Solo Overnight Backpacking || Shenandoah National Park

There’s a well-known saying in the military: “No plan survives first contact with the enemy.” The same often holds true for adventure—our best-laid plans can quickly fall apart when they collide with the realities of daily life. More often than not, when a plan fails, we end up abandoning the idea altogether. I know I personally struggle with adjusting when things don’t go as expected. I had planned to ride the C&O Canal, but bad weather threw those plans off course. Life didn’t pause either, so I had to shift things around and make the most of what time I had. In the end, I carved out just 24 hours for adventure—but I made them count.

The plan was to head out on a solo overnight trip to Shenandoah National Park. Early in the week, I wasn’t sure if it would be a bikepacking trip or a hike. By midweek, the forecast made that decision for me—rain and wind were in the cards, which pushed me toward backpacking instead of biking. Either way, it was clear the weather wasn’t going to cooperate for a classic fall trip to see the leaves at their peak.

I had just a 24-hour window to make it all happen. I needed to be on the trail by 3:30 p.m. Friday and back home sometime between 5 and 6 p.m. Saturday. The schedule was tight, my daughter had a dance class Friday morning, and my wife would be home around 1:00, giving me just enough time to hit the road. That was the plan.

Friday morning, while getting my daughter ready for class, I was also finishing up the last bit of packing and loading up the car. Before heading out, I checked the weather one more time—and here’s what I was facing for the next 24 hours:

Around 1:00 p.m., I got a call from my wife asking what time I needed to leave. I told her I was hoping to be on the trail by 3:30 p.m., and since it’s about a two-hour drive, that meant hitting the road soon. She was out enjoying lunch with friends—a rare and well-deserved outing—so I figured I could be flexible. Plans shift, and I was happy to adjust.

She ended up having me drop our daughter off with her, and I was finally on my way to Shenandoah National Park. In the end, I was only about 15 minutes behind schedule—not too bad, all things considered.

My plan was to enter the park through the Swift Run Gap Entrance Station and park just inside the gate. Over the years, the entrance fee has crept up a bit—it's now $15 per vehicle for a 7-day pass. Sure, you might expect your tax dollars to cover things like this, but honestly, what else can you get these days for $15 that lasts an entire week? You can’t even get into a movie for that anymore.

As I pulled up to the entrance station, the Park Ranger greeted me with a question: “Do you know what the weather is supposed to be like during your stay?”

I nodded. “Yep—some rain today, and a mix of rain and snow tomorrow.”

That kicked off a bit of a speech. She asked if I was properly prepared for the conditions and warned me about bringing a "Walmart sleeping bag," which I took as a polite way of saying Don’t get yourself into trouble up there. She also mentioned that if the weather turned worse, the park could close entirely. At that point, I felt more like I was trying to cross an international border than just go for an overnight hike. But fair enough—she was just doing her job, making sure people don’t end up in a rescue report.

From Swift Run Gap, I planned to hop on the Appalachian Trail heading north and aim for either Lewis Mountain Campground or Bearfence Mountain Hut—roughly 7 to 8 miles up the trail.

About 15 minutes into the hike, I walked straight into a thick wall of fog—or as I saw it, a cloud. The trail was socked in for miles. Visibility dropped, the woods grew quiet, and everything was wrapped in mist. It was eerie, surreal... and kind of perfect. Here’s a cleaner, more vivid version of that passage that enhances the drama and keeps the pace strong:

This is where things got interesting.

I was about 4.5 miles from Lewis Mountain when I suddenly heard a loud crack to my right, like the top of a tree snapping off. I turned and looked up, and there, maybe 30 feet away, a 150-pound black bear was scrambling down the trunk of a tree.

My heart jumped. The bear was coming down fast, and without thinking, I bolted up the trail. I knew full well I couldn’t outrun a bear, but instincts kicked in. Luckily, we startled each other. He tore off down the mountainside, and I flew up the trail, adrenaline carrying me through the next mile in about 10 minutes flat.

By around 6:30 p.m., the fog—mist—cloud—whatever you want to call it had thickened into a dense, disorienting haze. Visibility was almost zero. I made the call to take the fire road from Pocosin Cabin out to the paved road, then hiked the final mile and a half along the shoulder to Lewis Mountain Campground.

I arrived around 7:30 p.m.—soaked, fogged in, and unable to see more than a few feet in front of me.

It wasn’t my best setup, but it would do for the night. The tarp was mainly there to shield me from rain and ice—my bivy sack would handle the rest and keep me dry.

Early morning ice...

Interesting water source. I would have never found this Friday night!

The plan for Saturday was to finish the hike up to the Bearfence Mountain Rock Scramble before looping back to the car. Just about 115 feet from the scramble, I reached the Bearfence Overlook—and this is what I saw.

On my way back to the car along the Appalachian Trail, I came across a nice little climb near Baldface Mountain. Not long after, the fog—or mist, or cloud—thickened even more, making visibility tough. About half a mile down the trail, with the AT running roughly 200 yards from Skyline Drive, I decided to cut over and follow the road back. Sometimes, the hardball just makes more sense.

About two miles down the road, the fog finally lifted. I pulled into the South River Picnic Area to take a break, grab some food, and check my map. It’s a peaceful spot—definitely one of those places that would be perfect for a family outing.

From the South River Picnic Area, I reconnected with the Appalachian Trail for the final leg—just three short miles back to the car. I reached the parking lot around 3:15 p.m. on Saturday, wrapping up the trip in just under 24 hours.

One of the highlights along the way was meeting a retired couple section-hiking the AT. They had already completed all but 500 miles and were tackling the 105 miles through Shenandoah over the next 8 or 9 days. I was only the second person they’d seen on the trail that day. We chatted for a bit—they asked about my route, took down some notes, and even asked for my trail name. Really kind, inspiring folks. I wished them luck and continued on my way, grateful for the brief connection out in the quiet of the mountains.

It took a lot of effort to make this micro-adventure happen—but it was exactly what I needed. In just 24 hours, I found the challenge, solitude, and sense of adventure I’d been craving.

Plans don’t always go the way we hope, but sometimes the imperfect trip ends up being the perfect reset.