Seneca Creek Backcountry & Dolly Sods Wilderness, Monongahela National Forest, West Virginia

I’ll just tell this harrowing winter tale for my future self to remember:

The guy I usually backpack with is a schoolteacher, so we have to schedule our treks far in advance.  We typically do a winter backpacking trip just after Christmas, while he’s still on break.  This time, we selected the Seneca Creek Backcountry in the Monongahela National Forest, West Virginia, at the foot of that state’s highest peak, Spruce Knob.

The purpose of these photos is to capture the condition of the roads into said backcountry… The roads down there are dodgy in the best of weather: unpaved and narrow as driveways with steep drops off to one side and never any guardrails.  But here?  Here the narrow lane out to the tiny hamlet of Whitmer was patchily maintained.  A snowplow had made a cursory swipe through there at some point, and sand and gravel had been scattered thinly on the slippery surface for traction.  But shortly after Whitmer, the roads were completely untreated and untraveled.  We made the first set of tracks for about 7 miles in 10 inches of snow.  It was a little unreal.  

The unrealest thing of all was when we gave up on the snowy roads, found a trailhead, and decided to set up camp close to the car on our first night.  It was a meager 13 degrees and painfully windy.  My friend and I were walking around in the afternoon light, looking for a good place to pitch the tents—a level place, out of the wind—when he said, “What’s that noise?  It sounds like something…cracking.”  Exactly then, the unseen ice beneath his feet broke, and he sank into 5 feet of water…with a 40 pound pack on his back.  We had unwittingly ventured out onto a beaver pond that was hidden under snow.  Murderous beavers!  We managed to pull him out of the icy waters.  He was drenched, as was all his clothing, shelter, and gear.  I insisted—against his loud protestations—that we get a cabin for the night and try camping again the next night.  He unwillingly saw the wisdom of that, but it turns out that booking a same-night cabin on New Year’s Day isn’t all that easy.

Several state parks nearby do rent out cabins, but they were all closed.  And on a holiday, it can be hard to get a same-day booking through Airbnb and Verbo.  Others were not willing to rent out cabins for just a single night.  But then we found The Renovated Barn at Seneca Rocks…the little place pictured here, with a pet pig, and a few goats as well as chickens and ducks to keep you company.  We were so grateful for this place, even though it was a bit small for two old Gen X guys who didn’t want to share a bed…

My friend seemed really bent on conveying to our hostess the fact that he and I were not a couple!  I didn’t care.  She had a Great Lakes accent anyway, and I’m sure she’s seen plenty of same-sex couples coming through her doors.  We just needed a place to get warm, dry out his gear, and regroup.  Instead of looking at the stars from an outdoor fireside in the frigid woods, we lounged in this pleasant old barn and watched The Revenant on Netflix.  Of course, it had to be The Revenant.  Isn’t that the adventurous life we were pretending to live out there, away from our quiet suburban selves?  

I’ve never seen trees caked in snow and ice the way they were in the higher reaches of the mountains on that trip.

We would learn the next night, out on the trail, that collecting firewood isn’t easy when all the fallen wood is covered in ice and snow.  

The next day, with everything dry and ready to go, we decided to hike into our original destination from a different direction, crossing up and over the ridge of Spruce Mountain and going down the other side to Seneca creek.  But the fever dream of the previous day had us feeling a little edgy, so we quickly tucked tail and returned to the familiar safety of nearby Dolly Sods for a single-night camp in terrain where we didn’t feel so endangered by beavers and other unseen threats….

Here’s Weiss Knob, which is the pinnacle of Cabin Mountain.  It’s still an unclaimed peak in my online peak-bagging club, and just barely within the bounds of national forest lands.  There are many such unclaimed peaks in West Virginia, and I would have great fun coming down here to bag a half dozen of them in a long day of climbing.  But alas, I’d have to rent a reliable car to do such a thing…

Dolly Sods…again.  What can I say?  We hiked northward up Red Creek about 1.5 miles and found a streamside spot to call home for the night.  You don’t often get the Sods all to yourself, but we only saw two other hikers on this trip, and they were not camping.  Just one of the many reasons I love the month of January.

The day was less cold; it got up to 27 degrees, which felt absolutely balmy…

The skies were dramatic that night, with a bright full moon and irritable clouds drifting rapidly overhead.

We spent a few hours setting up camp and collecting dead wood for a fire—a wild conflagration that brightened and warmed the night till about 11pm, when we finally went to bed.  See how the firelight illumines its small ring in orange, while the moon casts pale shadows on the snowy forest floor all around.  We’d been sure to put our tents beneath the shelter of some low hemlock trees, which offered much protection from the cold wind.

And then?  Then I sat by the fire and took to snapping pictures of the night’s dramatic light-show through the trees.

It almost felt like a movie...a really quiet one without a strong plot.

Steam rose off my saturated socks as I warmed my numb feet by the fire.  We had decided beforehand to sleep in our own separate tents, even though a shared tent with shared body heat is a huge help when camping out in the winter.  I spent a bitterly cold night with insufficient gear—in a cheap “0-degree bag” from Dunham’s that kept me plenty cold till I finally and fully woke up around 4:00am, only to read a hilarious P.G. Wodehouse novel with numb fingers by the light of a headlamp.

But I did get some awesome photos of the changing light among the trees in early January in the mountains.

Hoye Crest, Backbone Mountain, Maryland

                                           

Hoye-Crest is the highest point in Maryland.  It's just one rise along the ridge of Backbone Mountain, which is located in both West Virginia and Maryland.  The trailhead up the mountain begins on the West Virginia side. For years, driving back and forth from Dolly Sods, I've seen this sign along US-Route 219, and I've always wanted to stop and do the hike to the top.  But the only reason I even go to the Sods is because my backpacking buddy is obsessed with the place--like the numberless hordes who descend on it each weekend--and he has no interest in climbing peaks.  Admittedly, by this point in the drive, you're either just really ready to get to the Sods or you're really ready to head home.  Stopping for an unplanned uphill trek doesn't usually hold much appeal.

And it is an uphill trek, but only about a mile in length.  I made a special trip down there just to bag this peak...my third state high point.  So far, I've bagged the high points for Pennsylvania, Mississippi, and now Maryland.  Of the three, this one is actually the prettiest.

There are some pleasant views along the way... At 3,360 feet above sea level, Hoye-Crest is 147 feet higher than Pennsylvania's high point, Mt. Davis.

And frankly, Hoye-Crest commands a better view.  This is one of the views from the top, looking east into Maryland.  There's a better view from a different spot at the end of this post. 

A side trail leads to this old boundary marker between the two states.

That heap of stones is at the actual summit.  Although it's not the highest mountain I've ever climbed, it was still windy and cold up at the top.  I was glad I brought an extra jacket, which I didn't need anymore by the time I got back down to the bottom.

It's scenic enough, right?  I mean, it's not a Colorado mountaintop panorama, but still pleasant.  And it's humbling to think that these mountains were once as tall as the Rockies, but they've been worn down over long eons of time.  Maryland is a nice little state.  They've got a little bit of everything, but not much of anything, if you know what I mean.  Mountains?  Check!  (Nothing too grandiose, but technically mountains.)  Beaches?  Check!  (Again, a little narrow and crowded...it's not Oahu, but you could swim here and get a sunburn.)  Major cities?  Check!  (It's Baltimore...but hey, they got one.)  One thing they have in Maryland is the coolest state flag of all 50!    

Dolly Sods via the West Entrance (Freeland Road)

Dolly Sods is beautiful, there's no denying it. But I'm getting more than a little bored with the place. It's extremely popular and uncomfortably crowded. I told my backpacking friend--who only ever wants to go to the Sods--that I'll only go back there on weekdays.

And so, we left after work on a Wednesday, got dinner at the excellent Purple Fiddle in Thomas, West Virginia, then parked in the dark along Forest Road 80, or "Freeland Road."  From the car, we hiked 4.2 miles to a campsite on the water along the Dobbin Grade Trail, with only our headlamps to light the way.

These photos are not in order. This is NOT the campsite where we spent Wednesday and Thursday nights.  It was here on the ridgeline--on the Rocky Ridge Trail--that we spent Friday night. And the photo just above is the sunrise as seen from that some ridgeline on Saturday morning.

It was a new experience for us to head off into the woods at night, but one we might repeat. The night was moonless and very dark. The stars shone brightly in pitch black skies. It was 11:00pm when we finally found a hidden spot to camp beneath the spruce trees and right along the narrow, upper reaches of the Left Fork of Red Creek. That first night at camp was a lot of fun. As tired as we were, we collected wood, built a huge fire, and didn't go to bed till 2:00am.

On Thursday morning, I wanted to bag a certain peak that was about 4 miles away, "Blackbird Knob." My friend spent the day at camp, and while he was there a big group of 10 guys set up very close to our camp. They were noisy, and one of them started playing music on a Bluetooth speaker.  Who comes to a wilderness area in a national forest and plays music on a speaker?

If you feel the need to play music in the woods, then just exit the forest and go back to whatever noisy place you come from. You don't understand the trees, the owls, the gurgling water, the breeze in the treetops, the howling coyotes at sunset. These things are not for you, and they can't help you, so at least refrain from ruining them for the people they can help--namely me. (The same goes for anyone who feels the need to play music at the beach. The ocean is the Mother-of-All-Life! Turn off the Bad Bunny and LISTEN TO HER!)

Here's our first campsite--for Wednesday and Thursday nights. 

When the radio started playing, less than 200 yards away, my friend said, "I'm going over there to ask them to turn it off." Away he marched. He said they were very nice about it, but I was more than a little impressed with his courage...to walk into a campsite with 10 strangers and ask them to turn off their music. 

I did indeed bag the summit of Blackbird Knob, though there is no official trail to the top, just an overgrown path. And there are no views up there either. This is not the peak of Blackbird Knob; it's just a scene along the Upper Red Creek Trail.

The fall season is well advanced up above 4,000 feet. It was hot in the sun and cold in the shade.

This is actually the summit of Blackbird Knob, for whatever it's worth. 

There were so many millions of teaberries, aka "wintergreen," all along the trails at the Sods. And the wild blueberry bushes were ablaze in this russet-crimson color. Some withered-but-edible blueberries still clung to the branches.

On Friday morning we decided to move our camp up onto the ridge, along the trail back to the car, so that the walk out on Saturday wouldn't be as long. By this time, the Sods was OVERRUN with people, including a lot of very large groups traveling together. Why do we keep going back there? It feels like Orlando with expensive gear.

On Friday, we came across a solo hiker--a fellow our age--who fell into step with us and became a companion for part of the day. I do go to the woods to be alone--or almost alone--but it's fun to make new connections, too. (The guy I backpack with, though he's far more extroverted than I am, does not like making new friends on the trail, and it kind of showed.)  The new guy had a pistol strapped to his chest! Isn't it interesting, the things people take with them to the trees...loud music, a Bluetooth speaker, a gun. 

On Wednesday night, as we were headed up into the Sods, we stopped at a store in the town of Davis to buy a few things. The checkout girl said that she'd only had 1 day off in 2 months. When I said that didn't sound legal, she looked at me and said, "I have three jobs. Everyone up here has at least two." 

Rural poverty. It's just as real and just as crushing as urban poverty. Some things about rural poverty are worse because when you live in the country, you cannot make do without a car--which means purchasing one, maintaining it, putting gas in it, and insuring it.

We had a blazing fire each of the three nights on the trail. The whole wilderness was scented with the light, mind-clearing aroma of spruce trees. Drought had done its worst, but the Dobbin Grade Trail was still a boggy mess--just not quite as bad as usual. 

So, there are several entrances to the Dolly Sods Wilderness Area. The south entrance to the Red Creek Trail is popular. There are lots of entrances from the east, along Forest Road 75. But for a less crowded experience, try the west entrance, following Freeland Road, which eventually becomes Blackbird Knob Trail.

Roaring Plains Wilderness

The Roaring Plains Wilderness is so named because the winds are forever roaring over its boulder fields, which definitely do not pass as "plains" in my world.  Come to think of it, while we were there, the wind did more murmuring than roaring.  But the only name worse than "Whispering Plains" is "Murmuring Plains," so "Roaring Plains" it is--even if both "roaring" and "plains" are misnomers.  This is the view from our first campsite, far, far off the trails in the Roaring Plains Wilderness and along the Allegheny Front.

The Allegheny Front is a long cliff or "escarpment" that divides two separate provinces of the Appalachian Mountains in this part of the country.  It is very much a sheer cliff here in West Virginia, where the topography is so much more dramatic than in Maryland or Pennsylvania.

My backpacking companion is a school teacher, and he was returning to school the day after we returned from the backpacking trip.  For that reason, he was unusually distracted and silent on this otherwise excellent trek, where we covered exactly 21 very difficult miles in three days.  

I'm not sure how many times I've been to Roaring Plains.  At least three.  In June of 2022, I came with this same guy, and we had to cut the trip short because he got shingles.  (Wimp!)  Then I came back alone in August of 2022 for a few days of misty solitude.  Then there was this trip.  But wasn't there another one?  Each time here offered a very different experience of the exact same place.  This time around, the Roaring Plains were...ominous, lonely, desiccated and more beautiful than ever.  It was very strange to see this place under a full-blown drought.

No official trails lead to the loveliest parts of this wilderness area.  I suppose the Forest Service is trying to protect this place from the same kind of traffic that Dolly Sods Wilderness experiences.  The Sods are very nearby and so overrun with visitors that I'm loath to go back.  But in three days here at the Roaring Plains, we saw not another soul.  

It is truly an odd place.  You almost never hear the birds singing here.  You see birds, but they're likely to hold their tongues.  (Birds DO have tongues, don't they?)  This time around there were clouds of black flies, which swarmed during the day.  The trees were losing their leaves from the dryness and the scorching heat.  Water was hard to come by.  Distances were hard to gauge.  And--believe this or not--Forest Road 70, which leads 3.4 miles from Forest Road 19 out to this remote wilderness, was uphill both ways.  Yeah, that's right.  I know it doesn't make sense, but it was uphill both ways.  Go walk it and tell me if I'm wrong.

The spruce trees, the gray rocks, the moody skies.  It's much like Dolly Sods except woodsier.

Don't go off-trail here without a trail app.  In fact, you might need a trail app even if you stay on the officially-designated trails, which are hard to find in places, and of which there are only two: The Roaring Plains Trail and the Flatrock Run Trail.  This pic and the one just below were taken from the boulder field along the old, unmarked and disused Rim Trail, which runs along the edge of the Allegheny Front escarpment.

Look at that view.  Scrambling over these rocks for a quarter mile or more was real work with 40 pound packs on our backs.  But you can't get these views from the officially-designated trails.  You've got to look for the old paths to this place--which I originally discovered years ago on an outdated website that called the abandoned trail system the "Jonathan Jessup Hidden Passage."

Occasional rock cairns mark the way as the neglected trail runs along the cliff's edge.  In many places, there's no other way to know if you're anywhere near the trail, which is invisible to the eye.

I took a photo from this spot back in June of 2022, which is how I knew that we were deeper into the wilderness area than either of us expected.  See how the spruce tree is "flagged" by the wind?  Winds come down so hard over these upland boulder fields that branches cannot grow on the southwest side of the trees.

The search for water became serious out here on the rim.  Water rarely springs from the ground along ridges in the Appalachians--or probably in any mountains, for that matter.  And there was a drought in full swing, to boot.  We ended up filling our water bottles from a suspicious-looking puddle that stood six tenths of a mile from our campsite.  We double-treated the water for bacteria and parasites.

It did rain hard the first night, but there was no way to capture the rain.  Wild blueberries and raspberries were ready for picking.  We came across a few apples, but they were not quite ripe, which didn't stop me.  See the rainbow with blueberries in the foreground?

On our second night, we camped at a spot where we had camped the last time we were here together.  Here's the view from that place.  It was a long trek back to the car on our last day, over five miles, during which my friend grew gloomier and gloomier.  That's probably why people don't really come to Roaring Plains.  It's just so remote.  Then?  Then it was back to the city for us, back to the lives we were trying to forget, if only briefly, back to the places we call home, back to the duties and demands of suburban, professional life.  The end of summer loomed large over this trek, suffusing it with a kind of gloom--which is too bad.  All seasons are beautiful and good--even the ones that come around too soon.  And though there's much in our lives that we did not choose and never would choose, still we do choose to keep going back to the things we were escaping.  I'm glad there are places like Roaring Plains where we can take vacations away from those other selves we become.  We carry the silence and the beauty of this place with us back to our quotidian lives, and it makes them better, slower, kinder, less callous.  It gifts them with the grace of wild things.