Islands above

 

When most people talk about going to �the islands,� they think of the Caribbean or the South Seas.� I go to Mount Rogers.

 

I�d talked about my interest in doing one of my occasional pilgrimages to Virginia�s highest mountain with my Nepali friend, Mohan.� When he e-mailed to say he�d be available on a late February Saturday, I said, �sure, but don�t be surprised if we see some icy or snowy trails,� given Rogers� elevation.

 

He replied, �I don�t want to walk on ice or snow.�

 

Bullheaded as I am, I said, �Let�s go to the trailhead and see what�s there.� If it looks bad, we can hike the valley nearby.�

 

A communication snafu left us late for our rendezvous, so it was nearly lunchtime when we reached the trailhead, two hours southwest.� Then we got fooled.� The first few hundred yards of trail were across an open field, swept by wind and sun of the snowfall of two weeks prior.� As we entered the woods, we hit four to six inch depths of snow.� Damn.

 

Trudging onward, I stopped to take a snapshot of an intricate icicle hanging from a trailside rock only to discover that my daughter had removed the storage chip from the digital camera.� Damn.� As I pondered my predicament realizing that I would be taking no pictures this day, I took a swig of water from my water-bag and got a mouthful of mold.� Double-damn.� Given the unpredictability of this wintertime ascent, I had applied my best Boy Scout �Be Prepared� ethic in packing my daypack.� Yet I had committed two sophomoric errors already.� Silently scolding myself over my ineptitude, I muttered, �Don�t do anything dangerous.�

 

Awhile back, in this case about 10,000 years ago, the earth was ensconced in the throes of its most recent ice age.� Huge glaciers covered much of our continent, extending within a few hundred miles of Mount Rogers.� While left unscathed, Rogers did see a concomitant change in local vegetation, as colder temperatures bulldozed what we now think of as northern, boreal forests into our temperate South.� When the glaciers retreated, leaving many well-known features of today, including New York�s Finger Lakes and Long Island, which is a terminal moraine, the temperate forests returned.� Following the glaciers northward, boreal forests migrated along the Appalachian ridges, but they also evacuated the lowlands, moving upwards in elevation.� Today, a handful of acres of the top of Mount Rogers are still crowned with this forest, an island of Nova Scotian vegetation, floating atop a sea of Appalachian hardwoods.

 

Even though the day was mild for the season, Mohan let me know he wasn�t happy with the snow and was developing a blister.� So after we stopped for lunch less than half-way to the summit, he decided to turn back.� With several miles of energy-sapping trail ahead of me, I pressed on with urgency.�

 

Surprisingly, the Appalachian Trail merely skirts the summit, which is accessible via a blue-blazed spur.� By the time I reached the junction in a vast clearing, the commanding view to the south cheered me and took my mind off my cramping right thigh.� I was carrying excess weight around the beltline, plus a pack filled with too many clothes and a useless camera.� This hike had become serious work!

 

At the top of the clearing, the trail turned abruptly to my right and I entered the primeval forest with the same enveloping certainty as Shoeless Joe Jackson leaving Ray and Annie Kinsella�s Field of Dreams to vanish into an Iowan cornfield.� The forest itself was dark and spooky, with none of the day�s defused light hitting the forest floor.� Snow covered everything, looking atop each broken stump like the head on a pint of Guinness.�

 

Many Appalachian Trail through-hikers never take the half-mile spur to the top.� Unlike Tennessee�s Clingmans Dome, North Carolina�s Mount Mitchell, and West Virginia�s Spruce Knob, Virginia�s highest peak has no tower, no views, and only a table-sized boulder with an imbedded Geological Services disk to mark its noble distinction.�

 

At the summit were five hikers and two dogs.� Not wanting to take the time to engage a conversation, I took a quick look around (No photos!), and began my descent.

 

Emerging into the clearing, I remembered reading of a small South Seas island described as �Ground Zero of Global Warming.�� When the earth gets warmer, the ice caps and glaciers melt, and sea levels rise. This island had only a few feet of elevation to begin with, so rising seas were to become catastrophic.� The island was drowning.

 

Mount Rogers� boreal forests live just above the ethereal elevation of air able to support the colder climate they need.� As society continues to spew hydrocarbons into the air and global warming continues, this line will inexorably rise, accelerating the rate at which Rogers� firs, spruces, and ferns are pushed skyward into oblivion.�

 

I double-timed down the mountain, boot-skiing the steeper sections.� Nearing the final clearing, I reckoned that at least seven of the nine total miles were walked in snow.� I found Mohan sitting on a rock reading a newspaper in the open field.� He and I walked back to the parking area and I collapsed in the car, knackered.

 

The next day, I went to the gasoline station and refilled the tank, playing the gas-price craps game that we play with each fill-up, absolutely mindful of the hypocrisy implied in the consumption of ten gallons of gas to take a hike.

 

Michael Abraham grew up in Christiansburg and lives in Blacksburg.� He keeps doing the things his mother warned him against.