The last hike report to be put before you under this byline brought the magic of place, family, and weather.
By Kurt Rheinheimer
Maybe this is the first scene: Six people, ages 8 to 79, out in the Washington Jefferson National Forest of Virginia on a February evening. Just behind the healthy campfire, their sleeping bags are deployed and waiting inside the six-person Cow Camp Gap Shelter just off the Appalachian Trail. The day has cooled from the above-60-degrees it was when they arrived in the afternoon to the point that jackets and hats are now deployed, hands are occasionally extended over the fire.
Above them, through the bare trees, the stars and the sliver of a moon are starkly bright. On the ground, the forecast is darker—rain or mixed precipitation overnight and into the day. That high percentage for cold rain, which now feels misguided, served to whittle their group down to about half its potential number.
Still, the six people—three sons in their 40s, a granddaughter of 12, a grandson of 8, and me—head toward tucking in with talking points like it’s a potential White Christmas…
Forecast still says mixed, with snow for higher elevations.
Impossible. Look at those stars.
Even that haze around the moon that says precip isn’t there.
It’s part of that Nor’easter, so you never know.
Flash back next for a glimpse at those people in short sleeves in the sunshine, taking off full backpacks before they built the fire.
Then cut to 7 the next morning as they awaken to a miraculous 2-inches-and-accumulating. Then witness from above a stretched-out line of six hikers making their way across the bald of Cold Mountain on the Appalachian Trail, sinking their shoes into a half a foot of snow. Visibility is a few hundred feet as blowing snow hits their faces from the west.
I have been across Cold Mountain at least a dozen times. On this day, as I brought up the rear far behind most of the younger hikers, the transformation of the mountain under falling snow was complete. I knew where I was headed (footprints ahead of me reassured), but I did not recognize any spot or rock. Now and again, the kindly, semi-reluctant granddaughter paused until I came into view, turned, and moved on into the snowfall. Time, distance, and perspective had all been supremely changed as I experienced my favorite spot in Virginia as I never had before.
Members of our family have undertaken a winter backpacker now for many years and each of those has delivered strong and cherished memories. This one, in the Mount Pleasant National Scenic Area, will remain with us for its magical natural extremes, which are the true gift of the mountains.
How could we get into the cars in Roanoke in shorts and shirtsleeves and then arrive, only 60 miles away, into cold, blustery winds? How could we set out up a mountain to where a planned leisurely, communal lunch would turn into people arriving when they could in ones and twos, taking a look at Mt. Pleasant’s fabulous viewpoints, unpacking a quick bite, and then hustling back down out of the cold? And then, on the way to the shelter, be back under warmth and clearing skies?
There were other extremes: Like two of the sons having gotten up even earlier than the rest of us to arrive at our destination in time to get in a mountain run before the hike. Like one son and his son equipping themselves with pretty much a hoodie, cotton pants, and maybe socks on, while the rest of us had full gear at the ready, including spiked shoes, high-end headlamps, multiple layers, rain gear, and, in the case of the old man, an umbrella.
But the weather was the star extreme. Back at home, The Greatest Day Hiker Of Them All—my companion for weekly hikes for the last 22 years—lamented not being there, before acknowledging that she should continue to live up to her title and just taste the winter backpacking vicariously. After all, there’s no call to test the perspective of the 8-year-old who told us around the fire that our campsite “would be lighter if Gigi were here” against the actualities of Gigi’s reaction to trying to sleep on the floor of a wooden shelter with five sets of distinctive male snores coming at her through the night. No reason to let reality creep into that boy’s sweet vision of his mostly sweet grandma.
The story above first appeared in our May/June 2026 issue.
