Today’s hike hike led me to Chimney Rock in Shenandoah National Park—a sacred invitation into stillness. I left later than planned, unsure if the rain would pass. But as I wound upward along Skyline Drive, the clouds gave way to light and clarity, as if the mountain itself welcomed me back.
The Riprap parking area was nearly empty. Perfect. I love when the trail promises solitude—when the wilderness has room to speak. With my essentials packed and a note left on the dash, I set off toward the unknown, guided first by the familiar white blazes of the Appalachian Trail.
The earth smelled alive with morning rain. Each step reminded me of my sons, Ben and Matt, who walked this path before me. Their trail names, “Coffee Cup” and “Bravo,” echoed in my heart—whispers from journeys past. Today, it was my turn to listen, to walk, to receive.
Soon, the trail curved onto the blue-blazed Riprap path toward Chimney Rock. The descent was steep and quiet. A breeze swept past, lifting pine scent into the air and brushing my cheeks. The ridge blocked the wind as I entered a hushed cathedral of trees.
That’s when she appeared—a doe stepping silently onto the trail. We shared a gaze, ancient and reverent. She crossed slowly, pausing at the edge. A second later, her companion dashed across with a crash, and together they vanished, tails high, into the forest. Wild beauty, unfiltered. My breath caught.
Farther along, towering rocks rose beside me like stone sentinels. I thought I might need to climb them, but the trail curved gently behind, offering passage without struggle. As I reached Calvary Rocks, I stopped. The boulders were massive, timeless, impossibly balanced—ancient storytellers of wind and time. I sat, humbled by their presence. For a moment, I forgot myself.
Eventually, the path rose and fell again until it opened to Chimney Rock. There, the valley spilled out before me in quiet majesty. I sat at the edge of the world, the sun on my face, forest scents in the breeze, and silence deep in my bones.
Here, I felt what words can barely hold: the sacred power of nature to renew the creative spirit. No photograph could capture the air’s sweetness or the hum of bees in trail flowers. But the stillness—the wonder—that lives on in me.
And maybe, in you.
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