Three score and seventeen years ago, the forefathers of a bunch of modern-day D.C.-area hikers brought forth on this continent a new hiking club, conceived in wilderness and dedicated to the proposition that all bipedal travelers are created equal. And they called their new club the Wanderbirds--of the hikers, by the hikers, and for the hikers. Pardon the play-on words, as they are meant only in good taste, as we presently commemorate the sesquicentennial of the first shots fired at Fort Sumter in April 1861.
The birth of the Wanderbirds in 1934 seems an interesting sparkle of adventuresome forwardness in a time of darker clouds. The nation was still in the throes of the Great Depression, with many still wandering among the detritus of Wall Street's collapse. Some terrible things happened in 1934, though none so horrific as the Civil War to which President Lincoln tendered his most eloqent speech at Gettysburg in 1863 (which I have ungraciously borrowed from above).
In 1934 Boston's Fenway Park caught fire. Babe Ruth took a pay cut--just before hitting his 700th home run. Dust swirled over the plains. John Dillinger and Bonnie and Clyde were all on the lam. Hitler and Mussolini shared cigars in Vienna.
But there was much to celebrate as well. Shirley Temple appeared in her first movie. Donald Duck debuted. Duke Ellington was number one on the charts. And the Wanderbirds commenced wandering.
They are still at it today, though most of the members are now over 115 years old.
Just kidding, of course. When I joined the group for a hike this past Sunday, the age classes spanned a several decades, meaning there were young and old alike, and more than a handful of middle-agers, to which I may aspire some years from now. I'm still enjoying my post-middle youth, thank you very much.
Our destination: Austin and Furnace Mountains, Shenandoah National Park. As for transport, the Wanderbirds settled some time ago on the ultimate carpool: they charter a bus. They pick up their fellow trodsters at several pre-arranged locations, the first of which is at 17th and K Street downtown. I arrived just in the nick of time.
The longish ride, over the river and through the woods, was somewhat out of the ordinary for this group, but when you gotta see new country, you put up with the added miles. In two hours-plus, we arrived at the trailhead, tipped our hats to the driver, and the 33 of us headed up the old fire road. Yes, that is a large group, but we quickly split up into three subgroups and some stragglers, so it never seemed overly humanized once we were up the trail a yard or two. It helped too that everyone was equally jazzified to be on the trail again.
After a quick gender-sorting to accommodate those who needed to take care of some "business" near or behind a bush, we eyed the junction that would take us steeply up through oak forest and extensive fields of talus. It was crunchy-good, clackety-clack fun in the rocks as we climbed hundreds of feet to fine views of these ancient mountains in all directions.
The sub-parties sorted themselves pacelike, as we spread across the terrain beyond earshot from one another and I was able to enjoy the sweet sounds of the wind in the trees and the tronk-tronk-tronk of my own two boots. As we topped the ridge near the summit of Austin Mountain, the breeze became more of a fierce blow, but it cooled the watery sweat toward the middle of an 80-degree day.
Lunch was in order at a junction near the high point of the hike. According to Herb's GPS/altimeter, our detachment had gained a total of 1,700 feet. 'Keep an eye out for ticks,' someone said.
I recalled my buddy Glen from Lopez Island and the story of his solo epic trek on the Applachain Trail--the entire 2,180 miles of it--about ten years ago (help me Glen, when the heck was it?). Part way through his pleasingly lonely expedition, he took ill, but more importantly, got a quick diagnosis. It was tick-borne Lyme disease. Potentially dangerous, he and the doc caught it soon enough that the treatment was effective and Glen was back on the A.T. within a couple of weeks.
After lunch, Herb and I motored ahead, aiming straight for the Appalachian Trail, more affectionately called the A.T. I informed him that I had never set foot on the A.T. before, so this was an historic moment for me. He lifted his camera and captured the scene for posterity. In truth, I did step across the trail a couple of times in 1996 while traipsing around the East during a road trip. But I'd never actually hiked the trail. Herb bounded down the A.T. in a quest for more flower shots (photo above).
I looked around for a moment for Glen's boot tracks (I'm sure they were there somewhere), then began my proud stroll down a near half-mile of the A.T., at which point our circuit hike hung a right onto the fire road that would lead us back to the beginning. It was a short half-mile of Appalachian wonderment, but it was glorious while it lasted. Well, no it wasn't that, but at least I'll remember it till I get out there the next time.
The groups re-merged at the bus, where we drowned ouselves in cold bottled beer (since we had a designated driver). An array of munchies filled the baggage compartment in the belly of the bus, from chips, veggies and hummus to chocolate covered strawberries. It helped me relieve my only regret of the day--that I was relegated to the "moderate hikers" circuit, which meant no chance to ascend Furnace Mountain for a view back across to Austin. That longer loop was reserved for the more ambitious among us.
Those who know me can imagine I would stamp my feet and scream bloody turnips for being barred from the longer, more ambitious hike. I have led more ambitious hikes, doggonit, than there are hairs on a possum. Many can attest, I'm sure, that I was always careful to forget the flashlight and drag everybody out in the dark.
But no regrets. The Wanderbirds have experienced some harrowing incidents with newbies who are otherwise welcome to come along as a guests. You pay the same bus fare as everyone else and you're expected to have at least the level of experience to safely complete the hike at hand. But if nobody knows you, how does anyone but you know you're experienced? Or in shape? One newbie overdid it and died right there on the trail not too long ago. Others have gotten lost or tired and slowed the rest of the party down by hours.
By asking newcomers to stick to a "moderately difficult" hike their first time out, the club gets a chance to stare at your rubber knees and hiker juju to see if you're about to expire or not. Once you've proven your mettle, well, then the sky's the limit. So I zipped my mild frustration shut out of support for a simple system that functionally helps to weed the men from the boys, the ladies from the lame, or something like that. My tiny sacrifice may save someone who might otherwise wail bloody turnips because they want to go long and far, only to fall over convulsing just around the next bend. Bad image, sorry.
In any event, I decided (as if I had a choice) to go ahead and play by the rules, maybe even save somebody, and enjoy a great spring day in the Shenandoah. Furnace Mountain will surely be there for awhile. And now that I am approved, tatooed and certified to go on any hike I want with the Wanderbirds, I'll certainly be looking forward to the next.
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