Heavy fog already crowds the windshield of our buddy Taylor’s truck as the six of us wind through the Monongahela National Forest. The ridgeline of North Fork Mountain, an area of West Virginia’s eastern backcountry known for its consistently dry climate, is accumulating ominous formations. The driest trail in the region is about to be covered in clouds.
“The doctors have bailed,” Caleb says in the front seat, sliding his phone back in his pocket. He takes a pause before turning to face the backseat. “And yes, it’s definitely gonna rain.”
Caleb, my brother-in-law who works at a local hospital, initially hatched a simple plan: a one-night backpacking trip on the 25-mile North Fork Mountain Trail (NFMT). To sweeten the deal, a few of his doctor friends volunteered to meet us at the trail’s halfway mark— something we’ve dubbed the Midpoint Oasis—where they would greet us with a raging fire, steaks on a grill, and bourbon poured directly into our mouths. But their sudden cancellation means our attempt at a cushy, effortless backpacking getaway is rapidly dissolving into something else. With the Oasis off the table and heavy rain inevitable, the plan is taking major blows.
“So, maybe it’ll be a sufferfest… I’m okay with that,” Caleb says, doing his best to convince the group. “It’s a better story.” We nod along in the backseat.
“Who among you doesn’t love a soggy sufferfest?” I ask, but no one responds.
As with much of West Virginia’s backcountry, the NFMT is rugged. It begins with a mild incline beneath a hardwood canopy. As the path grows steeper, the footing gets wilder. The uneven, rocky trail follows the eastern edge of the ridgeline, sloping both upward and sideways. Tucked safely in the rain shadow of the Allegheny Front, the NFMT, famous for outstanding vistas and predictably dry weather, is considered one of the best hikes in Appalachia. A significant portion of the trail’s mileage traverses vertical cliffs that float high above Seneca Rocks and other river knobs of the Germany Valley to the west. It’s a perfect playground for those seeking no-frills adventures, rough terrain, gratifying miles, and unrelenting views… usually.
“Can this thing make it off the hill?” we anxiously ask. After dropping off the shuttle vehicle on the NFMT’s northern terminus, we wind along the South Branch Potomac River through twisted country.
“She’s truck enough,” Taylor says. He pats the dash, ignoring the steam coming off the front brakes.
“I need some air,” says Luke, clawing at the back window. “If 100 percent is puking, I’m at 70 percent.”
Just getting to the southern trailhead on Judy Gap has been harrowing. We arrive with groans of relief at a poorly marked pull-off along U.S. Route 33. We gear up on the road’s shoulder, lifting our backpacks and lighting cheap cigars like it’s the 1924 Tour de France, trying everything we can to keep our spirits high as dark clouds close in around us.
“A bold strategy,” I tell JJ, who is strapping a pistol to his thigh. He drove all the way from Florida to join us for his first backpacking trip. “No chance you wear that even two miles.”
Exhaling smoke, he says, “You’re on,” and cinches the strap down harder.
Miles in, we stop on one of the many west-facing overlooks that drop abruptly to the Germany Valley floor. “Soak in the sights while we got ‘em,” Caleb says, his eyes covered by drone goggles. He stares blankly ahead, his back to the mountains sprawled along the gray horizon. Through the goggles, he pilots the drone in first-person on a stomach-turning flight down toward trees before floating back up along the cliffs.
Preston, our friend and missionary guide home from Zambia, leans past the edge, his toes balancing on air. “Okay, I’m 40 percent puking! 50!” Luke shouts, averting his eyes.
“Forgot you don’t like the heights,” Preston says, leaning out further. “Quite the drop.” A pebble slips and plummets into treetops hundreds of feet below.
As if in response, thunder rumbles in the distance. The clouds above the adjacent mountains boil upward, churning on angry currents. Only slivers of sunlight remain between the ground and the rapidly forming cloud wall. A solid, gray block looms in the west, dense and trembling, its dome arcing into the sky above us. Exchanging nervous glances, we hoist our backpacks. With new motivation, we leave the ridgetop views behind.
We stagger down the fire road just before dusk. We’ve reached the halfway point. The campsite isn’t much, but it’s near the NFMT’s only water source, an unreliable mountain spring situated at mile 12. We pitch the tent in the powerline clear-cut that intersects the fire road—our first sight of flat ground since striking off from Judy Gap.
We rush to get a fire going. Darkness comes quickly, dragging in cold air as it sweeps over the ridgeline. We power through a ramen soup and dehydrated mashed potato mixture we call Ramen Bombs. Pouring hasty drinks, we toast to making camp before the incoming cloud consumes the mountain. But the relief is fleeting; we know we won’t stay dry for long. We all watch JJ attempt to set up a hammock along the edge of camp, gun still attached to his leg.
“I drug the hammock out here, I wanna use it,” he says, noticing his audience, but only the drops of rain on the trees convince him to stop. One by one, the six of us stuff into a four-person tent, bracing for the storm as we try to fall asleep.
We wake to eerie twilight with fog drooping around us. The pitter-patter on our tent throughout the night has given way to a steady roar. We scramble to get our sleeping bags out of the puddles growing in the corners. Making coffee in the vestibule, staring out into clouded chaos, we prepare for the shock of going from dry to drenched in an instant.
“High and dry,” I seethe through a mouthful of protein bar, quoting a 2017 NFMT write-up from this very publication. No one is moving. The tent door is framed by six men in rain gear, frozen, hoping for something to shift. Outside the vestibule, the forest hisses.
“If 100 percent is puking…” Taylor says. Throwing back his black coffee, he disappears into the snarl and spray.
Hours later, the rain is still pouring. We’re moving fast, trying to make up for our late start. The ridgeline has transformed from a typically arid wilderness into a dripping jungle. Our headlamps ping out over swirling vapor. We are walking in a cloud.
The trail evaporates behind us, materializing again a dozen yards ahead. Pixelated blankness replaces the edge of the cliffs, disguising the sheer drop to our west. Everything is filmy, like fogged-up glasses. Chimney Top, the NFMT’s grand finale and our final checkpoint, floats unseen in the mist—a world unreachable, a place I hope is warm and dry. Who would hike in weather like this? I wonder, slipping over loose rocks. “Only idiots!” I shout into the static. We are in the thick of it now. With no other option, we scramble onward, six orbs of light lost in the clouds.
We are adrift in a rhododendron thicket when the rain stops. The howling white noise is suddenly substituted by stillness. The air on the ridge drops, pressurizing. Our ears pop in response. Gray particles hang limp in the air. We move through them; they collect like smoke on our clothes.
The trail ahead is expansive emptiness, nothing but mist. We push into it slowly as if entering murky water—exploratory, cautious steps. Treetops seem to appear at random, suspended on unseen strings. We know the sun is overhead, but little light can reach us. The diffused rays are too weak to penetrate the canopy of cloud and branch.
“Waterproof boots are a double-edged sword,” I say, as we wring out our soaked socks.
Preston tips over his boot and a full cup of water rushes out. “Swimming in that all morning,” he says. The boot gushes as his foot slips back inside.
“Mile 18,” Caleb announces, checking his watch. The footing here is even steeper, more overgrown. Our rain gear saturates as we scrape past dripping rhododendrons on both sides. “Up there is the overlook,” he says, pointing at a dense portion of trail.
Bushwhacking up the steeps, we arrive at yet another overlook, or what would have been on a normal day. Each time we approach the cliffs, I imagine there will be a break in the fog, a window to finally see the valley, crinkled and folding beneath us. Instead, all we see are clouds.
“Maybe it’s clear up at the top,” I say, unconvincingly. “You know, heat rises and all that,” I continue. Everyone stares. Mumbling under their breaths, they move away from the edge. A little less hopeful, we return to the rhododendron thicket.
Standing on Chimney Top is ghostly. It is a temple among the clouds. Quartzite pillars line the summit like statues. They seem to balance on the haze, foundationless, floating free. Happy to be on top, we drop our bags and run among the rocks, hopping gaps that we would never attempt if we could see the true distance to the bottom.
The way up to Chimney Top passed through the cloud’s thickest layers. But here, at the apex of the hike, the mist thins out. All the gray around us melts into blinding white. With more light spilling in, the air glistens like suspended glitter.
“Just a coupla’ waterlogged boys,” I say as we sit on the edge, dipping our legs down into the vapor that clings to the cliffs. Together we watch the fog roll past. Still with no views, but there is the sensation of floating. The slight movement of the mist makes it feel as if the ridgeline came untethered and is drifting toward the sun. Weightless, we surf on the tide. I imagine if I stepped off, I would be supported by the haze, walking on clouds.
Blinking away the dream, I rise to my feet. “C’mon,” I say. “We’ve got Yokum’s fried bologna waiting for us in the valley.” We lift wet packs the final time, knowing we have a long descent to the truck. Sopping, sore, and satisfied, we all turn to look out over silver space stretching forever. It’s close enough that we can reach out and touch it. Everything is glowing. Every atom pulsing, perfect and alive.
We are lost in the scene, each of us attempting to harness the moment. “Who doesn’t love a soggy sufferfest?” I ask, but no one seems to hear me.
Nate Lavender is a travel writer currently exploring the west in his 90s Airstream. He is writing about the dirt life and trying every day to live better stories.
