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Stuart Revercomb

Stuart Revercomb is a marketing consultant and joyously married father of four children. He seems to remember someone once telling him he ought to be a writer. "The Unseen Here and Now" -- Thursdays.

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"Thursday's Fare"

How about this weather?

By the time you read this it will probably be 37 degrees and raining, but as I write, it is 72 and sunny and has been through the entire month of October and into early November. Friends who recently moved to town from Alabama think Roanoke has the greatest weather pattern on the continent.

"I never knew Virginia had the same weather as Southern California," Jason recently stated on a hike he and I were taking with our 7-year-old sons George and Alex up the front side of Mill Mountain.

"Well ... it's usually not quite so balmy," I replied huffing and puffing my way up an old abandoned fire trail. "In fact, an October snow is not that unusual ..." I allowed myself a daydream of an Everest-like snowstorm descending on the city that was slowly sinking beneath us -- trapping us on the side of the steep mountain.

"Not likely to happen today," I thought wiping the sweat from my brow. Even if it did, Jason and I were somewhat prepared. Being typical overprotective 21st century dads, we had each brought our cell phones in case of an unforeseen twisted ankle or other emergency.

I know, I know -- it's just too easy these days, but it's hard not to be careful when you can be. Besides, we could order up pizza and a rescue team if the rogue winter storm should arrive.

After a short traverse across the lower third of the mountain, we broke out into a clearing that is part of a swath cut out for the power lines. It is the same open strip that was once used by the Mill Mountain Incline Co. to carry passengers by trolley car to the top of the mountain at the turn of the century.

It afforded a wonderful view of the valley below. The Roanoke Memorial Hospital heliport was directly beneath us, as were the soccer and baseball fields of the Rivers Edge Sports Complex. On the far western side of the valley the mountains rose purple, gray and gold beyond the airport.

"WOW...," crooned George and "Big Al" in unison, "We're WAY up here!"

"But not as high as we're gonna be -- you guys want to go to the top?" Jason queried.

"You bet ya," came the reply. We continued along the fire trail to a point where it began to descend.

"Well, time to go up," I advised.

The boys were excited as we scrambled on all fours up through the steep woods toward a section of the old road that winds up the front of the mountain. Mill Mountain looks moderately steep from the valley below, but as you ascend to the midpoint of the mountain and beyond, it is more a cliff than a mountain. By the time we reached the road we were all ready for the break it would afford. Even "the Ab-Dog" was looking pretty winded.

We followed the century-old stone walls and leaf-strewn asphalt roadway past the "rock mansion" and over the "switchback bridge." We were about two-thirds up by now.

"Time to head up again boys," Jason said, spying an old set of stone steps on top of a wall that may have once been part of a drainage system. George and Al climbed determinedly up and we lifted the Ab-Dog to the top of the wall so she could continue.

Fifteen minutes later we broke into the clearing just to the right of The Star. We brushed ourselves off and headed for the overlook. An elderly stranger saw how sweaty we were and said, "I'm not going to ask how you guys got up here ..."

"The easy way," one of us replied.

We savored the view of the warm, yet crystal clear autumn day below.

Finally Big Al asked the inevitable question, "How are we going to get down?"

"Oh, this is the fun part," I replied, "We just let gravity do the work from here." And it did, but we had perhaps a bit more of it than we needed. All of us performed some pretty long fanny slides on the way down. But they weren't the most painful part of the trip.

Just as we reached the lower fire trail that would take us comfortably back towards home, George yelled out in pain, "DAD! I think I broke my knee!" He had fallen to the ground and was grasping his leg in pain. I started to lean over to help him and as I did so something buzzed by my ear. George began swatting wildly at his face.

We had shattered the calm of the afternoon for a couple of hundred North American Bald Faced Hornets -- known in more scientific circles as "Dolichovespula Maculata."

I can not pronounce these two words in succession, nor individually for that matter, but they do seem to capture the spirit of the beast. Whatever you call them, they were not happy with us -- nor we with them. But alas, we were not armed for a fight.

Cell phones are of little use against hornets.

There was no need to bark a warning. Jason and I simultaneously grabbed our respective sons and shot down the path at a pace that Olympic sprinter Michael Johnson would have admired.

Gravity was no longer a factor.

After 100 yards or so we stopped running and, holding our collective breath, looked warily back up the trail. The buzzing had stopped. The hornets were gone. We all bent over and breathed hard in exhaustion.

Moments later we took stock of George's wounds. He had a very large sting on the back of his leg in the soft crease of his knee and a milder one on his cheek. Big Al and Jason hadn't escaped either -- they both had stings on their legs. Ab-Dog was rubbing her muzzle with both paws, having been stung just below her right eye. The only "sting" I felt was the guilt of emerging unscathed.

The rest of the trip was both literally and figuratively "all down hill from here." The boys were brave regarding their injuries, but at some point both declared that their "hiking days were over."

Jason and I knew better than to pick this moment to lobby them otherwise. A little time would be needed to get beyond the experience. But it didn't take long. By the end of the trip with the promise of some apple cider on the horizon they began to come back around.

"I don't guess this is a hike we'll ever forget," one of them said as we slid the last 100 yards through the leaves and out of the woods.

"You can say THAT again," the other replied with the hint of a smile.

Time does indeed heal all wounds. Even the sting of the dreaded "Dolichovespula Maculata."

Find out more about this hike and lots more by clicking here