I'm not new to Shenandoah, but I'm not a local either.

I've hiked Old Rag twice and knew the route well enough to feel confident going alone on a weekday in late October.

I wanted the leaves before the first frost shut down the best color.

I bought the day-use ticket online, printed it, and set it on the dash.

I parked at the old rag lot near netheres a little after nine in the morning,

shouldered a small pack, two liters of water, a rain shell, first aid kit, a snack, a paper map,

and told myself I'd be off the ridge before the afternoon fog the forecast mentioned. I had read

the bulletin at the kiosk, slick rock, poor visibility likely after one. I planned the standard

loop up the ridge trail and down the saddle trail to weekly hollow fire road back to the car.

Nothing fancy. I wanted a steady climb, a careful scramble, and a quiet walk

out. The trail was lively at the start. College kids from Charlottesville, a couple in matching

jackets, a father and teenage son talking about the rock scramble like it was a right of passage.

We leapfrogged one another through the lower switchbacks until the grades

steepened and the chatter spread out. That's where I first saw him, about 20 feet off the trail,

standing still under Mountain Laurel, a faded orange beanie, and a hunter green jacket,

hands jammed in his pockets. He didn't look at the view, or his feet, or

the blazes. He looked right through the line of hikers and didn't move aside. No pack. I gave a

quick morning out of habit when I passed. Nothing came back. I kept my pace on the blue blazes

and tried to let it go.

People come out for all kinds of reasons.

Some are quiet. Some don't like talking.

I stopped near a low quartz outcrop to retie my right boot and drink.

...