How Can One Not Say “Thank You”
After months of sheltering-in-place, breathing through masks, and being inundated with Covid deaths sweeping the globe, the mountains called to us. "Oh Shenandoah, I long to see you," echoed in our hearts, giving us no choice but to once more visit her children with names like Bearfence, Hawksbill, Old Rag, and Little Stoney Man.
It was the latter we now hiked. Over the past twenty-five years, our two families had failed to climb Little Stoney Man together only once; that was the first year of the pandemic. Our annual journey together to Shenandoah National Park was as necessary to us as breathing; our time in the Blue Ridge Mountains could not be missed again.
We arrived at the trailhead, milepost 39.1, and began the 1.6 miles to the Little Stoney Man summit. Our six grown children, with spouses, future spouses, and first grandchild carried snugly on her daddy's chest, led the way. Moms and dads followed behind. The first year our two families came together to Shenandoah National Park, there were eight of us; this year there were fifteen. Our families had been melded together over the last two-and-a-half decades by the winds and trails, sunsets and meadows, snow and wildlife and campfires along Skyline Drive, Virginia. These unforgettable moments had forged our two families into one.
As we hiked upwards toward the summit, memories flooded over us. We remembered a black bear, standing on the trail, magnificent and terrifying. The many recollections of deer, skunks, turkeys, snakes, and the rare sighting of a coyote, kept us scanning the woods as we ascended. I saw my son hiking ahead and I smiled as I thought back to backpacking Little Devil Stairs, my son shivering from cold as we settled into our sleeping bags. That night, I held him close.
My memories went further back than the twenty-five years our two families had been hiking these trails together. I pictured my mom and dad hiking the same trail with my brother and I, and how my late parents taught me to love these mountains, to care for them, to find God in the violence of the passing storms, as well as in the quiet early mornings as a mother deer and her fawns fed in the meadow.
We could hear our children ahead, sharing their own memories of rock-climbing Little Stoney Man with harnesses and carabiners and ropes, hiking up Black Rock at night to watch for shooting stars, exploring the meadow, or singing the Unicorn Song and Dunderbeck's Machine with Charlie Maddox in the Big Meadow Lodge taproom.
Personally, I have hiked the Carpathian Mountains in Romania and roamed the Scottish Highlands along Loch Ness, but no where calls to me, feels like home, as Shenandoah National Park. I have been blessed to have my children experience these mountains, and they will be blessed bringing their children. Four generations have driven through the gates at Thornton Gap and driven the thirty miles to Big Meadows, leaving the busyness of the world behind.
We reach the summit overlooking the vast Shenandoah Valley, the landscape dotted with farms, rivers, lakes, and towns. How could anyone stand on the face of Little Stoney Man and not whisper, "Thank You"? We owe these mountains a debt we can never repay.
After spending time at the top of the mountain, we begin our hike downward and back to our campsite. Tonight, we will sit around the campfire, sharing memories and smores. We will fall asleep with grateful hearts for the mountains' calling and the blessings she provides.