Homer’s unstoppable spirit on the Triple Crown
As we moved further into Virginia, the Shenandoah was in our sights. Frank Whitehead, my usual cohort, and I were ready to hit some more level ground. We were beginning to believe that the Appalachian Trail visionaries made great strides to include every hill and mountain between here and the start in North Georgia just for spite. Frank promised me smoother sailing which helped me talk Martin Hunley into joining us this time in case
I needed evidence to prove Frank was lying. Martin was a member of the Appalachian Trail executive committee and has been a maintainer of the Wiley Shelter in New York for years, despite having moved back to his native roots in East Tennessee.
We dropped our car at the iconic James River bridge and awaited a shuttle to our start point at the Dragon’s Tooth, some 70 miles south. A small Toyota pulled in with the unforgettable license plate, “I’m Homer”. Frank is known for dredging the most interesting characters to ferry us back and forth on our near-800 miles along this path and Homer may forever prove the most colorful. At 84 years old, he is a thru-hiking veteran, having finished his trek at the ripe young age of 66. Given our pace it was looking as if I may eclipse his seniority hiking into Katahdin.
Riding the hour or so to our point of resumption along the trail, Homer regaled us with trail tales both personal and from his clients. Homer still hikes and trail runs these sections in his part of Virginia which is quite remarkable to Frank. Every time Frank would marvel at one of our driver’s geriatric feats, Homer would turn around to me and say, “What is wrong with this guy?” Like Martin, Homer is deeply affiliated with the Appalachian Trail Conservancy and maintains sections as a volunteer.
We set off in the 90-degree heat and started climbing, climbing, and climbing. Twenty-two hundred feet was gained in our eight miles that first day, then we bedded down in the heart of this noted Triple Crown section. Water was scarce so we made camp outside a shelter and rested in anticipation of an exciting day. Few places have garnered the attention and photographic lenses of McAfee Nob. This prominence is so popular that shuttles are now required unless you are thru or section hiking like us. After a quick breakfast we were back out in the heat and reached our morning objective. There in all its splendor, replete with the crowds to boot, was the ballyhooed overlook fighting haze and hikers. People have fallen to their death here in pursuit of the perfect selfie.
Not wishing to become one, we dropped off the mountain toward the final and somewhat disappointing triple crown jewel, Tinker Cliffs that I wouldn’t have noticed had Martin not pointed it out.
My companion realized he was missing an important piece of gear as we forfeited most all the hard-earned elevation from the day. “My Croc must have fallen off up there!” And with that he turned around to add miles and stress to his already overworked body. That orange Croc had accompanied him on all his Appalachian trail adventures and he was not going to sacrifice it to McAfee Nob. I rested until his return, thankful for the break. We walked until there was water and bedded down again in a beautiful spot as Virginia whippoorwills lullabied us to dreamland.
Our miles had been short, so we needed to make up distance this day. Dropping down into Troutville, we planned to camp outside of Be Chill hostel and pick up a food drop there. As we crossed a busy road and began our final ascent, what did we see but a man push mowing this massive field on both sides of the trail. It was Homer in all his trail-maintaining glory. Frank had already cornered him as Homer proclaimed, “ I can’t get away from you guys.” Homer was sweating through what appeared to be at least three acres of hillside in 90-degree heat. Once again, Frank was praising the energy of our new friend and was going on about his abilities as Homer turned towards me and said, “You’ve got to talk to him.” As if all 84-year-olds were this spry.
It would take another two days along this portion of the trail in Virginia for me to lose Frank and Martin. I had a female friend meeting me and we would hike together for a little while, promising to catch up with my boys on up the path.
As we topped out on the Blue Ridge Parkway a solitary vehicle passed and came to a stop. Exiting the passenger side was a fellow section hiker evidenced by the hefty pack he dropped from the vehicle. My friend Toni made some comment about how this was the only car we had seen for days. Seizing this opportunity, I walked up to the driver’s window and began grabbing my friend Homer by the shoulder just to mess with her. He was destined to have to deal with the Tennessee troublemakers so I’m not sure who got the better story out of this section. I reminded him that we would be back for some more miles in a month so he could plan on being sick but when he saw my female friend, his disposition changed. “If she is going to be there then I will shuttle you clowns.”
She wasn’t able (or willing, given our antics) when we returned but we didn’t tell Homer. He kindly took us back to our exit point anyway from one month prior so we could finish our miles out to the James River Bridge. It would be our last time needing his services, much to our chagrin and his relief as we continue north into the Shenandoah as the Blue Ridge Mountains pull us out of his zone. But I am thankful for his assistance, patience and humor and highly recommend him to any section or thru hiker.
He did pull me aside as we hoisted packs from his trunk to whisper, “You still need to talk to Frank. I think something is wrong with him. He has this thing with old people.”