dcseain | Went to Paris in the end.

At 08:58 GMT-5, i said, "Ok. I must leave the house today for at least a short while. I could hike along the river, or head out to the mountains. Other suggestions?"

I got one reply, from

moviebear, at 14:26 GMT-5, suggesting i join her for lunch in Gaithersburg, MD. She is one of the most wonderful people i know, and would love to have lunch with her, but about 10 min before she posted, I'd arrived in lovely Paris.

It's a charming little town in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, south of US 50 and east of US 17. Located on VA 710 in Fauquier County*, just south of Paris, is Sky Meadows State Park, which oddly has a mailing address of Delaplane**, VA, even though you can walk to the Paris post office from it. The USPS works in mysterious ways, so mine is not to question this, much as I may want to.

DISCLAIMER for readers who live in the Western reaches of North America: 'mountain', in English, is defined based on what the English call a mountain. What they call mountains are small compared to what we have here in the East. I realize our 'mountains' equal 'hills' in the Rockies. I've seen them. But alas, we work with what we have, eh?

And now, back to our story:

I was dressing to go out, as I was going out come hell or high water; happily neither made an appearance today. I decided to go there and hike the mountain trails. Decided to take Fred with me. Got there, and chose to hike the 1.7 mile North Ridge Trail, aka the Ambassador Whitehouse Trail (blue blazes), which terminates at the Appalachian Trail (white blazes) at a point about 2.5 miles south of US 50.

So we go up the blue blazed trail, and head north on the Appalachian. We got to US 50, which it crosses at Ashby Gap. There, we sat on some rocks and ate some roasted, salted almonds, some chocolate chips, and drank some elecrolyte-enhanced distilled water. (It's fun to read the orange text as the water level goes down).

We then began the climb back up the ridge, eventually reaching the blue-blazed trail. Not paying attention, we wandered off to the right from the trail. Found a family burial plot which is part of Okova Farm. Went down the mountain past it, and found ourselves in the springfield outside of Paris. Hm. This was so NOT part of the plan.

We traversed a springfield (if you're not familiar, it's a very wet area full of runlets [or creeklets, depending where you live], which creates a marshy, grassy area with scattered trees that tolerate sopping roots), then began to climb up the next ridge, following an animal trail. Came to a barbed-wire fence, which we went through. Continued up the ridge. Encountered a regular-wire, i.e. non-electric, fence, with a locked gate, which we climbed.

And went down the ridge, only to find we were heading back toward US 50. Not desireable, so we turned around. Went back up the ridge along a mowed, presumably fire, trail. Coulda been used to move cattle around too. That is a big beef and milk producing area. Anyway, eventually, at the very top, we found where we'd ~~started~~ gone wrong. We knew we'd gotten back to there because there was an old, abandonded power line, the kind the runs to a house or out-building in rural areas, which was broken.

We found the blue blazes again, and made the last mile down the mountain. The last leg of that trail, coming down, passes through cow pastures. My father's people are dairy farmers. I spent many a school vacation on the dairy farm. I was tense and exhausted. Then, being downwind, I caught a wiff of the cow barn. Instantly, I was relaxed and happy. Olafactory memories are fascinating.

We next ran into the very pleasant park ranger, or whatever VA call them, and verified that only 1 of the 2 cars pertained to us. Turns out she's grew up in Lakewood and Columbus, OH. My dad's from Licking***, which is east of Columbus, and my mom's from Cleveland, which is west of Lakewood. Small world.

Got back in the car, drove home on US 50, and got dinner in Herndon at Amphora's Diner Deluxe. I had an Amphora Omelette (Feta, tomato, onion, served with potatoes, and i requested an English Muffin, burnt. The waiter got it right! It came out blackened on top! That's the first time anyone at that restaurant has gotten my toast right. I was happy, and thanked him. Fred had a burger, and I finished his fries

So, longish story short, the planned 8.5 mile hike came out to more like 12, and most of it uphill. I am now well-fed, freshly bathed, and off to my bed, complete with freshly laundered linens, and tennis-ball-in-the-dryer-fluffed pillows. As a teaser, the footnotes to the story:

* Named for an 18th century governor, pronounced 'faw-KEER', though his Huguenot ancestors probably said it as 'foh-key-AY'.

** Pronounced 'DAY-la-plane'. It's corrupted French, and means Of/from the plain. The town is next to, and below, the town of The Plains.

*** Yes, it's really called Licking. Licking River, Licking County, Licking Township. (Do you really think i'd make up a name like that.) There are naturally occurring salt licks along the river, hence the name. And the profusion of dairy farms in the area. Though today, thanks to Columbus' booming population, the county is converting to horse farms in the east (where most of my family is), and housing in the west.