Adventure…it’s been a while.

I have missed writing for Hashtag 59, but like many of you, the pandemic has played havoc with any kind of normalcy. Recently, one very large life event has been an ongoing process over the last several months. It has brought an amazing number of memories bubbling to the surface from my youth all the way to the present day. My father sold “Grandpop’s Mountain,” as my son once called it, and moved to central Ohio to be closer to family. A necessity at this point of his life, but what a rush down the rabbit hole of mini adventures from the last forty years.

As I have written in previous pieces, Grandpop’s Mountain is planted firmly in the ancient folds of the Appalachian Mountains of southern Virginia. It borders on Grayson Highlands State Park on two sides and is one of the most beautiful places on Earth in my humble opinion.

When there was a time to get away, this was the spot. I’m sure we all have places like this in our adventure arsenal. A special place we can visit on a semi-regular basis, and run our toes through the grass. But…the closer the date got on the calendar this year, I found myself getting more and more depressed at the thought of leaving this paradise behind. It was taking a toll. It was hard to screw on a smile and carry on as if nothing was happening behind the scenes. Then I remembered something my boss had mentioned a few months back about mourning a loss.

She was absolutely right.

I had been in mourning for several months. Each day seemed to bring another adventure to the surface. So, what I thought I would do is share little snippets of stories from the last forty years of calling this place one of my homes.

The cold winter nights with just a wood-burning stove. The brick chimney running through the interior of my bedroom and my bed placed right next to the warm exterior. The ancient hardwood floors cold to the touch. Winters were something to be experienced. The multiple feet of snow falling in the mountains. Our Alaskan Malamute running through the icy creek.
Even as a child, I appreciated the beauty and reveled in the snow.

I can remember walking to the top of the ridge line and thinking I was on top of the world. Of course, in my little world, it was. I spent countless hours exploring and playing on the huge rock outcroppings and shimmied in and out of some of the crevasses. I would hike through the new growth deciduous forest finding relics of time gone – bottles, an old sawmill, rolled fencing wire. My own private treasure hunt.

The mountain gave me a place of solace.

When my parent’s marriage was turning toxic, I could escape to the woods, and again, adventure in the forest. Walking along the immense rock walls and the mountain laurels, I would imagine better times. I would hike to the top of the ridge and see the treetops, the clouds dancing across the sky. The mountain was my safety net at the time, a place where I could explore and be a kid.
Forty acres was a lot of safety net.

The rock walls and boulders up and down the mountain were amazing. I would poke around with a stick seeing what I could scare. Huge black rat snakes would sun themselves on the warm summer days. The groundhogs would play and jaunt from pile to pile. The occasional flock of wild turkeys would strut through, scratching the dirt. Even the black bears would travel the mountain. Sometimes attracted by bird-feeders. One was close enough to throw rocks at with my son on my shoulders. He ambled back into the woods, waiting for darkness to fall.

In the escape, I began to love nature and exploration.

I rode a sled through the Christmas trees. I caught crawdads and salamanders in Bakers Branch. I was taught how to fish for trout by a generous woman by the name of Fina Mae. I split cords of firewood over the years. Mowed acres of grass. Moved tons of ancient rock. Helped garden and preserve the harvest. Cleared and burned countless brush piles. There was always something on a list. The List.

I gained an even greater appreciation when I returned from serving in the Peace Corps. It was a safe place where I could decompress and walk through the woods. My thoughts to myself as I adjusted to being back in the all-consuming United States. The mountain put me in a better mental place. I could think. I could walk. I could be. The old barn where we had a couple horses and pigs in my youth. The spring house where water flowed freely out of the mountain spring, clear as glass. The cold cellar filled with canned treats from the harvest of years past. The old shop where my father started his business. The chicken house which ended up being wood storage and a refuge for critters. The grainery where we attached a basketball hoop during my youth. The original log house with huge hand-hewn logs since disassembled and moved to Georgia. The original sugar house a victim of time. All were important characters in the story. All have a special place.

I remember when I first brought my wife – sharing something so special with her. We hiked and walked through the woods. Checking for wildflowers, birds, and other wildlife. The winds above sounding like a freight train at the top of the ridge. She grasped the understanding of my need and want of visiting whenever I could. The mental health aspects of being away were so important.

As I grew older, the trips become less frequent. Career and responsibility made long weekends and perhaps a week possible and nothing more. I watched as my son grew to love the same existing aspects as I once did. Watched him revel in catching a salamander and watch it wriggle out of his small hands. The innocent fear of a crawdad pincher. Running outside to pee off the deck. The fearlessness when climbing the huge boulders at the top of the ridge. The fascination with birds and snakes. Building dams and ponds in the mountain streams. It was all familiar. I was sharing the story and the evolution of adventure. The space became a piece of me and my life. It became the source of so much love for the outdoors. The backdrop of exploration and finding adventure.

A family member as much as a place can be.

Several of us from Wittenberg planned to stay on our way to Florida for Spring break. No one was prepared for the snow in the mountains and the car getting stuck in the driveway attempting to go up the hollow. There was no way to describe such thing without experiencing! Over the years, I was able to share this place with a handful of friends. All of them had the same reaction. The love of the wooded isolation. The solace of the mountain. The quiet relaxation and beauty. Even the many rocks making their way to central Ohio. It was a place to experience and share. Now I’m left to keep the memories alive. In an age where sentimental value in a place seems lacking, I buck the trend. All those mini-adventures I had growing up. All those experiences I was able to share and observe with my friends and family. All of them have the same background canvass. I will treasure every single one of these memories for as long as I can.

The mourning will continue. A smell, a thought, a story will take me back. I’ll smile and maybe even shed a tear, but I will always be grateful for the love of exploration Grandpop’s Mountain instilled. It is a part of me.

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Jason M