The Shenandoah Valley runs in a north-south direction between the Blue Ridge and Appalachian Mountains in western Virginia. These are the oldest mountains on the continent, born in a rift with the earth a billion years ago.
The two forks of the Shenandoah River conjoin above Massanutten Mountain, a rock formation three thousand feet tall and forty miles long set in the middle of the valley, like Devil’s Tower on steroids. The unified river continues north to Harper’s Ferry, where it joins the Potomac River, which joins the Chesapeake, which joins the ocean. Everything flows everywhere. And now I was flowing with it.
The origin of the name Shenandoah is hidden in mystery. Some suspect the name refers to a lost tribe, the Senedos, who disappeared from the valley long ago. The name is translated in several ways. The most popular interpretation is Daughter of the Stars. I prefer Silver Water.
I followed Highway 81 which followed the south fork of the Shenandoah River through the eastern part of the valley. North didn’t seem backwards this time, maybe because we were both flowing home.
Suddenly I had a visitor. A hawk landed on the highway shoulder just in front of me. I had never heard of a raptor landing like that, flat on the ground on the side of a busy highway with no prey in sight. Yet there he was. Taller than the steel guardrail, he looked enormous, and very much like the hawk that led me out of Pipestone.
In a blip, I was past him. In a blur, he was gone. I looked for him in the rear view mirror. He had vanished.
Cruising up the valley, guided by Silver Water, Mozart quintets, and the handsome splendors of autumn, I was content. Years before I had visited the caverns of the Shenandoah—Luray and Endless—souvenirs of yet another ancient sea. I dismissed them now. Subterranean worlds no longer beckoned me.
Angling east across Virginia, I-66 carried me into home territory. I cut through Leesburg, then took White’s Ferry across the Potomac River into Maryland, following familiar paths to familiar places, until finally I pulled up outside my home. Bernard and I waited in the car for a while.
Maryland is the Green state. But I had never noticed the colors of my home before: the key lime of the house itself, the dark Christmas of the evergreen trees flanking the door, the waxy green of the shrubs on either side, and the myriad emeralds of the grasses.
I looked at myself in the rearview mirror. Then I turned to Bernard and said:
“We’re home. And everything looks different.”
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