One of the cool things about hiking is that it’s something that you can start doing without having to learn too much—my wife says it’s really just an elaborate version of walking, with blisters—but if you are so inclined, there are myriad places to read about hiking apparel, camping equipment, navigational aids, and assorted backwoods skills.  They all start out by saying the same thing: no matter what else, you should carry a map. 

Generally, I try to listen to the experts, so whenever ever I go off into the woods I have a map of the area with me.  The problem is that it often stays buried in the backpack; hunkered down with the emergency waterproof matches and the KFC wet naps.  Most of the time, that’s not a big problem.  When I hike, I usually just write down the series of trails I want to hit on any given day, and so far I have ended up back where I started.  The problem, as I found out a few weeks back, is that having directions is not exactly the same as knowing where you are going.

I was on a hike in the north section of the Shenandoah, in an area called Hazel Country.  It’s a great network of trails based on the old roads used by local inhabitants long before the park was established.  I had my directions in hand for a ten or so mile circuit hike that started near MP34 on Skyline Drive.  Things went smoothly for the first couple of miles (it was all downhill) until the trail ran into a fast-moving stream, somewhat beefed up, I suspect, from recent snow runoff.  I hadn’t counted on that.  No picturesque wooden bridge or series of well placed stepping stones here; the trail went in one side and popped out the other, which was about forty feet away.

In the summer, this would have been perfect excuse to kick off my boots, rest my legs, and maybe grab a handful of trail mix.  However, with the temperature well below freezing, snow on the ground, and ice forming a protective layer across most of the stream, this surprise was ...well… not so charming.  I looked up and down stream for a fallen tree that I climb across.  No joy there.  I sat down for a minute, letting the inevitable sink in. I was going to have to wade across in the cold water.

I understand for the experienced hiker this is a no big deal.  But for me, this was a first, and frankly something I hadn’t considered.  But I was too stubborn to admit defeat and backtrack (which was, of course, uphill), so off came the boots and high-tech hiking socks that I got for Christmas.  I carefully stored them away so I would have both hands free.  Falling in here would have added significant insult to the situation.  Then I waded in. 

I can report that it wasn’t like the water was cold, although it was for a second or two.  But then my feet, actually all the way up to my knees, basically went numb.  In retrospect, I think that was the best possible outcome.  I carefully picked my way across, got to the other side, and shuffled barefoot across the snow until I came to some rocks where I could sit down, dry off my feet (there was a towel in my pack somewhere), and then move on. 

Once done, I’ll admit, I was immensely pleased with myself and dug out some Starbursts to celebrate.  After getting squared away, I continued down the trail for about 50 yards, where there was another, more ice-laden, faster moving, and even wider stream.  So much for my goofy grin.  I sat down and dug out my major league hiking map.  I found my location and then looked closely. Sure enough, right there on the map were two very innocent looking thin blue lines running right across my less than well planned hike.  So I did two things: I revamped the route I would take that day, cutting out the three additional crossings I saw I had on my original plan, and then I rolled up pants, took off my boots and socks, and went for another wade in the water.  Now I map keep the map in the front pocket of my pack, where I can check it often. 

Hazel Country from Skyline Drive