195: THE BUZZARDS WERE CIRCLING DURING THE HIKE FROM HELL

My photographer’s alarm went off at 6:00am on Wednesday May 11, 2022, but I’m not totally sure why he had it set in the first place. After a full plate of Presidential and historic sites the previous day, Tom had scheduled that Wednesday morning to be a much more laid back and relaxing day, and that was okay with me. As a beat-up and worse-for-wear bobble head, whose aching legs often told me it’s all worth it, I welcomed the respite that morning. I knew the three of us needed to recharge our batteries; after all, it was the calm before the storm.

Every time Tom opened his mouth, I heard him tell Bob he figured Thursday’s four-mile hike would be a short walk in the park. As a matter of fact, Tom laughed and said he hoped we’d cross paths with a “large, hairy Squatch”. That was a bit tough to swallow, even for me. However, I was afraid we’d have an encounter with a black bear, and that wouldn’t be good. I also didn’t share my cameraman’s nonchalant approach to the hike, and I hoped someone would nip his arrogance in the bud before it was too late. After the lights went out in the room Tuesday night, I had a reoccurring vision of my photographer and me falling headfirst into a narrow ravine. And even though the gorge wasn’t very deep, I saw Tom slip in and out of consciousness until the time had come. That vision seemed so real; and as hard as I tried, I couldn’t wipe the sorrow from my resin face as the buzzards circled overhead.

I stood next to the room’s TV set that morning while my photographer listened to a rendition of ‘Dominque’ on his cell phone. During the song, I made a secret wish unbeknownst to my friend and loyal travel companion: I had wished May 11th would never end. I just knew in my resin heart that the following day had a chance to be an event that would live in infamy. That horrible premonition from the previous night still filled my resin head; our hike likely wouldn’t have a storybook ending and I wasn’t quite ready for that once upon a time. Tom and I have been together for nine years, and I was scared it was about to end. I’ve heard my photographer say time and again that if the end had to come, he hoped it would be on a Presidential trip or at a historical site. But I wasn’t ready for that; at least not tomorrow. And not in Virginia’s vast Shenandoah National Forest.

It was roughly 11:15am when the three of us finally left Bristol, Virginia behind. I could tell by the way my photographer’s stomach growled he needed to get some protein in his system without much hesitation. And that’s exactly what happened. Minutes after we rolled into downtown Wytheville, Tom carried me into a diner that he and Bob had discovered the previous year – it was called Skeeter’s, and it was the home of the “World Famous” Skeeter-Dog. And the dogs aren’t just world famous, they’ve been sold in Wytheville since 1925, when Calvin Coolidge resided in the White House.

During our 2021 historical tour through Virginia, the three of us had stopped in Wytheville, Virginia for the night. Early the following morning, before anything was open, we ventured into town to see the exterior of the home where First Lady Edith Wilson was born. While we were there, Tom and Bob noticed an intriguing place called ‘Skeeter’s’ next door to the historic home. The pair vowed the next time they were in Wytheville, the two of them would dine on the fine cuisine of Skeeter-Dogs.

When the three of us left Skeeter’s and boarded the Jeep, I was deeply concerned. Five Skeeter-dogs, each topped with a lot of chili sauce and onions, were consumed by my two companions and I knew that meant only one thing – the air quality on the route from Wytheville to Lynchburg would be toxic. However, as it turned out, the only thing noxious during the 130-mile drive along I-81 was the traffic; or as my photographer said over and over – “In all of my years of travelling the United States, I’ve never been around so many semis at one time; and they’ve clogged both lanes of traffic. Not only are some of those drivers horrible at what they do, the morons think they own the entire highway.” As I stood inside the camera case on the back seat, all I could do was laugh to myself; I knew it was another COBS flareup for Tom.

As we neared the final twenty miles to our destination, I heard Tom say something to Mongo about us going to a Thomas Jefferson site near Lynchburg. The first thing that popped into my mind was Poplar Forest, which was Jefferson’s retreat home he built while President. But since I had been there twice in the past three years, I wondered to myself why we were headed back there instead of a place we haven’t visited before. When my photographer pulled into the parking lot at Riverside Park on Lynchburg’s north side, I realized we were, in fact, at a new Presidential site – and it had something to do with a tomato. Wait, what?

In the late 1780s, Thomas Jefferson lived in Paris, France as minister from the new United States of America. While there, he developed an appetite for tomatoes. As a matter of fact, Jefferson sent seeds back to his home, Monticello, where they were first grown in our country. Following his return, Americans were skeptical of the vegetable because they believed it to be poisonous due to its relationship with the toxic nightshade plant family. In 1791, while he was in Lynchburg, Thomas Jefferson shocked the locals by eating a tomato in public in front of the Miller-Claytor House. The folks there couldn’t believe one of America’s Founding Fathers; the man who wrote the Declaration of Independence; was performing a “death defying act” by being the first person to eat a “poisonous” tomato in public in the United States.

Tom carried me from the Jeep to the front of the historic ‘Tomato House’, officially known as the Miller-Claytor House, where I posed for several images. While the two-story home was brand new in 1791, it was originally located a couple of miles south at the corner of Eighth and Church Streets. It was moved to Riverside Park in 1936 to save it from demolition. Not knowing for sure which side of the house was the front, Tom forced me pose on both sides of the historic structure – my photographer knew for certain one of the sides was near where Jefferson took the first public bite of a vine-ripened tomato in America. The only thing I wondered during my time there was whether or not the slimy interior of the tomato dripped down the front of Jefferson’s shirt as he ate it. If our third President was anything like my photographer, there’s no doubt the front of Jefferson’s shirt took the brunt of the tomato’s innards.

Following his travels to Europe, Thomas Jefferson introduced four popular foods to Americans – ice cream, French fries, macaroni and cheese, and tomatoes. Why doesn’t my photographer take me to the place where Jefferson ate the first bowl of ice cream in the United States?

After we finished walking the property where the Miller-Claytor House now stood, Tom and Bob wanted to visit the site where the historic home originally stood – which was the corner of Eighth and Church Streets. However, when we got to that intersection five minutes after we left Riverside Park, my companions realized there was no way to tell for sure where the ‘Tomato House’ once stood. There was a parking structure on one corner and buildings on the other three, but there was no historical marker anywhere to be found – and that was disappointing. Thomas Jefferson made history on that corner and the city of Lynchburg doesn’t recognize it.

We had about an hour to kill before we arrived at our day’s next site, and throughout the 42-mile drive north to Lexington, Virginia, one thought kept popping into my hallow resin skull: “I sure hope Tom didn’t take us too far out of the way to see that last Presidential site. Jefferson is my favorite President but give me a break. The house where he ate the first tomato in public? What’s next? The site where he took his first leak in the woods?”

It was roughly 5:15pm when we rolled into downtown Lexington, Virginia. Once Tom found a parking spot, he and Bob walked to our targeted destination where all I saw was the brick walls of a two-story house in front of me. It was nothing fancy, just an old, brick house. I was confused, I thought I had overheard my photographer tell Bob something about a historic home with stone walls. Well, as it turned out, the brick building that stood tall on East Washington Street in Lexington was the residence of Confederate General Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson from late 1858 to 1861.

The Stonewall Jackson House was built in 1801 and was the only home Major Thomas Jackson owned during his time in Lexington. While he served as a professor at the nearby Virginia Military Institute, Jackson purchased the home on November 4, 1858 for $3,000. Major Jackson lived in the home with his second wife, Mary Anna Morrison Jackson, until the outbreak of the Civil War in 1861. When Jackson left his wife and home behind and headed into the history books as Confederate General Stonewall Jackson, he never returned to Lexington alive.

Since the three of us arrived in Lexington after 5pm, which was when the home and adjacent museum closed for the day, we were forced to see the historic home and grounds from the exterior of the property. Had Jackson been a President, I would’ve been upset by our tardiness. But because he was a Confederate general, in other words, a rebel to our nation, it was just fine with me that we didn’t go inside. I love our country’s history, and the Civil War was part of that, but I will never honor those who fought to destroy our Union.

When we returned to our Jeep after our visit to the Stonewall Jackson home had concluded, I thought we were finished for the day. But once again I was mistaken. Located four or five blocks south of the Jackson home was where the Confederate General was laid to rest in Oak Grove Cemetery and my companions wanted to see the gravesite. At first, I wasn’t overly excited about visiting the grave of a Confederate general, but when I learned that Jackson and I had something in common, I was “all in”. The gates to Oak Grove were open and Tom carried me along a pathway towards a large statue situated near the center of the burial ground. That large bronze statue, which stood upon a granite monument and was surrounded by a wrought-iron fence, was the gravesite of General Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson.

One important piece of historical fact I didn’t realize was Union forces did not kill General Jackson. Instead, he was mistakenly shot by sentries from his own unit. On May 2, 1863, Jackson and two members of his staff were returning to camp after a reconnaissance mission during the Battle of Chancellorsville. It was dark and the fighting had stopped for the day, but the Confederate sentries thought it was a “Damned Yankee trick” when Jackson’s small group arrived, and they opened fire. General Jackson was shot twice in the left arm and once in his right hand – his two staff members were killed. After the General’s left arm was amputated, Jackson was in recovery at a plantation office building in Guinea Station, Virginia when he died from pneumonia on May 10, 1863 at the age of 39.

As I stood and posed near the gravesite of Stonewall Jackson, several thoughts popped into my noggin. First, Jackson died exactly 159 years and one day before our visit. Second, the General had lost his left arm, which was buried in Locust Grove, Virginia – some 115 miles to the east of Lexington. In 2020, I had lost my right arm, but thankfully it was reattached with Gorilla Glue. And lastly, there were a dozen or so lemons that had been placed on Jackson’s gravesite. But why lemons? It turned out that author Henry Kyd Douglas wrote in his book ‘I Rode With Stonewall‘ that the General liked to suck on lemons while in battle, but that was likely pure fiction. In reality, Jackson loved to eat all fresh fruits, especially peaches. Thankfully we didn’t see or smell peaches rotting in the late day’s sun at Oak Grove Cemetery – that would’ve been “the pits”.

The Jeep’s dashboard digital clock read 6:00pm when we left Oak Grove Cemetery and Lexington, Virginia in the rear-view mirror. Just outside of the cemetery’s gates, Bob had secured reservations at the Comfort Inn in Staunton, Virginia – which was roughly 37 miles to the northeast. It had been exactly three years and a day since my first visit to Staunton and the birthplace of President Woodrow Wilson, but since it was late in the day, I figured there was no way I’d see that birth house again.

The 37-mile drive went quickly; by 6:40pm we had arrived at the hotel and my companions had their gear lugged into the room. After Tom placed me alongside the TV set in the room, he and Bob headed to the nearby Walmart for dinner. When they returned a short while later, I watched as Mongo heated up his microwavable burritos while Tom dined on the fine cuisine of two Hungry-Man frozen turkey dinners and some watermelon chunks. After dinner, I saw my two travel mates as they got comfortable in their beds – in my mind, they were out for the night. But at roughly 8:45pm, the pair got up, Tom grabbed me off the TV stand, and the three of us were headed for the birthplace of our 28th President Woodrow Wilson. For some reason, the pair of die-hard Presidential enthusiasts wanted to see the historic home at night. And quite frankly, so did I.

On May 10, 2019, the three of us took an extensive and private guided tour of Wilson’s birthplace with curator Andrew Phillips. Thanks to Phillips, I had full access to stand on just about anything in the house that my photographer had requested. At one point, Phillips even placed me on the back seat of Wilson’s personal 1919 Pierce-Arrow limousine where the President always sat. But on that Wednesday evening, shortly after the sky grew black, the birthplace Manse was eerily quiet. Floodlights illuminated the front and back of the home, which made the place look awesome against the darkened sky. As I posed for a handful of images near the exterior of the historic Manse, I had hoped Andrew Phillips would drive past the site and recognize me. Maybe he would even open the place up for a private nighttime tour; but unfortunately, that wish was left unfulfilled.

Forty-five minutes after we had arrived at Woodrow Wilson’s birthplace, the three of us returned to the hotel. After my photographer placed me back in my usual spot next to the TV set, the lights in the room were extinguished and my companions fell fast asleep. While I tried to think about all the historic sites I had visited that day, it was difficult for me to focus on anything but Hoover’s Rapidan Camp and our upcoming hike the following morning. I know in Tom’s mind, he still thinks of himself as an athletic 25-year-old who has no limitations. In reality, he’s an overweight 65-year-old with bad knees who has difficulty walking to the bathroom without moaning about his achy joints and fallen arches. I think it’s a mistake for him to attempt the hike, but he won’t listen to me. And if tomorrow is hotter than hell, that just might be the KISS of death.

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Tom’s alarm rang at 6:00am on Thursday May 12, 2022 and it didn’t take long for him and Bob to get ready and have the Jeep packed for their 56-mile drive to the only scheduled stop of the day – President Hoover’s Rapidan Camp. But before we left the Comfort Inn, Tom had several more tasks to complete – he applied gobs of CBD cream and Biofreeze onto both of his knees; then he washed-down four Advil pills for good measure. In anticipation of the hike, my photographer also had a pair of hiking boots stowed away behind the driver’s seat. He had also brought a backpack to comfortably carry his camera, two umbrellas, a bag of animal crackers, a bottle of water, and me during the hike.

By 9:20am, we had completed the journey to the Harry F. Byrd Visitor Center, which was located along Skyline Drive in Virginia’s Shenandoah National Park. Inside the center, Tom and Bob talked with a couple of NPS Rangers who mentioned the trail to Rapidan Camp was “moderate to challenging in some places”, but it was only an 800-foot change in elevation that was spread over two miles. Even though the rangers could see my rotund photographer was obviously not an avid hiker, especially in the mountains, they made no attempt to warn him of the difficult terrain we were about to encounter. Instead, the three of us got back in the Jeep and enjoyed the scenic one-mile journey to the parking lot adjacent to the Mill Prong trailhead where our hike began at precisely 9:48am. The temperature was a cool 56 degrees, and the sky was very overcast. Even though meteorologists had predicted only a small chance of rain showers in the area, the low-hanging clouds in the mountains gave us the feeling it could rain at any time.

Roughly twenty minutes into the hike, I heard Tom say to Bob: “Oh no, I forgot to put on my hiking boots; they’re still back in the Jeep. It’s too late now, I’m not walking back to get them.” In my mind, I questioned his decision because I felt the boots might give him added stability on the unstable terrain; but my photographer didn’t ask for my opinion. While the initial quarter mile of the trail was fairly smooth and slightly downhill, the next stretch became increasingly more difficult to navigate. From an opening in the backpack, I could see our path had become an obstacle course filled with hundreds of uneven rocks, tree roots, and at times, wet mud. Then, out of nowhere, another obstacle hindered our “walk in the park” – a mountain stream without a bridge. As my unagile photographer methodically used strategically placed rocks to cross the stream, I heard him shout out to Bob, who had already crossed the 20-foot-wide shallow waterway: “Why couldn’t the National Park Service install a bridge over this stream? I can’t believe we’re forced to play hopscotch on a bunch of rocks to get across. Can this hike get much worse?” While I remained comfortable inside his backpack, all I could do was shake my head in dismay: “Quit your belly-aching, city boy. That stream could’ve been a whole lot harder to cross than it was.”

And wouldn’t you know it, I was right. About a half-hour of tiptoeing along the rock-infested, downhill primitive route the NPS had deemed a “trail”, the three of us once again were faced with another bridgeless stream to cross. Unlike the first stream, however, the second shallow waterway seemed wider and there weren’t many large, flat rocks for my companions to step on. After Bob had safely made it across, Tom found another ‘tree branch walking stick’ and he strategically plotted his path over the water. I thought for sure he would roll an ankle on one of the rounded steppingstones and the two of us would get soaked, but thankfully we made it past the second major hurdle unscathed.

According to the map we had picked up at the Visitor Center, that second stream marked the half-way point to Rapidan Camp. But unfortunately for my two companions, the trail had grown more difficult to follow during the second half. And to make matters worse, there was a third and final stream to cross near Big Rock Falls.

When we arrived at the small mountain waterfalls, my photographer took me out of the backpack and had me pose for a photo with the scenic falls in the background. As I looked toward the camera, I noticed something in the distance that Tom hadn’t seen yet. It was the so-called “bridge” that he and Bob would be forced to use if they wanted to continue onward to the Presidential camp. It appeared the NPS had shaved one side of a forty-foot log and placed it over the stream for hikers to use as a bridge. But when Tom and I saw Bob gracefully maneuver over the rock-infested rapids, that so-called “bridge” looked extremely narrow and very unstable. While I stood safely inside the backpack, I knew my photographer was unsure about his ability to traverse the waterway. “I’m not sure I can walk over that log – it looks like a damned gymnastic balance beam and I’m not Simone Biles.” However, with his friend’s encouragement and friendly reminders that we were almost to the Presidential site, Tom side-stepped his way over the stream without falling; although it took him over five minutes to make the fairly short trip.

Safely on the other side of the last stream, the three of us plugged along the trail that had become more hazardous with every step my companions took. However, once Tom and Bob had navigated along a treacherous, slippery downhill grade paved only with hundreds of uneven rocks and other trip hazards, we arrived at a crossroads. I heard my photographer tell his friend: “This reminds me of a scene in the movie ‘The Wizard of Oz’ when Dorothy and her three friends emerged from the forest and they saw the Emerald City in the distance.” And he was right. Just as the “NPS minefield” had turned into a smoother horse trail, we could see the rooftop of a building through the trees in the distance. We had made it to our “Emerald City” called Rapidan Camp. And the best news of all, at least in the mind of my photographer, he saw a vehicle parked near the first building. As a matter of fact, I heard Tom tell Mongo that he would ask a ranger for a ride back to our Jeep instead of attempting to make the hazardous return trip on foot.

My companion’s jubilation was short-lived, however. As we approached the first building along the horse trail, which was called ‘Creel Cabin’, a slight drizzle fell from the overcast sky. By the time the three of us had made our way to the porch of President Hoover’s “Brown House”, the showers had turned into a steady downpour that pelted their umbrellas. I was dry and relaxed inside the backpack, but my exhausted companions were beginning to get wet – their small umbrellas were barely effective.

Just after my two friends had found refuge beneath a small overhang on the porch, a NPS Ranger, who I thought identified himself as “Gary”, suddenly appeared out of nowhere. “Gary” retreated inside the Brown House, then returned with a couple of large sheets of plastic for my companions to use. As the four of us tried to stay somewhat dry, “Gary” talked about Hoover’s Rapidan Camp and then answered questions. The first thing out of my photographer’s mouth was: “I’m 65-years-old; I’m fat; I have bad knees; and I barely made the downhill hike to this place. I’m not a hiker and have no interest in hiking. I’m here because this is a Presidential site and that’s what I do – I visit Presidential sites all around the country. Had I known beforehand what the trail was like, I may not have attempted the hike in the first place. However, I noticed a vehicle near one of the buildings and I’m asking for a favor – when we’re finished with our photographs, can we get a ride back to the trail head where our vehicle is parked? I honestly don’t think I can make it back on foot; the trail will be entirely uphill and very slick from the rain. There’s a good chance that I’ll fall during the hike or even die from exhaustion. Please, can we get a ride back?”

The ranger, who seemed very caring about our well-being at first, changed his demeanor after Tom’s plead for help. He replied: “I don’t think that will be possible because that’s against our regulations. I’ll have to go inside and ask my supervisor, but I’m sure she’ll say no. If we did that for one, we’d have to do it for everyone; and that’s just not possible right now.” When “Gary” went inside, Tom and Bob looked at each other and said in unison: “Have to do it for everyone? We’re the only ones here, for crying out loud.” And wouldn’t you know it, we never saw “Gary” again. Bob was furious and he told my photographer: “That’s typical of another poorly-run government organization. You asked for help, you needed help, and he simply didn’t give a damn. I’m so mad right now I could beat that guy’s ass without giving it a second thought. At least if the authorities came out here to arrest us, we’d get a ride back to civilization!”

Moments after the ranger disappeared, the rain stopped and the three of us went to work photographing and exploring President Hoover’s Rapidan Camp. And what a camp it was – at least from what we saw from the outside. In November 1928, shortly after he was elected as our 31st President, Herbert Hoover decided he needed a secluded place to escape the pressures and spotlight of Washington; yet be close enough to our nation’s capital that would make it possible for him and his wife to visit often. Shortly before his inauguration in March 1929, Herbert and Lou Henry Hoover purchased 164 acres out of their own pockets and established their camp near the headwaters of the Rapidan River at the confluence of the Mill Prong and Laurel Prong streams. When the project was finished by the Marine Corps as a training exercise, thirteen buildings were constructed, and miles of trails were established. President Hoover dubbed his new digs ‘Rapidan Camp’ and he envisioned it as a Presidential retreat for all future Chief Executives. The main cabin where the President and First Lady resided was named the “Brown House” because it wasn’t quite as famous nor luxurious as their other home, the White House.

During the four years Hoover was in office, he had invited numerous guests and dignitaries to Rapidan Camp where they could relax, or discuss world affairs, or fish for trout in the nearby streams. Some of Hoover’s guests included inventor Thomas Edison and his wife; aviator Charles Lindbergh and his wife Anne Morrow Lindbergh; Governor Theodore Roosevelt, Jr.; businessman Edsel Ford; British Prime Minister Ramsay MacDonald; and future British P.M. Winston Churchill. However, when Hoover was defeated by FDR in the 1932 Presidential election, he donated his Rapidan Camp to the government so it could be used by all future Presidents. But due to the rugged terrain that surrounded Hoover’s camp, Franklin D. Roosevelt made only one trip there in 1933 before he established another Presidential retreat in Maryland – now known as Camp David.

Our visit at Rapidan Camp lasted roughly 90 minutes – Tom and Bob wanted to get their “money’s worth” after the amount of effort it took them to get there. Then, at one point when Tom was photographing me on the outdoor fireplace, two female rangers emerged from the Brown House. They had finished working inside as the prepared the cabin for the upcoming tourist season which began on Memorial Day. One of them, which I had assumed was “Gary’s” boss, engaged in a discussion with Tom about some of the Hoover sites we had visited in the past. When my photographer mentioned that he didn’t think he could make the hike back to the vehicle because of the steep uphill climb along a slippery rock-infested trail, she offered no compassion whatsoever. However, she did give Tom some advice: “Just take your time and go slow. Also, stop and take as many breaks as you need. You’ll make it!” Then she nonchalantly got inside her vehicle and drove a few hundred yards to the Creel Cabin where she and the other two rangers resided while on site.

At precisely 1:45pm, Tom and Bob took their first steps on the route “home” to our Jeep. In preparation for the uphill hike, my photographer ingested four more Advil tablets that he washed down with some of the remaining water he had with him. That’s when my camera guy realized there was only about a quarter of the bottled water left. When that was gone, there was no more.

When we reached the area of the trail that preceded the log bridge, my companions were forced to make a 200-foot uphill climb that had turned very slippery due to the rain. Even though I wanted to laugh as Tom struggled to make his way up the rugged trail, it really wasn’t all that funny. Several times he slipped down to his hands and knees; and once he nearly rolled down the entire incline – and that could’ve been disastrous for me. With encouragement from Bob, as well as a helping hand at times, my companions slowly traversed the hazardous landscape until it finally leveled off for a few feet at the top. However, the next hurdle was the log bridge that crossed the Mill Prong stream, which meant my travel mates had no time to relax.

Once again, Bob walked across the log with relative ease. When he got to the opposite side of the stream, I heard him shout to my photographer: “I’ll give you fifty bucks if you hold TJ in one hand and stand on one foot while you’re over the water.” I thought for sure I would wet my breeches from laughter, but Tom didn’t think the offer was all that hilarious. Even with his two feet firmly planted on the log, my camera guy used a slide-step to slowly make his way over the rapids. As careful as he was, there was a point when Tom nearly lost his balance and fell face-first into the stream. But once again, we made it across unscathed; and with that crisis averted, the three of us forged ahead.

Just over 90 minutes into our return trip, we made it across the second of three streams. Thankfully, Tom found the tree branch that he had stashed earlier in the day. That branch helped him keep his balance as he methodically hopscotched across the stream’s rounded rocks, which had become slipperier due to the rain.

After another hour had gone by, we came upon the third stream; but by that time, my photographer’s “internal gas tank” was on fumes. Luckily, he had enough strength to ford the stream, but that was about it. Once on the other side, he collapsed onto a tree stump where he sat for a bit. I was worried; and I knew Bob was concerned as well. At first, I thought my photographer was over-reacting to the situation, but when I heard him say the muscles in his thighs were numb and his mouth was completely parched, I figured he was totally dehydrated. Tom also became delirious as well; or perhaps it was his goofy sense of humor surfacing during a bad situation. “Look up, Bob, are those buzzards circling overhead?” Mongo laughed; and I thought it was hysterical; until he told his friend to “Leave me behind. Save yourself. I can’t go any further; I’m so thirsty and hungry and my body hurts – and we still have over a half-mile to go. Just leave me here.” In my mind, I didn’t want Bob to leave me alone during my photographer’s final moments. I wanted to yell out, “Take me with you Bob!”

Roughly five minutes after Bob assured my photographer that he would not leave him behind, it began to rain again. Fog also made it difficult to see the treetops; I knew we were doomed. Then out of nowhere, I saw four hikers as they crossed the nearby stream behind us. There were two men and two women, and each were carrying a fishing pole. When the quartet stopped to check on our well-being, one of the men said: “You two were really smart to carry umbrellas with you.” Mustering his last ounces of strength, Tom shouted out: “I’ll tell you what. I’ll trade you my umbrella for a bottle of water.” Not only did the guy give my photographer his bottle of water, but he also asked his comrades to cough-up a couple of additional bottles as well.

My photographer gulped-gulped down the first bottle of water, then he went to town on the bag of animal crackers that he had carried in his backpack. Once he was rehydrated and had put some food into his stomach, Tom was ready to do handsprings down the remainder of the “Yellow Brick Road”. Okay, maybe that was a far stretch of my imagination, but Bob and I knew he was feeling better. “You know, Bob, those four people may have saved my life. I thought I was a goner; I couldn’t move anymore,” Tom said to his friend. “Thankfully those folks were experienced hikers and had extra water with them that they were willing to share. With all the bad stuff you see on TV or read on-line, there are still a lot of really good and caring people in this country – and luckily we just met four of them out in the middle of nowhere.”

Three hours and ten minutes after our return hike had begun at Rapidan Camp, we saw the Jeep from the trail head. Even though the final stretch of the trail was still semi-rugged and all uphill, the three of us had made it back at 4:55pm. When my photographer collapsed into the driver’s seat of the Jeep, the three of us knew the buzzards would have to find their meal elsewhere that evening.

The 15-mile drive north along Skyline Drive should’ve been very scenic on that Thursday evening, but it wasn’t due to the dense fog. As a matter of fact, the near white-out conditions made it difficult for Tom to see at times as he navigated the twisting and winding road through the mountains. As soon as we had made it out of Shenandoah National Park, and Bob was able to secure a satellite signal on his phone, he reserved a room for the night near the Manassas Battlefield, which was still roughly 45 miles to the east.

We arrived at the Hampton Inn in Manassas, Virginia at 6:30pm and my companions were registered and unpacked 15 minutes later. I knew my photographer must’ve been famished – he only ate two bananas, an apple, and a half bag of animal crackers all day. So how do you feed a hungry man? I knew one thing for sure – he wasn’t going to indulge in a frozen turkey dinner that night. Instead, Tom and Bob went for another hike; but this time, their walk ended at the City Grille located about a block from the hotel.

With their bellies full and their eyelids heavy, my two companions turned the lights out in the room at 8:30pm. I stood guard alongside the TV set where I had a chance to reflect on that day’s rugged excursion. I was proud my photographer had made the entire hike without killing himself; and I was extremely proud of the way Bob never left his side during the entire hike. Mongo’s constant encouragement and helpful suggestions of where to walk and when to rest was the sole reason we made it to Hoover’s Rapidan Camp and back.

My only disappointment during the entire hike was the lack of wildlife along the trail. We had traveled four miles over the course of five hours, and we saw only a field mouse, an orange-colored Eastern newt, and a toad. No deer; no bear; no fish in the streams; and definitely not a single Sasquatch. And due to the heavy fog above the treetops, we had difficulty seeing the buzzards that were circling high above my photographer. Maybe that was a good thing!