Originally Posted by
Dan Roper
It was July 13, 2020. Covid was dominating the news but not my thoughts since I was in the trail in Virginia for my annual section hike. One hot afternoon I reached the little concrete bridge across the North Fork of the Holston River. Exhausted, I took off my pack and lay down on the shaded and comparatively cool concrete bridge. Then a bedraggled, southbound LASHer arrived. He had long salt and pepper hair and beard, was a bit younger than I was, and was starved for conversation and company. He sat down and we began the old AT tradition of exchanging information about the trail. I had just done the stretch from I-81 at Atkins northbound. He was southbound from Harpers Ferry.
He had lots of information, but it was his tale of the Three Ridges Wilderness, just north of Priest Mountain, that got in my head and stayed. His tales were of ridiculous steepness and rock ledges and gardens. Most of all, he said, the trail had closed in, choked with undergrowth. Going down was bad, he told me, but going up would be so much worse. Of the places he had been, it was the hardest and worst.
Three Ridges was still several hundred miles and several years away, at that point, but it got in my head. His description was in my mind and simmered as I got closer each year.
I thought I might reach the Ridges in 2022, when I began my section hike at Four Pines near Catawba. But I bailed out at the James River bridge after five nights and some cold rain. I was ready to go home. Three Ridges was still about 55 miles north, so I don't believe its proximity played any subconscious role in my decision. I was just wanted to go home.
I should have reached Three Ridges in 2023. I planned to. I expected to. The modest background intimidation level increased after I began my section hike at the James River. The climbs up Rocky Row and Bluff Mountain were sustained and pretty steep, though I handled them well. The climb through the Brown Fork Gorge and then up Cole Mountain seemed tougher and longer. And a weird thing happened. I couldn't eat. The thought of eating made me nauseous day after day, even though I was sleeping well and handling the steep climbs. By the time I reached The Priest Shelter on the fourth day, I was out of gas. That day, I only nibbled on a Wheat Thin or two. I'd had little more than that for two days before. I needed to eat but couldn't make myself. Water was all I wanted. Fortunately, there was plenty of that (and the spring at the Priest Shelter has to be about the best source I've ever seen).
On the afternoon of the fourth day, I made the long descent from the Priest to the Tye River valley. It began raining. My morale was low, probably because of a lack of nourishment, but partly too because I knew that Three Ridges began on the other side of the Tye River. When I reached the highway by the river, a shuttle driver was on the way to pick up another backpacker. I decided to bail out. I wanted to go home more than I wanted to climb Three Ridges.
In May of this year, I'll return to the Tye River. This time there's no avoiding Three Ridges. I'm ready (I think). At least I'll have eaten normally leading up to the long-awaited day. And I plan to have a small celebration at the top, because that place has been in my head for four long years.
I've heard no tales about points north sufficiently menacing to get in my head. I know about the Rollercoaster and the rocks of Pennsylvania and the Whites. I don't ever expect to reach the latter, because my pace is too slow, limited by the things I have to plan around to make my year expedition. But I'm looking forward to not having something in my head the next few years, as I continue north to Harpers Ferry and the Mason-Dixon area.
Do me a favor if you've read this far: don't tell me about horrible places a few score or hundred miles north of Three Ridges. I don't want to live with your thoughts for the next few years.
How Three Ridges Wilderness Got in My Head and Messed with Me for Four Years
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