Hiking With Friends
Any trip has its highlights and memorable moments, especially if the participants are as diverse as we were, four women, three men, with our ages spanning around thirty years. Here are three noteworthy highlights for your delight.
In July 2026 seven Peninsula Ski Club friends went on a multi-day hiking trip in the Blue Ridge mountains. Several days without access to internet and cell phone networks was a much-needed respite from the onslaught of sensationalized news—the dominant international news being the ongoing war and backdoor negotiations between the U.S. and Iran—the slew of text messages, flood of must-see YouTube videos, and posts on various social media. Unlike our prior hiking trips, we opted for some of the comforts of modern life: A shower and nice bed in cabins with A/C.
As we hiked, we looked up, we looked down, we looked around. We took in all the wonders and beauty that abound. A short hike beyond Crabtree Falls we inadvertently crashed a modeling photo session in progress at a picturesque overlook that’s well-maintained for all who pass to pause and marvel at the beauty of the lush, green hills that make the Blue Ridge such a gem to cherish. There stood three attractive young women accompanied by a handsome photographer choreographing their poses. The models, or model wannabes, were dressed in sleek, tight-fitting, expensive-looking clothes and looked as if they had just stepped out of a limousine and were ready to walk the red carpet for their fifteen minutes of fame. The models were in their late teens or early twenties; I could not tell their age under all the makeup. Not bothered by our sudden intrusion, they did not throw even half a glance our way—a group of old and wrinkled commoners in loose, rugged hiking clothes who resembled hobos freshly tumbled off a freight train. Instead, they huddled at a corner and patiently waited for us to leave so they could resume capturing their beauty in the glowing midday sun, framed by the glorious mountain terrain. An image sure to adorn the cover of a magazine for their shot at fame and limelight in big cities.
To give you a feel for how pretty the models were, if in my younger years had I as much as said “Hi!” to them, their reaction would have been fury, eye-rolling, and if I dared to say another word, hoping for a conversation, they’d throw a look at me that said something along the line of, “You!? You talking to meee!? How dare you!?” To which I’d apologetically put my head down, walk away, and expect to disappear into the hole I was pretty sure had just opened behind me.
Yeah, they were that pretty.
My forty-something-looking comrade, however, did not think they were that pretty.
After a day of hiking, we relaxed around a campfire and learned more about each other. Yes, we actually talked. Being in a National Radio Quiet Zone has a grounding effect, reminds us how life used to be and how life should be, peaceful with closer personal interactions. We talked about ourselves and everything else, especially world politics.
We learned who is a vegetarian and who is a carnivore. Who likes cats and who likes dogs. Who has adopted a family of racoons for pets and who thinks opossums are awesome and cute. As my running joke goes, all conversations lead to politics and ours was no exception. We tread carefully, initially at least, tiptoeing on various topics suspecting our views mirrored the current atmosphere of society. We covered many topics and problems that ail our world, like wars, ongoing genocides, and of course the Middle East; you know, small stuff.
Being from the Middle East I’m used to being at the unenviable receiving end of all sorts of statements, opinions, and questions as if I am the sole authority and representative of the millions of Middle Easterners with all their diversity of cultures, languages, and religions. I don’t blame them; I’m probably the only one from that region they’ve ever known and that invariably brings up all things Middle East. I wonder, however, if maybe they feel comfortable discussing these issues with me and hope I can help them to understand the animosity and grievances both sides have toward each other. Maybe it’s their rage needing a place to land and I provide a convenient target. Or, there might be other reasons I can’t think of. Nonetheless, this small group of friends was no exception.
I understand they have many unanswered questions. The fact is I have many such questions of my own and I don’t have the answers to their questions either. Being from that part of world, I may have more insight into some topics, but it does not make me an expert, nor does it make me responsible for everything Middle East related. I can only share my understanding of the situation and give them my opinion. However, innocent and naïve questions like “Why is the Middle East always at war?” and “Why don’t they embrace democracy?” by someone with limited knowledge but strong opinion about the area and its diverse peoples make it difficult to have an intelligent and informative conversation.
Nonetheless, when the second or third generation Americans point their fingers at me and make statements and ask questions that start with “Your country ...”, “Your people ...”, and “Why are your ...” I can’t help but smile and wonder. When will America, the land that has been my home for over two-thirds of my life, ever become mine, my country, and they, my people too?
Rejoice! It all worked out.
We managed to solve all problems. Yes. All of them, without killing each other, although that night I slept with my door locked and one eye open. And we did it all in one sitting. Thank God for beer and wine. They helped greatly to smooth out some of the rough discussions. Civilization owes a great deal to these libations, which incidentally have their origins in the Middle East. How about that! And yet, their consumption is prohibited throughout the Muslim world. One might argue maybe alcohol prohibition is part of the region’s problem. I wouldn’t know. But I do know alcohol in any amount is poison to our body.
Consequently, in an unspoken memorandum of understanding we all agreed not to talk about these topics again. Ever. The next day, some of us hiked as far away from each other as we could while some others walked closer together for recognizing that people all over the world want the same things: Food, meaningful work, and a safe place to raise their family in peace. In other words, people do not want wars; they are dragged into them. Don’t take my word for it, let’s hear it from one of the experts, the Nazi Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring in his Nuremberg trial:
“Of course the people don’t want war. But after all, it’s the leaders of the country who determine the policy, and it’s always a simple matter to drag the people along… Voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked, and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism.”
Now, if you are dying to know the answer to our lively, keep-an-eye-open-while-sleeping discussions and don’t want to read about the rest of fun and memorable events of this trip, jump ahead to the end of this story.
None of these highlights, however, measured up to what happened on the Saint Mary’s Falls Trail. The worthy prize of the hike on a hot, muggy July day in Virginia was the view and cool water of the falls at trail’s end. Most, if not all of us, jumped in the pool below the waterfalls. Two of our daring hikers jumped off a cliff about fifteen feet high into a small pool below marked X with red paint on the water over the one spot the size of a coffee cup that’s deep enough not to hit the bottom if you aimed just right and jumped into it, feet first. To make sure the daring adventure was properly recorded in the annals of history, and as tangible evidence to brag about on social media later, a second jump was absolutely essential. They took turns and climbed the cliff. First came various poses for still shots. Then making sure cameras were pointing at them and recording their every move, they took the leap, jumped, and made a big splash—showoffs.
While we were eating lunch and busy with the delicate task of judging other jumpers’ leaps from that cliff, an extended family with small children made their journey to the site. Talking to them we learned they had recently arrived in the U.S. and were on a family outing. “Welcome to America,” said one of our friends. The family were unfamiliar with the area and unprepared for what awaited them at the end of the trail. But that didn’t stop them from taking a dip and their teenagers from showing off their prowess by jumping off the cliff repeatedly in whatever they were wearing.
Another memorable event that brings a smile to my face involved a lively young girl on our way back from the waterfalls. She had just climbed up the creek bank to the trail with her big brother in tow and their mother following along with their clothes—shout out to all moms for cleaning up after us in our younger and carefree years. They had been cooling off in a pool at the bottom of a small waterfall midway along the trail where we had passed earlier. Still shivering in her two-piece swimsuit with the cool water dripping off her, in a fortuitous moment of synchronicity, she had made it to trail just as we arrived at that spot. The young girl could hardly contain herself. So excited and proud of herself, she had to let the world know of her just-completed lifetime achievement. Stopping us in our tracks, looking straight at us with her bright eyes and glowing face, she blurted out, “I jumped in the pool I thought I had to be nine before I could jump it was cold and I told my brother we should come here again when we’re older and I jumped from there and ... and I thought I had to be nine before I could jump and ... and I jumped twice and ... and ... and I’m only seven years old!” before gasping for air.
We were captivated by her enthusiasm and I was in awe. “Wow!” was all we could say. A young girl had dared to challenge herself and lived to talk about it. She was so pleased with herself for jumping from a three-foot boulder into the pool below. Some of us can relate to standing on top of that boulder for the first time looking down. It probably felt to her like she was standing on top of Mount Everest and that jumping off was a leap of faith into an unknown chasm.
In solidarity with her euphoric moment and lifetime accomplishment, after waiting for her to catch her breath, I pointed toward one of our daredevils and said, “She jumped from the cliff at the big waterfall at the end of the trail. Twice! And she’s only seventy!”
(I don’t know my friend’s age; she looks forty-something to me. Regardless, she was a good sport and went along with my quirky sense of humor and my play on words—numbers actually—relating seven to seventy.)
The expression on that seven-year-old girl’s face, with her eyes wide as fried eggs, said it all: “Wow! She is older than my mom! Seventy!? Is that even a real number?”
Witnessing that young girl elated by her newfound ability, I can only imagine the many adventures she will have before she turns seventy! In the meantime, having lived through a daring accomplishment, I’m sure she will talk about it, recounting every minutia to her father, friends, and all who might listen.
Back to politics, the answer to all wars and problems in this world, in my humble opinion, is so simple a seven-year-old knows: Do The Right Thing.
You can always do the right thing. We all know we can but too many of us from seven to seventy fail at that task.
Mahyar Malekpour
July 2026