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Photo by Christine Anderson
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Photo by Christine Anderson
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Photo courtsey of the Virginia Department of Conservation and Recreation
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Photo by Christine Anderson
It was shortly after Christmas in 1996, and Ben Feher, his brother Jay and dad Joe, a Virginia Commonwealth University professor, decided to use the rest of the holiday break to skip out of Richmond for a four-day camping and hiking excursion in the Shenandoah National Park.
Before leaving, the trio, all experienced outdoorsmen, took the necessary precautions. In fact, everything was going great until nightfall of the third day. "We'd looked at the weather, but nobody could have predicted what happened," recalls Feher, today a camping and climbing specialist with REI outdoor sports co-op in Short Pump.
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What happened was the biggest snow dump the East Coast had witnessed in decades. Richmond received about 20 inches, paralyzing traffic and closing stores and businesses for days.
"About 3 a.m., we woke up and looked, and we were like, ‘Wow'," says Feher. He remembers peering through the tent flaps to see 18 inches of shimmering snow illuminating what little they could still make out of their campsite.
They considered their options, discussing breaking camp immediately to hike out then and there. But much more snow seemed unlikely — it certainly wasn't in the forecast — so they elected to stay.
By morning, 18 inches had become four feet. And four feet became an emergency for the three Fehers.
"We actually tried to hike through it," he recalls. With 11 miles to go, "about a quarter mile was about all we could do before we were completely exhausted."
And as they hiked, the wind began to blow.
Shenandoah National Park is a part of the epic Appalachian Trail stretching from Maine to Georgia, and trees with trunks painted white around the base help to delineate the trail. But white paint doesn't help much in a whiteout. And what is normally a well-trod narrow path didn't look substantially different from the rest of the forest, Feher says. So the men took a chance, breaking off the trail and heading toward what they hoped would be Skyline Drive.
Eventually, they came upon a well-developed camping area. Meant for novices, it had been closed for the winter — but it had a pay phone.
The first call was placed by Ben's dad to his wife: "We're probably going to be a little late," he told her. The next call was to the park ranger, who told them to expect more snow — and not much in the way of help for a few days. He advised them to hike to a nearby ranger station and break in.
Once they were in the relative comfort of civilization — a small space heater brought the temperature up to a cheery 40 degrees — the men took stock. Between them, they had a Snickers bar, a package of Uncle Ben's instant rice, some hot chocolate and energy-drink mix.
"The last night we were scheduled to be out there, we … [had done] what's called ‘trail magic,' " Feher says, lamenting a pay-it-forward ritual common among hikers. "We'd had a few extra cans of beans and chili, so we [left] them in the shelter for the next hiker."
Finally, on the night of their third day in the ranger cabin, a helicopter flew overhead, dropping some food rations.
Rescue, the three men knew, was on its way.
"The next morning," Feher says, "the biggest trucks I've ever seen, with huge chains on the tires, drove up."
