By the end of November 2004, I had completed over half of my thruhike when I arrived at the north end of Shenandoah National Park in Virginia. The trail snakes back and forth across the main mountain road through the park, Skyline Drive. Skyline and all park services had closed due to snow, so the park was deserted. The only way into the park was on foot. I knew of one thru-hiker about two weeks ahead of me, but I had seen only weekend Boy Scout troops on the trail for about two weeks. My Dad called the park office to let them know I was there.
The high that week was 10°F (-12°C). Nighttime temperatures dropped to -5°F. Bagels, pepperoni, cheese, and Snickers bars all freezer-burned in my backpack with coatings of ice crystals. I did jumping jacks to warm up in the middle of the night, and I had two hiking outfits: lighter clothes for when the trail traveled along the side of the ridge that hugged the eastern mountains and heavy clothing for the bracing wind that hit on the valley side of the ridge.
On my next-to-last day in the park, Dec. 4th, I had hiked about 15 miles. It was sunny, and the temp finally climbed out of the single digits, so I stopped to check my messages on the hard-plastic clamshell cellphone my parents had given me just a few weeks before. A message from my parents said that my grandfather had an accident, and my family were all rushing to Charleston, SC, to visit him in the hospital. Then the batteries died. I decided to hike out that night using Skyline Drive. Getting out would require a 40-mile day. My longest day to that point had been 27 miles, but I figured I could always tarp by the side of the road if I ran out of steam. At least I would be set up to hike out by mid-morning the next day.
The sun had set by 6 or maybe even earlier. In the dark, a headlight easily spots the eyes of deer and other animals along the edge of the roadside. There are way more than you might think in these unpopulated areas, and it has always spooked me. So I stopped hiking around 8 and pitched my tarp. If I had been thinking about bad weather, I might have been more careful. But I pitched my tarp over the roadside ditch. It felt quite cozy. I read for two hours because staying up late helped me to sleep longer. Around 9, it started snowing. When I put away my book around 10, I slapped the top of my tarp. It was sagging from the snow, and snow slid to the bottom of the tarp.
It didn’t take me long to realize the tarp was caving in from the weight of the snow. I could repitch the tarp outside of the ditch, or I could pack up and hike 1.5 miles to the next AT shelter. I decided the shelter was the better decision, so I packed up and started walking. The snow made the night warmer than it had been in over a week, so I just wore a long-sleeve windshirt. I should have worn my rain jacket. The snow and my body heat soon damped out my clothing, and I was wet. I wasn’t cold, but I knew this was a mistake. Some time before I reached the shelter, a park ranger pulled up in a jeep on a bluff above the trail. Later I would learn that they were looking specifically for me. I’m not sure how far away the ranger was, but I could not yell loud enough to get their attention. The falling snow muffled my voice, and the sound quickly fell flat against the night.
When I reached the shelter, I worked quickly. It was my habit to hang my tarp in an L-shape and create a partition that would be easier to warm. I lined my wet clothes along my body on the inside of my sleeping bag so that heat from my body would dry them out. This time it didn’t work. I was too cold, and my clothes were too wet. I started shivering. I’m not sure how long I resisted the shivering, but eventually I threw the wet clothes out of my sleeping bag. I went to sleep. I have two sets of memories for the rest of that night. In one I slept through the night. In the other, I woke up shivering and did jumping jacks. I have no idea which memory is true.
The next morning I woke up to sunlight. The shelter was surrounded by deep snow. My shirt, windshirt, and fleece leggings were all frozen, so I threw on light leggings and my rain jacket with no undershirt. I think the temperature was around 14°F (-10°C). I set off with about 14 miles to hike, and I was in good spirits. Very quickly, the sky clouded over again. The temperature warmed, but it started to sleet.
The sleet froze on top of the deep snow. It created a sharp, icy crust that bit into my shins. My legs tired quickly from creating post holes in the snow. The sleet cooled my body, and I couldn’t hike fast enough to keep up my body temperature. I don’t remember how long I hiked for, and I don’t know how long I was delirious. It was hours, I think. I do remember looking at the trees and thinking how nice it would be to sit under them for a nap. This desire was intense. Another part of me still knew the importance of hiking. I picked landmarks ahead of me, and I counted the steps out loud that it took to reach them. I cried, and my tears froze to my cheeks.
At some point I stumbled out of the woods that lined Skyline Drive. The wind whipped fiercely through Rockfish Gap as I crossed the bridge over Interstate 64. There was an abandoned filling station with a payphone on the other side of the bridge, and the phone had a dial tone. I made a collect call to Dad, and he answered. Dad asked if I was at a payphone at Rockfish Gap, and he asked me to look around the corner and up the hill. There was a building. Dad said it was a hotel, and he had already paid for a room. Dad told me my grandfather had passed away during the night, and I cried as I told Dad I had expected as much. I was in the hotel room for only an hour or two, but the hot water in the room was broken. I was warm, but I could not shower. Dad had me on an airplane from Charlottesville, VA, to Charleston, SC, later that evening, and I arrived at my grandfather’s visitation having not showered in over a week.
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