southern hospitality

I think I'm officially too old for hostels, or at least American hostels. Let's imagine your house, a 2500 square foot home perhaps. Proceed to jam every bedroom with at least three pairs of bunk beds, add some non-matching furniture that you picked up from someone's lawn because it was being thrown away, and don't clean the bathroom for a good five years. Needless to say, I look forward to getting out west and staying in cockroach motels with mattresses that sink a foot in the middle and boast color television as their top amenity.

Actually, the hostel in Charleston was not too bad, but I say that because late January is not tourist season and I had an eight bed room to myself.

Charleston, on the other hand, was an extremely charming city. You could easily get lost downtown just wandering the streets looking at historic homes and the many parks. The finely restored antebellum architecture was fascinating in and of itself, but what caught my eye was the lushness of the landscaping. Trees, flowers and shrubbery were everywhere: on the sidewalks, in the alleys, even parking lots looked like garden paradises. Everything was a dark shade of green which was a beautiful contrast with the surrounding architecture.


Despite the foreboding skies, I thoroughly enjoyed my morning strolling the cobblestone streets. Small parks would invite you in with a sort of dark intimacy created by dense vegetation and trees whose branches weaved a roof of leaves, nearly blocking out the sky. The cemeteries were just as welcoming, small clusters of headstones surrounded on three sides by buildings whose walls would rise up only inches away from the outer graves. And if, for a minute, you thought the city couldn't be more charming, nearly every restaurant and hotel had little gas lamps adorning the walls. If there is a Utopian city, Charleston is about as close as you get. It didn't matter that I am a twenty-something from Michigan, I had a strong feeling of nostalgia for pre-war southern life.


I traveled next to Magnolia Plantation, established in 1676 by the Drayton family and said to be the oldest plantation in the south (It has remained in the Drayton family for 15 generations). The site is primarily known for its gardens, which Reverend John Drayton created after he inherited the property in 1840. Following the Confederacy's defeat and the burning of his house by freed slaves, a bankrupt Reverend was forced to open the plantation to tourists, allegedly making it the first man-made tourist attraction in the United States.

The property is beautiful and its most defining feature is the exquisite garden surrounded by Oak trees covered in Spanish Moss. Unfortunately, the dark skies and winter conspired to make all my pictures give the impression I was in a desolate place far from any civilization.

While the sheer variety of fauna in the gardens was incredible, I found the whole experience a little haunting and slightly detached from reality. Less than seventy years ago, the gardens were tended by the descendants of slaves and before that, hundreds of slaves toiled in the rice fields. Following a day standing in the footsteps of people who, despite all odds, contributed to the success of this country, I was now walking through fields once occupied by the men and women upon whose backs the country was built. Today the primary gardeners are white men with mullets and camouflage cargo pants who stand up as they ride ATVs around the plantation. A tour of the property certainly didn't add to the perception I already had that the south may never get over its' history rooted in slavery.

The plantation grounds house approximately fifty alligators, a fact pointed out nearly a dozen times by the tour guide. I was hoping to get some history of the place--because the brochures offered squat--but we must have spent thirty minutes talking about alligators and stopping to let the other tourists take pictures of alligator after alligator. How many pictures of inanimate alligators can you take before they all look the same? When you're retired with a camera and nothing else better to do the answer is a million. In any case, after a lengthy discussion of the eating habits of alligators we headed towards the cabins where the slaves used to live. We were on a tram and as we turned the corner and came into view of the cabins, the guide actually sped up and quickly said, "AndHereAreWhereSlavesLivedUntil1940...Who wants to see more alligators!" Everyone let up a cheer and we zoomed by the cabins. Not one person took a picture. And with that I left and began the short drive to Savannah.

Savannah was everything Charleston was not: boring and uninspiring. The visitor center claimed that Savannah was the first "planned" city and the past few years have been spent restoring a square-mile historic district. Granted, many of the squares containing statues to Southern Civil War heroes were nice places to sit and avoid the commotion of the city streets. However, similar squares exist in a million other cities and nothing about Savannah really endeared it in my mind as unique. Even the famed Riverfront, while better than Detroit's equal, looked out upon factories coughing up black smoke and barges moving supplies up the Savannah River. I promptly left for Atlanta.

More pictures here.

airplane

After a solid dose of colonial history, I drove south to the Outer Banks of North Carolina. From the stories my friends have told me, I was expecting the Outer Banks to be one charming little beach town after another, similar in some respects to Cape Cod. Nope. The town of Kitty Hawk was indistinguishable from any other suburban commercial zone in the middle of Anywhere except that the Atlantic Ocean was across the street. Kitchsy tourist shops and fast food joints were at every corner. There was a store that boasted the largest hammock in the world and proudly advertised itself with a billboard that read: No Shoes, No Shirt, No Problem! Even the houses were unsightly. They all looked like giant pre-fabs that came in only three designs, but the builders figured, "Hey, just place'em every other, paint'em pastel colors and no one will know the difference."


I came to Kitty Hawk to see where powered flight first began. The memorial site was simple, but informative and marked the start of the four powered flights with rock markers signaling where each flight terminated. There was also a large memorial on the top of Kill Devil Hill, the biggest of the sand dunes where the first gliders were launched. It's really too bad the Wright Brothers were probably Buckeye fans.


The Outer Banks reminded me of Key West only because of the endless number of bridges that are only two feet above the water and seem to drag on for miles. The wind, which drew the Wright Brothers to this location, was so strong at times I thought the car might get swept right in to the Atlantic. Fortunately the wind gave way to much worse weather.

As I was getting closer to Fayatteville, the radio stations were interrupted by an emergency broadcast. A announcer came on and said, "Be advised, there is a severe thunderstorm warning...uh, better make that a hurricane warning in effect until 6:30 in all coastal Carolina counties. Please stay away from glass, good luck!"

Just after the broadcast I drove through torrents of rain and 60 mph winds. Shortly thereafter I arrived in Fayatteville where I stopped for gas. Thank God that's all I stopped for. I knew I was in Fayatteville even before arriving because a friend texted me asking if I had found strip club row [ed.] yet, and every other billboard I passed advertised "We are bare and we don't care" and "Of course we're topless, why else would you come?" Obviously Fayatteville is the strip club capital of the world, or at least North Carolina.

Like before, all pictures can be found here.

for glory, god and gold, and the virginia company

What's worse than waking up the day before your month-long road trip and seeing three inches of snow on your car? Waking up the day of the trip and seeing your car encased in ice. Following a solid twenty minutes of breaking and scrapping ice from the windows, I finally got underway.

Thirty or so minutes later, everyone ahead of me on the freeway coordinated an attack as all of the large ice sheets on their hoods and roofs cracked off and hurtled through the air towards me. It all happened in slow motion and was like trying to fly through the asteroid field in The Empire Strikes Back. The smaller blocks would shatter on my windshield while I swerved to avoid the enormous blocks that threatened to pulverize the poor Vibe.

The rising temperatures and melting ice gave way to a thick fog that limited my sight range to about fifty yards. It was no problem, however, because Jill Garmin would always tell me when to turn. Around this time I had to make a decision: pay $30+ to see Colonial Williamsburg and risk being overrun by tourists, or pay $19 to see both a replica of the Jamestown settlement and the Yorktown Battlefield. I chose the later.

I arrived at the Jamestown settlement right when it opened and was the first person there. In fact, if the retired couple from California hadn't shown up at the last minute I would have had tour guide Cindy, who dressed like Pocahontas, all to myself. There were several other actors, including Cindy, who appeared to be in their early 20s and I wondered: "How did these kids get hooked up with a gig like this? Did they graduate college with a degree in 17th Century Period Acting?"

The whole experience from the museum to the replicas of Jamestown, the English ships, and a Powhatan village were well done and not too touristy--and we got to see a demonstration of a matchlock musket. The fog really helped to add an air of authenticity as well. The placement of the replicas were all based upon archaeological evidence and eye witness accounts. The one exception was the Powhatan village whose original site now lies underneath a golf course. Isn't this country great?

At first glance, the settlers appeared to have pretty good digs. The men occupied houses that were roomier and less drafty than the some of the apartments my friends live in. I thought, "Hell, I could survive a winter out here."


The Virginia Department of Education runs the replica site while the National Park Service runs the actual archaeological site. That means two entrance fees and a additional five minute drive to see the original Jamestown site. When I saw what was left of the palisades and felt the brisk wind coming off the river, my first thoughts were, "Why would anyone be crazy enough to set up shop here? There is no way I could survive a winter here!"


On the bank of the river lay a large copper statue of John Smith whose legacy has always amused me. Here's a guy who was allegedly a stubborn braggart and managed to get himself captured, wounded, arrested and almost killed on several occasions. Minor details like saving the colony from the brink of annihilation and penning the most extensive account we have of life in Jamestown are not important; what matters is that he never married Pocahontas like the revisionists at Disney would lead you to believe.

In any case, I proceeded to drive to the Yorktown Battlefield where British General Cornwallis surrendered to Washington, effectively ending the Revolutionary War. The site was very...boring. I've never been a fan of battlefields. Give me any field in the country, a few antique cannons and a couple of wood fences and I can make you a battlefield.

I looked out over the barren field trying to envision the American and French troops shelling a crumbling British force. I couldn't. A part of me wanted to see bodies still strewn across the field. It would have been a macabre display, but infinitely more exciting.

I found the most fascinating part of the battlefield to be the Moore House, the small nondescript farm house where Cornwallis and Washington met to formally end hostilities. The one major condition of British surrender was to prohibit them from leaving with battle honors. What this means is the Brits were not permitted to wave their flags and play their flutes, an honor the British deprived the Americans of following the American defeat at Charleston. There is a sense of pride and patriotism that arises in me when I see places like the Moore House as opposed to a battlefield. Independence Hall in Philadelphia is another place I feel honored to be standing where our Founding Fathers stood a few centuries ago.


The house itself was very quaint and even comfortably warm. I wondered out loud: "Has insulation improved that much since the drafty houses in Jamestown during the 17th century?" It was then that I saw the perfectly preserved 18th century radiators scattered throughout the house. But of course!

The rest of the pictures, along with captions, can be found here.

trouble in paradise

I apologize for the lack of posts over the past day. The hostel I stayed at in Charleston last night had internet, but the computers must have built around the same time as the hostel, the turn of the 20th century. Since it took 20 minutes alone to start the computer, I moved on.

The annoyances continue, however. After a disappointing trip to Savannah, I drove to Atlanta and checked into a hostel there. The internet here is quite fast, but costs $2/minute to use. Ergo, I will have to delay any lengthy posts with pictures until tomorrow when I get to my sister's place in Daytona. I have pages and pages written, just no time to get them electronic. Be sure to check in tomorrow night. Now I'm off to find some food and booze.

do we have any salt trucks around here?

This morning I woke up to a blizzard. I went downstairs to run last minute errands and pack up the car and this is what I see.


It has not really snowed in DC since January 2007 and suddenly three inches appear the day before my trip? The roads were fine, but everyone was driving like the pavement was covered in three feet of ice. Schools closed early because they are lame, and apparently the only method of snow removal available for the parking lot of my apartment building is a maintenance guy with a snow shovel and a small salt cart that one simply pushes around. These are the moments you appreciate coming from a climate where snow is present five months out of the year and driving on slick roads is nerve-wracking yet perversely exciting because your teenage years were spent doing donuts in the unplowed parking lot of the local Mejier. 

Actually, Southeast Michigan doesn't get that much snow. Take a look at these shots from my recent trip to the Adirondacks (Yes, those are skis you see us carrying).

Imagine hailing from the Upper Peninsula or Up-Upstate New York. Those people are tough as nails. A great metaphor for Northerners and Virginians is the relationship between the vampires and humans in the Twilight book series. I can see someone from the Keweenaw Peninsula snowmobile up to a well-dressed, self-important lawyer from Northern Virginia, reach out to shake his hand and watch the lawyer wither away when their hands touch.

in search of america

On Wednesday, January 28, I will embark on what will be my most ambitious adventure to date. Over the next month and a half, I will log thousands of miles as my car and I wind across the country to visit friends and see every corner of what makes the United States an amazing place to live. The trip will begin and end in Washington, DC, and include destinations such as Daytona Beach, Las Vegas, Seattle, the middle of nowhere Montana, and my hometown in Michigan. This blog will follow my travels with stories from the road, pictures, and the general musings that one has when spending days with nothing to do but think. This will be my Travels with Charley.

ahwahnee adventures

Centuries ago, small bands of people lived sprinkled throughout the Sierra Nevada Mountains. The Sierra Miwok were traditional hunter-gatherers with a temperament like the placid, meandering foothills of the western Sierra Nevada. The Mono Paiute, the aggressive neighbors of the Miwok, inhabited the Sierra high country and its rugged eastern escarpment. Years of warfare led renegades from both groups to settle in a valley among the mountains. Protected by an edifice of granite, this new tribe subsisted primarily on acorns and practiced controlled fire techniques to maintain healthy forest growth and protect meadows. The tribe referred to their home as Ahwahnee (place like a gaping mouth) and themselves as Ahwahnechee (dwellers of Ahwahnee). The Ahwahnechee's reputation for violence, however, earned them a name that in Southern Miwok translates to "they are killers": Yohhe'meti.

In the mid-19th century, the Ahwahnechee, led by Chief Tenaya, engaged in bloody territorial disputes with the Miwoks and white settlers who were drawn west by the California Gold Rush. Conflict with miners reached a climax in 1851 when the Mariposa Battalion, led by Major Jim Savage, chased the Ahwahnechee up the Merced River. Upon reaching the western entrance of the valley where the Ahwahnechee sought refuge, a member of the battalion, Dr. Lafayette Bunnell, wrote:

The grandeur of the scene was but softened by the haze that hung over the valley--light as gossamer--and by the clouds which partially dimmed the higher cliffs and mountains. This obscurity of vision but increased the awe with which I beheld it, and as I looked, a peculiar exalted sensation seemed to fill my whole being, and I found my eyes in tears with emotion.

What the Mariposa Battalion saw in 1851

In "honor" of the Ahwahnechee, who were about to be captured and driven from their home, Dr. Bunnell decided to call this place "Yosemite" (which had been mistaken as "grizzly bear" during translation).

More than 150 years later, my modest existence briefly coincided with that of an epic landscape sculpted by erosion and the words of men.

Beginning in Los Angeles, the South Entrance of Yosemite National Park can be reached in just under four hours (assuming no traffic and a cruise control set to 80 mph). I arrived at the ranger station around five, just as the sun's power began to dissipate.

Whether climbing the slopes of Mount Whitney along the Mountaineer's Route or gazing upon the gentle inclines of Little Lakes Valley from my high camp on the rocky shore of Dade Lake, I am familiar with and find comfort in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. The initial drive from the entrance, characterized by towering evergreens and the fresh smell of a pine forest, brought to mind images of the campgrounds at the Whitney Portal. Yet when I drove around a corner and saw Yosemite Valley, I could easily have been in a different world.

In the waning light the valley was resplendent. Waves of green lapped against sheer granite cliffs that rose 3,000 feet above the valley floor before abruptly giving way to a vast expanse of blue unblemished by clouds. In the distance, Half Dome rested at the tip of the valley like a king whose subjects knelt in homage before him.

I felt as though I had been taken from the real world and placed within one of the fantastical landscapes I had read about in fantasy novels as a child. I half expected to see dragons battling in the skies above as I journeyed to some legendary valley to complete my quest.

If there is a point at which superlatives lose the ability to convey additional meaning and simply become tiresome, Yosemite refuses to acknowledge such a meddlesome constraint.

My daydreaming was rudely interrupted by the need to continue driving and avoid taking myself, and any other drivers, off a cliff. I arrived in Curry Village just before dark and checked in.

Curry Village is essentially a motel comprised of canvas tents, each with two cots, a bear box and a locking screen door. I found the village to be quite charming, though I hear that during the high season the crowds render the area intolerable. The amenities I've grown accustomed to on camping trips include wag bags and contaminated mountain streams, so restrooms, running water and electricity are a four-star luxury. I was also very impressed by a dining facility with not one, but three restaurants: a cafe, a pizza shop, and an all-you-can-eat buffet for $12.

Following a carb-packed dinner at the buffet, I promptly hit the sack. The next morning I planned to day hike Half Dome and I needed to get an early start. I'll post the the remainder of the trip report later.

great falls national park

Editor's note: I am going to take a different approach to this trip report. The idea is to present a shorter description, but with more details on logistics and trail suggestions, as opposed to my earlier post on Old Rag which was a pseudo-article. After reading the following post, take a moment to read Part I and Part II of my Old Rag trip report. I am curious as to which style you prefer (maybe a toss-up of the two, or maybe I should just stop writing).

Great Falls (click for bigger image)

Weekend escapes: Great Falls National Park
Great Falls NP is an 800-acre park encompassing a section of the Potomac River that advertises both jarring waterfalls and the river's deepest gorge, all within 15 miles of Washington, DC. Great Falls Park actually straddles the Potomac, splitting the park into both a Virginia side and a Maryland side (each state argues its side is the best). Regardless, either side allows access to rugged banks and rapids you would never expect from a relatively calm river that winds its way from West Virginia to the Chesapeake Bay.

After paying the $5 entrance fee, it's best to make a quick stop at the visitor center for a map and some history. Great Falls, along with other parks along the Potomac, is a historical site of colonial commerce. The Patowmack Canal, the remains of which are visible throughout the park, has the distinction of being the nation's first canal to use locks. In the early 20th century, an amusement park run by the W&OD Railway established picnic grounds on the Virginia side that are still used today.

The actual falls can be accessed near the visitor center. While several outlooks provide excellent picture opportunities, the only way to really experience the falls is to climb down to the riverbank for a close-up (do so with caution, an average of seven drownings occur per year).

The park is nestled in the country's eighth largest metropolitan area, which is reflected by the number of visitors. On the weekends, large groups with coolers, coals and meat, producing the sweet smell of BBQ, frequent the picnic grounds. Fortunately, the crowds can be left behind once on the trail. The River Trail is easily the most scenic and most popular of the approximately 15 miles of hiking trails within the park. The 3.3-mile (round trip) trail hugs the cliffs of Mather Gorge and offers magnificent views and excellent side trips down the cliffs to the river.

For those who seek a little more adventure than simply walking, Great Falls will not disappoint. Many of the trails permit mountain bikers looking for some action within riding distance of Washington. Kayaking is also very popular on the class 5-6 rapids at the falls and the class 2-3 rapids in Mather Gorge. And if that isn't enough, there are hundreds of routes along the gorge for rock climbing. Most of the climbs are about 50 feet and range in difficulty between 5.8 and 5.12 (the majority are 5.10 and higher). However, be ready to top-rope because trad climbing is not permitted for environmental reasons. In any case, many of the cliffs are relatively smooth and require crack climbing, always a fun way to spend the afternoon.

old and ragged (part II)

Editor's Note: I intended to post the rest of my Old Rag trip report this past weekend; however, I got distracted and nothing went according to plan, including a trip out to the mountains. I place the blame entirely on video games and a surprisingly delicious combination of pomegranate-flavored yogurt and vodka (no complaints here!). In any case, if you have not read part one and need some context, you can do so here. Otherwise, enjoy part two below.

The Blue Ridge Mountains are a physiographic province of the Appalachians, but lie just east of the bulk of the larger mountain chain. Bordered on the east by the Piedmont and the Great Valley on the west, the Blue Ridge contains the tallest mountains in eastern North America, the highest point being Mount Mitchell in North Carolina at 6,684 feet. The Blue Ridge itself is defined by two physiographic sections, Southern and Northern. Each section contains a National Park and is connected by the 469-mile Blue Ridge Parkway: Great Smoky Mountains National Park in the south and Shenandoah National Park in the north.

The Blue Ridge Mountains

The defining feature of the Blue Ridge Mountains, and consequently its namesake, is the bluish hue when seen from a distance. The blue glow of the gently rolling mountains, caused by the release of hydrocarbons, is a calming contrast to the sheerness of the eastern Sierra's escarpment or the breathtaking (literally) and deadly upper reaches of the Himalayas.

About two miles from the Old Rag parking lot, a discreet, obviously un-maintained trail casually breaks from the Old Rag Fire Road and disappears into the thick forest of Corbin Hollow. The Robertson Mountain Trail briefly parallels the Brokenback River before the river gradually ascends Corbin Hollow and the trail begins a rapid climb up the Eastern ridge of Robertson Mountain, one of Shenandoah's best kept secrets.

At 3,296 feet, Robertson Mountain is five feet higher than Old Rag and, fortunately, is devoid of hikers due to its more popular southern neighbor. While the summit can be reached from Skyline Drive on the west, the eastern trail is a worthwhile challenge: 1,700 feet of elevation gain in only a mile and a half. After three hours of hiking in hot, humid weather, a climb I normally would have sprinted became an exercise in dragging feet and taking quick breaks to catch my breath.

View from Robertson Mountain Summit

I reached the summit following a solid hour of hiking. Much to my dismay, the summit was covered in evergreens and every view was partially blocked by foliage. Not to be denied an overlook, I traipsed around the summit and found a small clearing that featured a rock outcropping looking over Weakley Hollow and Robinson River towards the south. Quite content with this find, I spent the next hour temporarily liberated from the chains of the real world, lying on the rocks and taking in the awesome expanse before me.

old and ragged (part I)

Editor's Note: This past weekend a group of friends and I climbed Old Rag out in Shenandoah National Park. The climb was relatively uneventful (other than 90-degree temperatures and suffocating humidity), but in the spirit of kicking things off, below I have included the first part of a trip report I wrote for Old Rag back in April.

Old Rag on the approach

Sitting atop a lone rock outcropping amid an otherwise tree-covered summit, I notice the remnants of white chalk, a sort of territorial marker for climbers. Glancing over the side of the nearly 60-foot drop in an attempt to find any leftover “bootie” (gear left behind by a climbing party), the only information I can discern is that climbers were here between now and the last time it rained. Otherwise I am alone on Robertson Mountain, a nondescript peak tucked into a small slice of Appalachia. Solitude is my only companion, as I have not seen a human since leaving the fire road an hour earlier and 1,700 feet closer to sea level. Returning my gaze towards Robinson River meandering slowly through the valley below me, I am amazed by how such sheer beauty and complete privacy may be found a mere 75 miles from Washington, D.C.

Shenandoah National Park (SNP) is Virginia’s most notable federally protected wilderness, if not one of the most popular national parks in the East (aside from Great Smoky Mountains National Park). Authorized in 1926, SNP owes its fame to the spectacular vistas seen along Skyline Drive. The 105-mile New Deal-built road stretches from the town of Front Royal in the north to Waynesboro in the south, snaking across ridges, overlooking canyons and vast expanses of farmland in the Shenandoah Valley. On any given summer weekend, Skyline Drive crawls with tourist-packed cars searching for the most scenic overlook, the largest cascading waterfall, or any other superlative-laden nature-inspired object. While the popular trails are easily accessible from the road and feature hemlock forests, crumbling frontier-era home sites and even former President Herbert Hoover’s summer home, Rapidan Camp, the trail traveled most frequently bags the summit of Old Rag Mountain.

As you approach the Old Rag trailhead from the east, the mountain looms at the vanguard of the Blue Ridge mountains, its boulder-strewn summit stands in rugged contrast to the smooth waves of green that characterize the Appalachians. The bald (exposed) summit and Northeastern ridge are Old Rag’s defining features. Covered in large granite boulders, Old Rag might belong in California’s Sierra Nevadas, if only Nature’s scythe had not reduced towering peaks and spires into a humble 3,291-foot mountain. On an unseasonably warm day in April, the well-worn Old Rag ridge trail is the first leg of my hike.

While an excellent trail in its own right, the similarities make Old Rag an adequate Eastern training ground for more advanced climbs in the West. The trail begins with a series of switchbacks through typical mid-Atlantic woodland. After a couple of miles, the forest slowly fades among boulders that make the final stretch of the ridge climb an exciting, and sometimes exposed, rock scramble. Several chutes with few solid holds add to the challenge, and the reward at the end. The biggest drawback to the scramble is made apparent when amateur hikers are bewildered by the moderate difficulty involved in navigating the boulders. It is not unusual to see a queue of hikers—up to twenty deep—waiting to move through some of the spicier spots.

This particular weekend, school buses full of hikers were swarming up the ridge trail (I wish this were an exaggeration, but there were actually several school buses in the parking lot). Throughout nearly a dozen summit hikes I have discovered alternative routes that avoid a majority of the crowds. Unfortunately, the last serious obstacle confounded me; a 15-foot chute interrupted by an enormous boulder wedged halfway up, forcing one to squeeze through a small gap with no obvious holds other than one rock to serve as a foothold. On busy days the chute never ceases to cause traffic jams. You would think people were waiting to climb the Hillary Step on Everest.

Summit, looking out over SNP

Growing increasingly frustrated by the seemingly endless sea of people ahead of me (at least thirty), I anxiously looked about, searching for a way to quickly bypass the chute. An older man, who appeared to be the leader of a Boy Scout troop, invited me to pass because I was a solo hiker. Gladly accepting his offer, I jumped ahead only to see a dozen people hardly moving in the middle of the chute, signaling an immediate stop to my ascent. I noticed a steep slab of granite to the left of the chute, offering a more direct route to the top, but also a 100-foot drop should I slip. Hoping my boots would stick on the very smooth, precipitous slab, I asked one of the Boy Scouts to give me a boost.

My left boot slipped an inch or two before I caught myself and quickly friction climbed to the top. It took approximately twenty seconds to pass the chute and the traffic jam, opening a clear trail to the summit. Upon reaching the summit, I dropped my pack for a short break; this was only my first summit of the day. After some Gatorade and a Clif Bar, I started down the trail towards the Old Rag fire road and the second leg of my hike, Robertson Mountain.