February 2nd is sacred in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania. For the last 129 years the residents of this small town have woken up, gotten dressed, and—instead of going to work—driven two miles outside of town to consult a groundhog about the weather. Grown men and women known as the “Inner Circle” dress in top hats and tuxedos and defer to this six-pound whistle pig like it’s the Delphic Oracle. This year, the groundhog “didn’t see his shadow,” which supposedly indicates an early spring. And I’ll be damned if he wasn’t right. Heading to Shenandoah National Park on a rainy Saturday in late February heavy rain gave way to a foggy drizzle and then filtered sunshine over the course of eight hours, bathing the bare mountains in a mild warmth that was very springlike indeed.

This weekend we set our sights on the White Oak Canyon/Cedar Run loop, smack in the middle of the park and very near to the highest point on Skyline Drive. We’d hiked the White Oak Canyon leg a couple of summers ago, but the whole loop sounded like a good Sunday afternoon hike at about 7.5 miles. We had no idea what we were in for.

One of the chief reasons we picked White Oak Canyon was the waterfalls. After all the snow and rain we’ve had here in the mid-Atlantic, we knew the waterfalls would be pretty spectacular, and they did not disappoint. What we hadn’t considered was the depth of every stream on the trail. This particular hike crisscrosses streams at least three times, and twice we had to bushwhack to find a good spot to get across. Even in waterproof boots, we’d have been swamped trying to cross at the designated points. The second big crossing was especially tricky. Victor finessed his way across, hopping from rock to rock and landing in the shallows, but I was pretty reluctant to replicate his recklessness. I stood on a rock in the middle of the creek for several minutes trying to plot my way across. Finally, I committed to lunging across a three-foot void between boulders. I mostly made it, but when my right leg plunged thigh-deep into icy water I let out a shriek that would have made Fay Wray proud.

Adding to all the excitement was the fact that, as promised, I headed out with my brand new pack and about 20 pounds of gear. The hike as we planned it was perhaps a little ambitious for my first time out. We hiked the four miles down to the White Oak Canyon overlook, which features the largest and most breathtaking falls on the loop. A little ways past we stopped for lunch in a rock overhang just off the trail and made tea as we’d promised ourselves we would after our last hike. As we sipped Earl Grey, we talked seriously about turning back from that point and forgetting about the rest of the loop entirely. But we were both feeling good, and didn’t want to miss out on the Cedar Run section of the trail, so after salami sandwiches and tea, we pressed on.

Last summer we got in the habit of taking pictures of trailhead maps on our cellphones in order to have a general resource to consult in a pinch. Having failed to do this on this outing, we turned onto the Cedar Run Link, crossing the deepest stream yet, and headed back up the mountain. If we had taken a picture of the map, we would have known that this leg of the trail doesn’t lead back to the same parking lot. At the time however, we were concerned with two more obvious problems. One was the fading light, and the other was the nearly vertical climb back to Skyline Drive. Shenandoah National Park is centered on a ridgeline, making most trails that go outward, away from the ridge, very strenuous in at least one direction as the ridge is regained. The trail marker promised it was only 2.7 miles to Skyline Drive, but toting 20 pounds, those were the longest 2.7 miles of my life. I stripped down to my base layer and guzzled water, polishing off the whole 2L before we made it back to the road. “We’re almost there, you’ll make it!” Victor kept promising, but it seemed the trail would never end. My legs weren’t limbs so much as lead weights suspended from my pelvis. Finally, I slumped against a tree and determined that it was there I would die.

When we finally emerged on Skyline Drive we were met with an awesome site. The fog has mostly broken, giving the sunlight an eerie, filtered effect. Perhaps most awe-inspiring was that we had somehow ended up three miles from the car. After letting this sink in, there was nothing to do but keep on walking. Thankfully, the road was flat and the beauty of the afternoon made the walk bearable. Eventually though, I pointed my thumb  at the first northbound car we saw, and they very graciously offered to give us a ride to the car. They were warm, middle-aged locals who shared with us their love of the park and treated us to uncommonly good conversation. We never learned their names—but if you’re out there reading this, please know how truly grateful we are for your kindness! If we had finished by foot it would have been dark before we reached the car.

 

On the way home we talked about how happy we were that we pushed our comfort zones—both by choosing to hike in the rain and hitchhiking on a whim. Staying positive through discomfort is something we seem to have lost in the age of air-conditioning, and learning to hitchhike will serve Victor well this summer as he backpacks across Iceland. And, despite the discomforts and setbacks, I hiked the whole hike carrying my pack, and I made it. I was tired and sore, but felt pretty proud of myself. The best news is, my pack, the Gregory Amber 60, never once felt heavy or uncomfortable. Granted, I’ll have 10-15 lbs more when we backpack for real, but I’m confident I made a good choice.

Speaking of backpacking for real, we’ll need to make our next trip out an overnight. Whatever magic brings grown adults together to trust a groundhog with the weather, I’m hoping it lasts.