Yet if nothing else, aligned in pews together with men and women of every age, I felt a gladness at our unlikely gathering.

I am fascinated by the New River and honestly had no idea the Appalachian Trail would cross it. I thought, after getting farther into Virginia, I would reach the other side of the Eastern Divide to stay and cross Atlantic-bound rivers like the James, the Roanoke, the Shenandoah. Not yet. The New River, like those...

I asked Fresh Ground if he gets tired of the repetitive set up and take down. “No,” he said.

After its rain bands passed, opening the sky to sunshine, the air pressure gradient arrived. Winds began whipping at the alpaca farm

I emerged from the Mount Rogers region into the broadest valley the trail has thus far crossed, for the first time descending from to farm and plain. This final descent wiggled through a lovely tunnel of rhododendron alongside a tumbling creek, a particularly Virginian feeling. A different creek on the eastern drainage of today’s ridge...

The second poem in my Mount Rogers/Grayson Highlands series was inspired by an accumulation of nighttime memories from the trail. Night in the outdoors carries a certain restlessness, an unpredictability, insecurity. Simultaneously, it is a luxurious time of rest, peace, and satisfaction. With the limitation of sight, the other senses heighten their awareness. Early this...

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.

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