#20. Leaf Peepers and Smoky Skies
In which the E@L escapes the Halloween hordes to go leaf peeping and dodge forest fires
Okay, I admit it, I’m a Halloween Grinch. It’s an annual tradition that I try to avoid like the invasion of the Huns. Which seems an apt metaphor for the situation.
Prior to settling in Maryland, our experience with Halloween was minimal. Where we lived in Alaska, houses were remote, so trick-or-treaters rarely came to our door. To facilitate our daughter’s participation in the annual ritual of candy acquisition, we packed her into the car and took her around to all her friend’s houses. But now I live in the suburbs of a small town, along with a handful of families with children. I would love to get to know my neighbor’s kids, and if only they came to our house on Halloween, it would be fine.
But that’s not what happens. Every Halloween, cars arrive from who-knows-where, blocking our normally quiet street and disgorging hordes of dubiously costumed trick-or-treaters. These Huns-in-miniature sweep through the neighborhood, relieving the locals of their sugary offerings like a biblical plague of locusts. The first year I lived here, we tried to be good sports, and put out a basket of fairly high-end candy bars, which disappeared faster than you can say “diabetes mellitus”. Our sign to “Take only one (Honor system)” was completely ignored. Kids these days (as well as their parents) don’t seem to have any self-restraint, moderation, or decency when it comes to free goodies. The following year, we poured a large number of tiny cheap treats into a bowl on our porch (after removing most of the Reese’s mini cups for later inspection) and got the same result; they were decimated in minutes by a plague of ungrateful urchins.
Hallo-Wine Touring
After that, we decided to forgo Halloween altogether. Turning off the lights and pretending we’re not home doesn’t work; people knock on the door anyway. So we just leave. For a few years, we would go to a movie or out to dinner. But since I retired, we now have more time to travel, so have started taking Halloween vacations. Last year we drove to the Finger Lakes region of New York and spent three days tasting wine and visiting some cousins. It was delightful and initiated a tradition of “Hallo-Wine” vacation trips.
This year we decided to visit Shenandoah National Park. I’d never been there before and wasn’t quite sure what to expect. We wanted to see fall leaf colors, but the trees hadn’t yet turned in our area. The Park is about 100 miles long, so we planned to spend three days there. After perusing the park’s website, I had identified about ten hikes of a few hours duration that would take us to overlooks or waterfalls. On the way to the park, we visited our favorite outdoors store, REI, in Washington, DC, to purchase hiking poles (sticks?).
After a night in Front Royal, VA, we spent the first day driving south as slowly as possible along Skyline Drive in the north half of the park and stopping at all the overlooks. We took one hike on an old fire road, testing our rarely-used hiking boots and the new poles, before arriving at Skyland Lodge, where we spent the next two nights. A few miles down the road is the Big Meadows Lodge and visitor center. There we learned about the history of Shenandoah National Park. Dedicated in 1936 by President Franklin D. Roosevelt, it was created to offer a Western park-style experience to visitors from the eastern seaboard. Most of the roads and trails were built by the Civilian Conservation Corps, and many local people were displaced from their homes and farms, either voluntarily, or through land appropriation. I doubt that would be possible today.
It Pays to Be Prepared
On the second day, we set off on a hike up to a rocky overlook. I carried a small backpack containing water, snacks, a raincoat, compass, pocketknife, first aid kit, and emergency blanket. I know from experience that anything can go wrong at the worst possible time, and I wanted to be prepared. In fact, I keep a small notebook in my car with checklists; one each for hiking, biking, kayaking, sailing, and even playing music gigs (you’d be surprised how much stuff we take). Before leaving home for any of these activities, I check the relevant list to make sure I have all the necessary items and haven’t forgotten anything. For a short dayhike, I was as prepared as possible.
Early in the hike, my wife decided to join a guided group, who were mostly standing still listening to a Ranger’s spiel. I listened for a while, but, anxious to begin my exploration of nature, set off up the trail by myself. Along the way I stopped to examine the colors of fallen leaves, the crispiness of dry seed pods, the texture of fuzzy caterpillars, and the various shapes of fungi growing on decaying logs.
Having trained with the Mountaineers in Seattle, I knew better than to rush uphill. I walked at a leisurely pace, planting my poles at every other step. On the steepest parts, I settled into the rest step: step, rest, inhale; step, rest, exhale, etc. No hurry, no exhaustion. People passed me going uphill (and some again on their way back down). Since this was a relatively easy (and short) trail, most hikers carried little more than a water bottle, and some not even that. I felt a bit over-dressed, like I was wearing a tux to a beach party. But I kept my own pace, finally arriving at the top, where I emerged from the woods onto a jumble of granite boulders. Carefully, I climbed over the largest ones to an outer ledge, where I sat down in a niche to enjoy the view.
Up here, the leaves were multiple shades of green, bright yellows, pumpkin orange, and occasional reds. Below me, the forest was sprinkled with varieties of color that reminded me of a crayon box. Down in the valley lay the Shenandoah River, snaking its way northward, surrounded by fields dotted with farmhouses. Across the valley, the next range of mountains rolled into the ones beyond them. The air was clear, and I could see for miles. Just below my perch, a hawk cruised above the treetops, searching for its next meal. I closed my eyes, breathed deeply of the mountain air, and listened to the wind and silence. For a moment, it was sublime.
Golden Cathedrals
But then the spell was broken by the arrival of a group of noisy school kids and teachers, who clambered all over the rocks, yelling loudly, and disturbing my peace. After a brief lecture of some sort, their teacher herded them back into the woods and down the trail. My wife arrived about that time, so we enjoyed the view together and took a few selfies before heading back down. On the way down, we met two hikers coming up who were partially winded and ill-prepared for even this trail; street shoes and blue jeans are not the best clothing choices for an energetic hike. The woman, who spoke with an eastern-European accent, expressed delight to see us kitted up with our hiking shoes, poles, and backpacks, and asked her male partner to take her picture with us. She seemed thrilled to consort with “authentic hikers”, which tickled us no end. She appeared uncertain about continuing her hike, but we assured her that the top was not much farther and well worth the effort.
Over the next two days, we completed several more hikes to other outlooks and waterfalls. In the evenings, we attended ranger-led programs on wildlife and stargazing. One morning we wandered aimlessly through the Big Meadows in the middle of the park; earlier in the year it would have exploded with colorful flowers, but now it was filled with a cornucopia of seed pods, berries, and grasshoppers, whose persistent hopping stymied my efforts to photograph them. In the forests, the leaf colors were not the saturated reds of New England, but the brightness of the yellow and orange colors was still amazing. At several points along Skyline Drive, we passed through areas where trees completely overhung the road, their sparkling yellow leaves backlit by the low sun. I had the feeling of being in a golden cathedral, painted with heavenly colors that could not be recreated by humans. It was an otherworldly experience. Another week later would probably be the peak of fall colors and the leaf-peeping experience but this was still spectacular.
Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
A week later the air above our home was filled with the smell of smoke. It must be from fires in Canada, no? Turns out it was from forest fires burning in the Appalachian Mountains, including one in Shenandoah National Park, just a few miles from where we had been hiking.
When I think about forest fires, I usually think about California or other western states, where conditions are dryer, and there are larger tracts of undeveloped forest. On average, the state with the largest amount of burned acreage is Idaho, followed by the collective Southwest states of Oregon, Nevada, and California. But due to climate change, the area burned by wildfires has increased steadily since 1984, with the peak year in 2015 (over 10 million acres burned). The area burned is increasing more in the Southwest states than any other part of the United States. And forest fires are starting earlier in the year; the peak month of forest fires prior to 2001 was August, but fires now peak in July.
In 2022, the largest proportion (41%) of acreage burned was in Alaska, with over 3 Million acres burned. Alaska! I used to live there, but never thought of it as a hotbed of forest fires. But climate change is causing the northern forests to dry out, now. According to the National Interagency Coordination Center (NICC), the next largest proportion of fires were in the “Southern Area” which encompasses multiple states from Virginia to Texas. And over the past few years, we have become used to seeing smoky air from fires in central Canada. Recently, forest fires have become more common in the Eastern states, especially in the Appalachians. And this year (2023), there were many more fires in the Appalachian mountains of Virginia and North Carolina than in previous years. Fortunately, the Quaker Run fire was contained after burning only about 7000 acres, of which about 700 were in Shenandoah National Park.
This is a sad situation. On the one hand, I’m extremely glad we were able to visit Shenandoah at the almost-peak of its fall coloration. It is actually closer to home than I thought, and it would be easy to take off for a few nights in the park in almost any season. On the other hand, I’m distressed that the park, and the Appalachians in general, are now subject to devastating fires. That might make me think twice about visiting again in the Fall. But I would love to visit in spring when the flowers are blooming. I want to see Big Meadows in all its lush glory. And I’m sure it would be just as beautiful under a layer of winter snow, if the roads were open.
I’m already thinking about destinations for next year’s Hallowine trip. It’s the only cure for my Halloween Grinchiness. Now where did I stash those Reese’s mini cups?
Ecologist at Large is currently free for all readers. However, if you would like to support my work with a one-off contribution, click “Buy me a coffee” below.