Old Rag

I traveled 98 miles the day I left for old rag, biking over the foot hills of the blue ridge mountains. I got my butt kicked most of the day, and by the end could barely go above 5 mph on the up hills. I just biked on and on and on. When I reached the campsite at long last I was so fully joyed to be there. 
I had hiked old rags several times, but never by myself. It was such a different experience. There was no Paul Amsel to call "lets go climb that one!" no dad to plead "oh please don't do that", not even a camper to whine "I want to be in the front of the line." It was just me. I moved more slowly. When I climbed a rock I thought about why I was climbing. How did I really feel and did I really enjoy it? I loved the balanced art of making it up a rock face, but there was no one to share a triumphant smile with from the top. I wondered how much of my previous enthusiasm to scramble up everything in sight came from the want to impress those near me and how much came from my own desire to climb.
There was a special thrill to this assent because I was really there. I had earned being there and it felt more real. I had all day to hike the mountain and could go at my own pleasant pace, I had no where to be, and the day was long and gorgeous.
I sat for a long time at the peak. I stared out over the mountains and wrote. The wind flew by me and rustled my papers. I breathed it in and kept on writing.
I met a group of St. Marrys sophomores on spring break. They new Graham Martin-Poteet as the dude with dreads who road around on his long board! They were having a blast. They laughed and joked and messed around up on the mountain. They were all looking forward to driving home, napping, then partying all night. The type of fun they were having was so different from what I was going through. There is nothing wrong with the way they were enjoying the mountain, but it felt like we were living in different worlds, and there was some  kind of a void between us.
I sat and wrote for a while longer. I wrote the thoughts that had come to me through out the day and I started the short fiction story that had been bouncing around in my head for a long time.
Both nights I camped at old rag were scary ones. I had never slept with no one for miles before. I woke often thinking a bear or a ghost was just outside my tent.
I have had transformational and wonderful experiences at old rag, and I am thankful that I could start my travels with a visit to its rocky trails.