Shepherding Outdoors

“THE PONIES, DAD… THE PONIES”

BY WALT MERRELL

The wind ripped at my facemask and bit at my cheeks. My mittened fingers felt good as a second layer of insulation over my face and my breath ran away from my mouth like a long white ribbon dangling in the slipstream of my exhale.

“How fast is the wind blowing, Daddy?” Banks, my 12-year-old youngest daughter, yelled through the roaring blow.

“25 or 30 miles per hour would be my guess,” I hollered back as if to howl. Then I pointed to a rock outcropping a hundred yards or so further down the trail and nodded. Banks didn’t need another prompt. She understood that the leeward side of those rocks would give us shelter from the wind that raged over the peak of this mountain.

Earlier that morning we left our base camp and began an ascent to the peak of the highest mountain in Virginia. Snowfall the previous two nights had silted in the landscape and with temperatures not predicted to surpass freezing today, the veil of white should remain throughout the day. At 5,729 feet above sea level, Mount Rogers is twice as high as the summit of our home state’s champion, Mount Cheaha. Twice as high, and much, more formidable. The initial ascent was, quite literally, breathtaking. Banks took it all in stride as I labored through, gaining 800 feet in elevation in the first mile of our hike. Fit and trim, she hopped and leaped from one rock to the next, kicking patches of snow and, occasionally, bombarding me with a snowball. I laughed along with her, praying through my cardiovascular strain that sooner or later, this mountain would decide to start leveling out … and thank the good Lord, it finally did.

On our approach to Wilburn Ridge, one of three points we expected to make on the expedition, we found our juncture with the Appalachian Trial. After a couple of pictures and a brief respite, we continued up the AT, along the back of the ridge, towards the summit of Pine Mountain, the little brother to Mount Rogers, and also the necessary gatekeeper to the summit of the higher of the two. Wilburn Ridge, as one might expect, is the swaybacked ridge that divided the world into two segregated pieces behind the backbone of the mountain ... all that lay to the East and all that lay to the West. And it was magnificent. For the sky was particularly blue that day… the kind of blue sky that one only finds in winter. A winter blue that is unlike any other. It is deeper, brighter and clearer than the sky at any other time of the year. And the air was crisper and clearer, too. Refreshingly crisp at times, and standing in the swayback of the ridge, I was certain we could see for a hundred miles in either direction.

“Have you ever seen ‘this’ far before, Banks?”

She shook her head and never uttered a word. She simply gazed at the wide wonder and held my hand. “How many states can we see?” she finally asked.

“That’s North Carolina,” I pointed. “And there’s Tennessee. And out there is Kentucky.” And swinging my arm back over my shoulder … “and all of that is Virginia.”

She nodded again as she slowly turned a full 360 degrees. “It’s pretty cool that God made all of this for us,” she offered. “It sure is,” I quickly agreed. “But it’s ours to take care of, for the next generations. He calls us to be good stewards.” She nodded her head once again. She understood. That was all that really mattered to me ….

Hours passed, as did the miles. We summited Pine Mountain at 5,525 and made it to Mount Rogers, as well. The view, however, was less than expected. Completely shrouded by spur and evergreen pines, the summit’s view of God’s creation was far less appealing than that of Wilburn Ridge and Pine Mountain. Mission accomplished, though; it was time to start back. Low on water, snacks and sunlight, time was beginning to work against us. And the weather was too .…

Coming back across Wilburn Ridge was the first time we were exposed to the near gale-force wind that had haunted us through the trees for the previous hour. We knew it was fast and furious, but as it did nothing more than harass us in the treetops, we paid it little attention. I knew we’d bear the brunt of the wind’s wrath on some portion of our return hike back down the mountain, but I hoped to duck over the swayback of Wilburn Ridge and escape its brutality without much ado.

Which brings us to our present point .… Banks made her way towards the rock outcropping hoping to find some shelter from the wind. I followed close behind. Communication was difficult, at best. The wind roared in our ears such that we could only hear each other if we were facing directly towards one another. Nevertheless, Banks talked nonstop. After the third time, I simply quit asking her to repeat herself, and kept urging her to the safety and refuge of the rocky wind break. A few moments later and the rage of the wind ceased its ever-present squelch in my ears. A large boulder to our back pushed the roaring winds up and over us. As big as a school bus, this boulder pushed the wind so far upwards that the drone of the wind simply hummed overhead. It was, all at once, peaceful and serene. As if we had come in from the storm.

“We can see for forever from up here,” Banks exulted in utter amazement at the view. The sunbaked rock slab that we perched on was warm and inviting, as was the wide expanse that lay before us. We were quite content to lay there and soak up the panorama and the solar bath from the slab. Content and still … all, almost seemed quiet. Yet still, in the serenity of it all, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye in the spruce grove below us.

“Dark brownish-black fur,” I observed, without uttering a word to Banks, as the movement shifted out of sight and behind a clump of spruce boughs. Bears were known to frequent the area, but whatever this was, it was at least a hundred feet away … “Best to live and let live,” I thought to myself, “and not worry Banks with it either.”

Over the next few minutes, we shared an apple and a few slices of cheese, along with some water. I was a bit concerned that the savory sweetness of the Granny Smith apple’s scent might draw in our furry friend, but upon further consideration, deduced that whatever “it” is … is dead downwind anyway. It knows we are here, apple or not. Still, though, no reason to linger at the thought of a lurking Black Bear, so I didn’t give Banks time to get too comfortable after we snacked and enjoyed the view.

“Back into the hurricane,” I giggled. She smiled and lowered her head into her windward shoulder as she edged out around the safety of the boulder. We only needed to make another quarter of a mile before I was certain that we could drop down off of the swayback and out of the wind … but then again, the only thing that stopped us from dropping down now was that patch of fur. We trudged on another hundred yards or so until I saw an off-the-trail short cut that would get us out of the wind and cut back through to the main trail. “Come on,” I grabbed Banks by the hand and led her down out of the wind, quartering away from the trees where I saw our mysterious guest.

Safely into the confines of another spruce grove, the wind howled through the tree tops above us. Patches of snow and ice blotted the tundra’d pasture land of this meadow. Spits of greenish grass … greenish, like spinach might be greener than it is brown … dotted the landscape too. Accompanied by swaying sage, the meadow was trying to come into the newness of Spring growth, but the still harsh wintery nights of February had reminded Mother Nature that Old Man Winter was not quite ready to relinquish control. The high temperature that day at the summit of the mountain was 27 degrees…. not exactly "planting" weather back home in Alabama.

“Dad,” Banks’ voice commanded me to stop walking. Looking back over my shoulder, I found her gaze transfixed through the spruce trees. She was frozen… not even a shiver.

“What’s wrong?” I didn’t actually wait for an answer … instead, whipping my head around to try to determine what had captured her attention, but I couldn’t immediately see anything. My fear though, was that the mystery guest with the dark brown fur may have made another appearance. Within a split second, I was to my knees next to her … trying to “see” as only she could “see.”

“You see it?” She whispered. She dared not move a muscle for fear she might betray our secreted position.

Craning my neck slowly, I found a cantaloupe-sized hole in the spruce boughs … and I too finally set my gaze upon the object of her mysterious affections. A few yards away, standing broadly on all fours, stood one of the rarest animals in the world … a Grayson Highlands Wild Pony. In retrospect, I don’t suppose they are actually rare. Introduced to the region in the 1950s, the ponies have lived in these Virginia Highlands ever since, and have become a novelty attraction of sorts for hikers in the area. This particular pony … with deep brown fur as thick as an untrimmed sheep’s wool … and was close enough that I could hear him chew. Foraging in the light snow, the pony worked methodically and paid us little attention.

I took Banks by the hand and we made our way out of the spruce grove and stood below this bear-colored equine, watching him graze. Banks made her way closer … just so she could say "hello." And he returned the gesture, allowing her to scratch his head. Not long into their conversation, we realized there were two more ponies just up the slope … a blonde and a white pony.

Banks grinned from ear to ear as she looked back at me for a quick glance. I gestured that we need to be moving on … not wanting to disturb the animals for too long. She hesitated for another minute or two and finally relented. But I could tell by the look on her face that it was a moment that would stay with her forever ....

We found several more ponies in a lowland pasture near where our base camp was … Banks enjoyed watching them there as much as she did standing on top of the world and surveying all of Appalachia.

There is a certain love affair that some folks have with equine animals …. And I admit, I don’t necessarily understand it. My middle daughter Cape has that equine fascination … and I’m fairly certain, after watching Banks' eyes dance with fascination at the Grayson Highland ponies … that she does too.

Facts is, a few days later we were driving home after a week sojourning through the mountains. I asked, "What was your favorite parts of the whole trip?” She thought about it for a few minutes until she finally leaned back into her seat with a huge crescent-shaped smile of contentment and said, “The ponies, Dad. The ponies.”

Walt Merrell writes about life, family and faith. An avid hunter and outdoorsman, he enjoys time “in the woods or on the water” with his wife Hannah, and their three girls, Bay, Cape and Banks. They also manage an outdoors-based ministry called Shepherding Outdoors. Follow their adventures on Facebook, Instagram and YouTube at Shepherding Outdoors. You can email him at shepherdingoutdoors@ gmail.com.