Life has a funny way of diverting plans. Simple twist of fate. Elaine and I were supposed to hit the Foothills Trail, driving down this Saturday and starting on Sunday, the 13th. Emphasis on supposed to, because as of about a week ago the eastern terminus is ablaze from the embers of delinquent youth, who will certainly get off easier than they deserve despite their inadequacies as people leading to pristine land, already sullied by Helene last year, being gobsmacked to a level it’ll take decades to come back from. Best not be bitter, just better.
I’m most parts livid, but there’s a small portion, buried deep inside my quads, that breathes a quiet sigh of relief for what should be a more forgiving plan b. Our sights now turn from the Carolinas to West Virginia. Our new plan will take us from New River Gorge, through the swathes of Monongahela National Forest, to Dolly Sods, capping things off at Smokehole Canyon. A true east coast dirtbag trip. Admittedly less novel than the Foothills Trail, this trip will be more revisiting tried and true classics with a fresh lens. I’ll get tired of West Virginia, one day, maybe, but that ain’t on the horizon quite yet.
It’s hard not to feel… inadequate as an east coast dirtbag sometimes. Magazines, books, social media feeds, videos, are plastered with the timeless, towering monoliths of the West, perpetuating the myth of true American wilderness that just happens to be filled with nomadic Sprinter vans and company towns of the 19th century once again finding themselves under the yokes of corporate masters. I yearn for it nonetheless. At the same time – at the same time – true dirtbaggery maybe lives out here in the east, under the nose of the I-95 corridor. Going through towns like Fayetteville and Davis, I’m reminded of Thompson’s descriptions of Aspen before the greedfuckers took over. As the New continues to rise in prominence, and Snowshoe’s reputation grows, though, will these towns be as I left them? Or will I see the slow death of streamlining in action, dirt taken from fingernails, color sapped from buildings, all the authentic charms of these communities systemically sliced and diced and replaced with a means tested facsimile of itself, offending nobody, appealing to nobody? Worst – am I part of the problem? How can I balance my lifestyle with the needs of where I live it? Truly, the issue of our times. I joke about Sprinter vans, but what of tricked out Subaru Crosstreks?
It’s worth remembering that outdoor recreation comes at a cost. This isn’t a blanket condemnation nor me throwing out some platitude to show that I’ve thought about what I do so I can move forward with impunity, but simply a factor that exists whether we like it or not. Nature hasn’t existed without us since before us – it’s too easy to just condemn humanity. Finding that line between responsibilities to the world around us, the people around us, and our responsibilities to ourselves is a hard ask. It exists regardless of its difficulty.
Where am I going with this? Possibly a harder question to answer than any of the others I’ve posed. Where are any of us going? All I know is I’m going to West Virginia next week, with some cameos from good friends, going climbing, paddling (tbd), backpacking, and generally going feral in one of the freest places available to us, writing and photographing along the way, escaping the existential dread of the postmodern condition under Trump. More to say then.
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