For the love of nature

There were two men who influenced my interest in hiking and camping. My granddaddy was an avid naturalist, even though I seldom saw him out of suit and tie. He was always willing to strike out for the mountains to see the mysterious Brown Mountain Lights off the Blue Ridge Parkway or to identify the mitten-shaped leaves of the sassafras tree so we could carve off a stem to chew. With Gammy placidly waiting in the car after a sumptuous picnic, we would hike in pursuit of Jack-in-the-Pulpit, Bloodroot and the many ferns that he lovingly transplanted in our "fern bed" near the sweet shrub bush from which he would bring us fragrant, mahogany flowers for our teachers. Granddaddy imprinted on me with the splendor of Roan Mountain when I was young child, when all the rhodos were in bloom. It was intimate family bliss to grow up next door to Granddaddy and Gammy, who took us on countess adventures and lavished us with attention, legendary home-cooked meals, and unconditional love.
My uncle Neely is my other great inspiration. Neely died far too soon but lived every day of his life with relish. I'll always remember his unhurried, luxurious spinning of stories in his elegant drawl over iced tea or bourbon. Neely loved the AT and his stories of hiking and camping filled me with the desire to experience this unique asset to our region.
Sloan and McKendree and I still laugh at some of our earliest camping adventures full of improvisation adventure and wildlife! Thank goodness for the patient park service and for car camping which enabled a cooler and transported all our Sears equipment. My learning curve for reading topo maps and for respecting the professionally produced ones was hard won. We did get lost a few times. To this day, I'm glad the three of us didn't locate the trailhead for Old Rag Mountain on our first try, since we were not really prepared for a hike with rock climbing as challenging as that legendary Virginia trail. We dreamed of that hike, however pausing on the Skyline Drive and sighting the familiar ragged peak. McKendree was about seven and would point with determination and assurance to Old Rag. Somehow, it was appropriate that Joe would take us on that hike early in our relationship in spite of the chilly February sleet. The accomplishment of that hike was rewarded - as usual - by a feast, this one at Graves Mountain Lodge and a roaring fire.