you are excited about getting lost for hours
on end and going to fairylands in distant galaxies via Criglersville on short
notice, then you’re welcome to come along! Hit me up! :)
