The Mount Rogers region pushed my mind in a poetic direction, so I present one poem for each day in these quiet highlands of southern Virginia.

Fast acquaintance / slow friend

People often ask if I’m hiking the trail alone. "No," I always respond. I am not hiking alone but rather, independently.

Walking is a redress for the explosion of attention-grabbing stimuli in modern society.

The sky burned a ruddy yellow as I passed above the gorge below, its rocky sides scoured 80 years ago for material to create the earthfill dam

Enhanced geothermal both generates additional electricity supply, and it functionally serves as short-term energy storage.

It was the sort of day that felt like a memory. Like running through grassy fields, feeling carefree, an optimism born of springtime and rebirth.

This elementary picture of warm and cold fronts, based only on how the density of air varies with temperature, explains pretty much all of my experience over the past week.

Down a strip of asphalt through the trees next to the interstate we rumbled. Roots heaved the path, that old cushy cruiser seat absorbing the shock quite well.

Yesterday, I reached the Cherokee National Forest. This is the name of the people group who were removed from this region and sent to Oklahoma in the 1830s.