Pandemi(c)hristmas
On Christmas morning 2020, during the COVID-19 pandemic, I figured the hiking trails around the Blue Ridge mountains might be pretty quiet for a change. This meant my main squeeze (Jelly, a 50lb hound mix) and I could have the typically busy trails mostly to ourselves, and we did. 🦮🚶♀️
The new Blue Ridge Tunnel Trail, a short, easy, out-and-back hike to an impressive 19th century tunnel through the heart of Afton mountain, was pretty popular since it had recently opened to the public. I decided this was the perfect time to visit, and exactly what I needed to celebrate the holidays safely and solitarily. Plus, the winter walk seemed the right way to process the conclusion of a troubled year: frigid and isolating, like most of 2020 has been, but with flecks of snow and magic. Lately, as clinical trials for COVID-19 vaccines become more promising, there seems to be a lot of talk about the light at the end of the tunnel, which made this particular trail an extra fitting choice for this moment, and I took away a lesson through experience that I intend to carry forward:
Make peace with the walls of the cavern as you pass.
It’s a short walk from one of two trail heads (on either side of the mountain) to the main attraction. The tunnel itself is over 0.8 miles across, which was a historic feat of engineering when it was built in the 1850s to gain access to the Shenandoah Valley through the Blue Ridge. (My personal connections tying Virginia’s valley to the piedmont was not lost on me, my family’s home/my own formative years being spent on the one side of this particular mountain, and my current home and life I’ve built since set just on the other side, but I shan’t belabor that association any further, at least in writing).
Entering the east mouth of the tunnel under a thundering waterfall, I was filled with wonder and curiosity. It was intensely dark. Almost immediately upon entering, the air inside was noticeably stale. As I neared the midpoint (or what I assumed had to be close, by my vague estimation of time that passed) I realized my vision had been so focused on the light at the other end that I hadn’t let my eyes adjust. Even with a flashlight, a headlamp, and a small lantern draped around my neck, I couldn’t see my dog’s leash in my hand, much less the uneven trail under my feet or the long puddles of ankle-deep, partly-frozen water lining the length of the tunnel walls. I felt myself shift from curious to cautious, suddenly very aware of how little control I felt without being able to see anything but two tiny, disorienting specks of light in opposite directions.
I kept walking, anxiously. Why did I think it was a good idea to come here alone? I gripped Jelly’s leash tightly. All I could hear over the echoing rush of the waterfall outside the east opening were occasional heavy drips from the wet earth above hitting the ground around us. The light ahead didn’t seem to be getting any bigger, and when I looked behind us, the distance to the other opening was just as unclear. Dramatic course textures on the walls of the tunnel occasionally caught pieces of the light from my headlamp and created illusions of shadowy figures. Had I actually been walking through the tunnel for 5–10 minutes, or did it just feel like it because it was so cold and dark? My heart raced, and for a moment I actually felt the urge to run, but instead I slowed down. Blindly, I felt the air around my knees to make sure the dog was still attached to the end of the leash—she was. She would know if there was a monster in here with us, right? I called out to get her attention for a moment, and we stopped. I was officially scared. I needed a minute to breathe so I wouldn’t panic, and to come to terms with where we were and what was happening.
I squatted down to pet Jelly and shifted my eyes toward her, or maybe toward the dark walls behind her, I really couldn’t tell. I let my gaze rest in the dark places and focused on what else I could sense directly around me. I listened more closely, and could now hear my own breath over the rushing water and dripping all around, and the jingle of Jelly’s collar as I run my hands through the fur of her neck. Very gradually my eyes began to adapt. Slowly we started to walk again. After a full couple of minutes, I could make out some of the intricate texture of the walls, the rounded arc of gravel path and puddles lining the sides, and even the outline of Jelly bouncing at my side. I felt more in control, and it wasn’t so scary anymore. My spirit pivoted back to feeling the wonder of this new place, finding interest in the way I could sense the density of material on the other side of the tunnel walls changing as sounds I could now hear more clearly reverberated differently every dozen steps or so.
Reaching the far opening, I breathed deeply and appreciated the warmth of sun on my face.
The air felt new. Was it adrenaline? Hiking endorphins? Relief that death-by-Tunnel-Monster was not my story on this Christmas morning? It wasn’t snowing anymore, and the angles of the light seemed different from the other side of the mountain. Even the structure and material of the tunnel walls were different at the West opening side. Jelly seemed to think so too, sniffing the leaves and moss as if it had been far longer than the ~15 minutes since she last encountered them. We hadn’t entered some new biome, we were just short of a mile from where we entered the tunnel, but there were marked differences. After a few more moments strolling in the light I felt ready to return the way we came.
On the way back through, I understood the importance of where to keep my focus, and everything felt lighter. This time I was so comfortable that I actually sang a couple of old, somewhat haunting Appalachian songs as I walked, just to enhance the way sounds reverberated and echoed on the different materials, densities, and depths of the tunnel.
It’s incredible to think how much time and energy I’ve wasted being anxious, trying (and failing) to grip what’s ahead or behind or control things far beyond my reach, whether using meaningful or imaginary measures. I hope next time, rather than attempting to just “get through” a challenge, I’ll remember to slow down, look around and listen more carefully, and, no matter how scared or alone I feel, make peace with the walls of the cavern as I pass.
Here’s to shifting focus from what-ifs to what-is. I’m ever grateful for the ability to learn and adapt and observe.
Happy holidays, all.
