Purple Pill

 

Purple Berries

 

It was a largish purple pill. Purchased for ten dollars, as mescaline, that spiritual, cacti derived hallucinogen. But what was it, really? I took a swig from my canteen and swallowed it. I was tucked into a sheer cliff crevasse, a few feet below an overhang, just off the Appalachian Trail, next to Loft Mountain campground. I leaned over and peered down to the forest floor, 100 vertical rocky feet below. It was a warm, late autumn afternoon, peak leaves. I waited.

We were camping at relatively flat topped Loft Mountain, William, Wayne and I, sleeping in tents and the back of my Chevy van.  It was our favorite spot in the Shenandoah National Park. It was not then a busy campground. This permitted certain activities to be unobserved, hence, part of its allure.  I was seventeen.

I had a panoramic view to the south. Only visible were mountains, valleys, water gaps, and the forest. The sun was warm, there was a gentle breeze. I was secure in my hole, my back against the spine of the mountain.

 

Discrete cumulus cloud shadows drifted silently across the forest below and beyond. Breezes pushed up the valleys, rippling the leaves and limbs in a polychromic avalanche up the gaps, with swirls and flame-like eddies spinning into the hills. It was achingly beautiful, and peaceful. I was enveloped by natural beauty in front, solid and secure in back. Above, lapis sky, breathing shimmering forest floor far down below. I was alone, but I was not.

 

Much later, the sun touched the top of the mountain to my southwest. I carefully ascended to the trail above, collected my friends, and headed towards our campsite through the woods. Once out of sight of the trail, we became disoriented. The distorted camp sounds that we were guided by, wood being chopped, indistinct chatter, cooking utensil clanging, echoed and reverberated all around. We stopped, regrouped, and emerged in the campground, red faced and feeling somewhat foolish. We stayed close to the campsite that night.

I have had only two spiritual experiences, thus far. One was when I crossed over the rim of the Grand Canyon for the first time. Was it the altitude? The other was at Loft Mountain. Mescaline?

I visited Loft Mountain's cliffs recently, 55 years later, as I do occasionally. The forest floor has grown  up towards the overhang, the view somewhat diminished. It was almost a lifetime ago, but like yesterday. I no longer feel comfortable climbing down below that overhang. And I no longer feel comfortable taking a pill with unknown effects. But if you handed me that same purple pill now, I would swallow it.

Say, can I have some of your purple berries?
          Yes, I've been eating them for six or seven weeks now, haven't got sick once
Probably keep us both alive

Wooden Ships CSN and Y

 

Wick Hunt

 

Love Valley Rock Festival 1970

 

                                                    Love Valley Rock Festival 1970

I moved down to North Carolina with Brad after high school. We had just returned from Charlottesville where we had gone to harvest some of our 16-foot-tall cannabis plants. We thought we were clever to store them behind the roof liner of his van to dry and transport.  We heard about a rock festival at Love Valley N.C., a location which normally was a wild west reenactment venue. Supposedly if you came early to set up, you got in free. So, armed with about a pound of mediocre marijuana, we went.

It was anarchy. There were so many people, the town, normal population 99, was overwhelmed. Crowd estimates were as high as an unlikely 200000. It was dubbed “The South’s Woodstock”. Traffic was at a standstill. Lines formed at the few fresh water sources. Several scary biker groups showed up and apparently were hired for security.

Late one night I lost a hit of LSD in between the slats of the boardwalk. I was on my knees trying to fish it out when I heard a click, and a deep voice saying, “what the hell are you up to”. I looked up into the barrel of a huge revolver, being held by a man wearing a long winter underwear onesie, and a cowboy hat. I stammered that I had dropped a quarter and was trying to get it. He said “like hell you were, now git” I got.

The Allman Brothers Band was the headliner. I honestly don’t remember much of the music. But for some reason I distinctly remember one unknown person in the audience who periodically would let out a very penetrating high-pitched yowl, that would decrescendo into a hyena type cackle.The crowd loved it.

What with the overcrowding, we were lucky, we had Brads van to sleep in. And in my usual boy scout mode, I had brought food, probably a lot of Dinty Moore Beef Stew. And there was all that pot. 

I think we must have left early, because we did miss the incident at the end where a person who had been deputized, had a shotgun, and shot dead a man in traffic who refused commands. Like I said, it was anarchy. And it is interesting how the decades have sanitized the memories. Most accounts now gloss over the bikers, and don't even mention the killing.

Great pictures at https://buzzell.smugmug.com/Events/Love-Valley-Rock-Festival-1970. I didn’t see myself.

                                                              Wick Hunt

The Claudius Crozet Blue Ridge Tunnel

 

The Claudius Crozet Blue Ridge Tunnel

 

It was 85 sunny degrees outside. Inside the Claudius Crozet Blue Ridge Tunnel, it was a refreshing 60 degrees. The 4,273-foot-long engineering marvel pierced Afton Mountain with sweat, gunpowder and lives. Between 1850 and 1858 beneath Rockfish Gap in the Blue Ridge Mountains, progress was measured in feet per week due to the unexpectedly hard Catoctin Greenstone.

The east trailhead is located at 215 Afton Depot Ln. Afton, VA, below the top of Afton Mountain. The west entrance is at 483 Three Notched Mountain HWY, Waynesboro, VA. The east trailhead has a spacious parking lot with explanatory signs marking the beginning of the ¾ mile trail to the east entrance. It is an easy hike, with a gentle rise on level packed rotten stone walkway, partially shaded by adjacent Black walnut, locust and Sassafras. 

Unlike the west entrance’s elegant stonework, the east side is bare rock. 

As I enter the darkness, I see a small point of light in the distance. That is the west entrance.

 

Water drips from the ceiling, and puddles shine up from my headlamp. My somewhat inadequate headlamp does not illuminate the sidewalls, or my feet. The only frame of reference is the generally featureless packed rock dust path, and the pinpoint of light representing the other entrance. The effect is rather vertiginous. When I turn out the light, I can feel the mass of 620 feet of mountain above, or perhaps the presence of the 14 Irish immigrants and 3 black slaves who gave their lives to create this marvel. The point of light representing my goal does seem to slowly get larger, but also seems to recede. Finally, I enter sunlight on the Shenandoah Valley side. The western portion of the tunnel is lined with brickwork, the entrance dressed in artfully laid block. 

Still present are the remains of the gunpowder bores in the solid rock, painstakingly created by hitting a stout metal rod with a heavy hammer to chip a bit of rock, then rotating the rod a bit to prevent wedging, and striking it, again and again.

 I return into the cool dark, again a tiny point of light in the distance, this time the east entrance.

Want to know more? The nonprofit Blue Ridge Tunnel Foundation has done a wonderful job.

 https://www.blueridgetunnel.org/

Wear study footwear, expect some puddles, and bring a bright source of light, perhaps two! It is well worth a trip up the mountain, especially on a hot summer day.

                                     Wick Hunt