The Art of Shenandoah

After various bubbles and squeaks (a sly reference to English cuisine in preparation for my first attempt at making Shepard's Pie), my laptop seemed to have bit the big one. While its various maladies were being diagnosed, and before reviving the old desktop, we decided that last Saturday would be a perfect day for a trip to Shenandoah National Park and a leisurely ride down Skyline Drive. It was, perhaps, the last weekend to view the spectacular fall foliage that graces that glorious landscape. Looking from the mountain base to the top, you could see the leaf line. Below, the vibrant, autumn colors still clung to the trees, while farther up, the leaves had already begun their graceful descent to earth.

(Usually, in Shenandoah we are lucky enough to become enveloped in the solitude of its majesty. But this last weekend in October, we were joined by about a million other leaf-happy freaks. Overlooking that and moving on.)

I came across a sonnet by John Keats, entitled “The Grasshopper and The Cricket.” The first line expresses beautifully everything my heart was feeling during and after our weekend journey: “The poetry of earth is never dead.” So enraptured was I by these seven words that I tweeted them, chose them as my quote prompt at The Magnified Muse, and am using them as the base on which to build this post. My need for repetition isn't through a lack of imagination but, rather, for the inspiration that promotes imagination.

It’s a simple truth that inspiration can come from any source. I’ve found it while stretched out in a beach chair, staring out over miles of ocean. I find it when I look at my eleven-year old basset hound, Simon, as he sleeps peacefully on his pillow. My black lab, Tucker, is inspiration personified, be it in his happy face, his wagging tail, or his insatiable need for play. My family provides me more than enough to appease my inner muse. But for me, one of the most galvanizing influences on my poetic endeavors comes from those mountains in Virginia.

I used to be a City girl. Creature comforts were my preference and the outdoors were, well, just that: outdoors. Something to look at and enjoy for the moment, but afterwards, get me to a nice, clean hotel with all the amenities. I mean, I’d look at nature, as long as my end reward was room service or a Jacuzzi tub. When a friend suggested we go camping in Shenandoah National Park, I was openly agreeable and inwardly appalled. Outside? In a tent?? It proved to be an experience I never forgot and one I would repeat regularly throughout the ensuing years.

The camping trips, themselves, provided me a source of inspiration. Not always positive, but always memorable. We were sleeping soundly in the tent one night, when a camper in the distance shouts out, at the top of her lungs, “He hit me! He hit me!” I remember her repeating this mantra over and over for nearly an hour. One other camper, in desperate need of sleep, finally shouted back, “If you don’t shut up, I’ll hit you, too.” And that came from another woman! (We later found out from a park ranger that the couple involved in the early morning fracas had been drinking to beyond excess. They both denied anything physical took place, but, honestly, that liquored up, how could they remember? And for those of you wondering why we didn’t rush to this poor woman’s defense, there are certain camping rules that always apply: (1) Noises travel in unusual patterns through a campground. (2) Never wander around aimlessly through the dark of night in bear country. I’m just saying …)

Over the years, we had our share of bad weather and tents that weren’t able to handle it. I can’t even count how many times we woke up to find small streams cascading over our backpacks, sleeping bags and bodies. And take it from me, there is nothing worse than breaking camp with a water-logged tent. Try folding that sucker back into its carry-bag when it’s soaking, wringing wet. It’s not going to happen.

I even hit the trails as an unseasoned and unprepared hiker. Mileage is hard to configure when you first head out on your merry way. Let no one tell you otherwise: it is possible to go too far. Which is what I did on many occasions. I would find myself following an outdated guidebook to points of interest that no longer existed. Then a sizeable panic overtook me as I realized I had lost the trail. I always found my way back to it, though, but not without a fair amount of fear and a lot of wasted energy.

Once I was a little more comfortable with the art of hiking, a whole, new world opened up for me. The best hike I ever did was Milam Gap at Milepost 52.8 on Skyline Drive. The trail goes straight down for over two miles, over rock scrambles and through streams until you reach Camp Hoover, the retreat of President Herbert Hoover. There are several restored buildings down there, including the President’s residence. Most intriguing is the tree that stands straight and tall through a deck that was clearly built around it. (Of course, two miles down a four mile, round-trip hike means two miles back up. Straight up. And back over and across those same rock scrambles and streams. But once your breathing is restored, either naturally or artificially, you’re thrilled by your accomplishment. Really.)

I’ve been to the Mountains in every season and each one shows a unique glimpse into the magnificence of nature. The earliest budding of mountain laurel in the spring, the bear cubs scampering through the woods in summer, the breathtaking autumn colors springing to life in fall, and winter’s white blanket that graces the mountaintops. All deeply moving images, stirring the soul to find words to express that which grips the heart. If you’re lucky enough to spend the night, you’ll quickly discover that daylight doesn’t have a stronghold on its beauty. When the sun sets, a thousand stars dance merrily in the evening sky and will leave their mark upon your soul.

This post is not a travelogue, even though it appears to be. Rather, it’s about a place that never fails to renew my spirit. If there’s any art within me to produce, it’s released when I visit those Mountains. They’ve been the subject of countless photographs and paintings. And writers and poets way more talented than I am have described their extraordinary beauty. I’m certain I will never be able to accurately express what I feel and see when I’m there or my heartbreak at having to leave.

And sometimes, that’s true for all of us whenever we come across something that inspires us. It’s hard to capture in words or pictures something that deeply moves us. We’re not expected to make it perfect. What we write, photograph or paint may not be remembered long after we’re gone. It might not even be read or looked at once we create it. But it’s always the creation process that’s most important. Find what moves you. Find art’s potential wherever you may be. And if you’re ever in Virginia, stop by my Shenandoah Mountains. They’ll be glad you did. And so will you.