We kept getting lost this trip. Not badly lost, or to an extent we couldn’t figure our way out of it. Sometimes we didn’t know how to get where we were going, and sometimes we didn’t know where we were going, only that we were going. Leaving Dolly Sods, we assumed it’d be clear where the turn-off to head back towards Davis was. After a while, I turned to Elaine, asking
“Do you remember going down any of this?”
“Not really..”
“Well, guess all we can do is drive.”
It dawned on us that we were taking the dilapidated forest road around the perimeter of Dolly Sods, with Dennis right behind us, assuming we knew where we were going. Simple twists of fate. With no signal, we just hoped he’d trust in following us as we changed our plans on the fly. We set our sights on Petersburg, which would hopefully have better lunch options anyways.
Baby Blue growled through the winding mountain roads, her suspension performing admirably under one of the first proper tests of the season. We got into the main strip of Petersburg about an hour later, deciding on a hole-in-the-wall Italian joint. We’d been chased by and had chased rain all day, and by this point we had pulled ahead of the looming grey masses. We got our food and elected to eat in the parking lot, being a bit too unkempt at this point for polite company indoors. The grey masses reached us the same time our food did, and we took its embrace, gorging ourselves on proper, non-dehydrated food while being baptized from the skies above, a dirtbag communion. After getting properly fueled up, we bid our adieu to Dennis as he rushed back to Northern Virginia, having put reality on the backburner for just a second too long.
Having changed our plans a few times by this point, Elaine and I had to face our own reality – we had no goddamned clue what to do. We knew the plan was to end up at Squirrel Gap near Wardensville to camp that night, being a classic spot the gang used to frequent. We knew we’d want to stop through Wardensville, and beyond that? No idea. I can see why we’re the two people closest to Stilly, having a lot of the same strengths and vices. Great at assembling a plan in advance, but struggling to figure out what to do spur of the moment. To make matters more complicated, the weather was unpredictable at best. If we opted to go climbing, we might find ourselves exposed on slick rock we’re unfamiliar with in a surprise onslaught of rain and thunder. Finding a local hike posed similar issues, and we were still tired from the last two days. We opted, then, to just head towards Wardensville and play it by ear. We sent out feelers to the northern Virginia folks, hoping for a bit more company, but to seemingly no avail.
We went through Lost River Trading Post – its toilet is a staple on any camping trip that has us go through Wardensville. From there, we opted to go make camp early, figuring the next day we’d have nicer weather to get a fair bit of climbing in before making our ways to our respective abodes.
We set up camp between bits of intermittent rain. After the last of the rain had passed, the temperatures dropped quicker than expected. We decided to start a fire early, and spent the next few hours continually tending to it and playing cards. Finally, as dusk hit and our firewood dwindled, we opted to head back to our respective tents for an early turn-in.
I laid awake, listening to music as I thought about possibilities of what to do the next day. I was still a bit bummed that Stilly couldn’t make any of the trip – if anyone can fill in the gaps of dead space, he can. I heard a strange call from afar, but didn’t think anything of it. We’re outdoors, of course there’s going to be animals around us. If anything, I was surprised we hadn’t ran into more at that point. A few minutes later, the same call screeched from what felt only a few yards away. I yelled out, figuring it was some dumbass coyote in need of a good scare. It screeched one more time, and I yelled out again, more annoyed than anything else – the hell was wrong with that coyote? I got ready to get out of my tent to shine some light on the situation, and it was then I heard Stilly’s laughter as he yelled out “Surprise bitches, it’s time to drink!”
I should’ve known.
I really should’ve known.
It’s classic, playbook Stilly, and I know this because I’ve been on the other side of it more times than I can count. Turned out his class the next day had been cancelled, allowing him to hatch a plan. He had donned a full ghillie suit, 3D printed a new coyote call that I wouldn’t recognize, and printed out a reflective cryptid mask. He then parked half a mile up the road, and had slowly trekked towards us with a whole elaborate plan to scare us. The only issue in his plan was that we had turned-in early, making the whole visual element of surprise a moot point. Still, impressive execution.
I drove him back to his truck and we all came back to the campsite, with more beer and more firewood. He did good – it was an incredibly pleasant surprise for Elaine, who’d clearly been missing him, and he gave me a pretty good laugh. Plus he grabbed us Switchback Ale.
The next morning, we first headed to Wardensville for another obligatory Lost River Trading Post coffee+dump. We opted to get a proper breakfast in Front Royal as we headed further east. Elaine joined Stilly as they headed out in front of me, quickly leaving me in the dust.
I pulled out of Lost River behind what was at first glance just another pickup truck. As we got onto a winding mountain road, I recognized the issue – this truck had an open gate, with loose, massive logs placed carelessly in its bed. I… wasn’t exactly sure what to do. There was no way I could pass him for a while, and no way I could stop. In a sort of self-sacrificial way, I figured better myself behind him than someone else. The initial few miles were ok, the logs seemed to have reached an equilibrium, gravity deciding to spare me. Then – boom. One came rocketing out and all I could do was laugh as I dodged impact by maybe a few feet. Fortunately, there was no one behind me and it rolled off to the side of the road. I tried flashing him, but he kept his same pace, with apparently no knowledge a massive log had just shot out the back of his truck. Part of me wondered if he knew, if it was more incompetence or malice against myself. Maybe he was drunk. Crazy bastard.
Finally, I reached a straight shot downhill with no other cars in sight, and I hit it to get around him as quickly as possible. Part of me wanted blood, to just edge him off the road or at least flick him off, maybe just get his attention and get him to stop for a civil discussion. No matter my familiarity with the area, though, I wasn’t a local, and sometimes it’s best to just get the hell out of dodge. I wonder if he ever pulled over. Maybe he finally got where he was going, and walked around back to an empty bed with an open gate, bearing a shocked expression, mortified by what had happened. Maybe this is how he gets off, launching logs at folks. I’ll never know. Dead spaces in knowledge, never to be filled. One of life’s little mysteries. I was glad to reach Front Royal.