OUTDOORS: Clinch Mountain much more than a view

If this were just a hike in the mountains, I'd be no less awed than I am right now.

Standing on this slab of sandstone, I turn in all directions and see mountains. There's Mount Rogers, Virginia's highest point (elevation 5,729 feet) in the distance, and the high peaks of North Carolina beyond. I can make out White Rock (4,528 feet) to my northeast and High Knob (4,162 feet) to my west.

I hiked three miles to get to Hayters Knob (4,208 feet) on Clinch Mountain, ducked into a tunnel of rhododendron and emerged on this rock. I feel like I could take in this view forever. There should be snow up here on a late January day, but somehow it's 50 degrees. There isn't a cloud in the sky.

The vistas would be enough to warrant the drive from Richmond and the straight-uphill hike, enough to inspire wonder and awe. But, as it turns out, the view is just the beginning of the experience on this sandstone slab — a bonus, really. Because this rock formation I stand on with my two dogs is not what it seems.

I look down. What first appear to be cracks in the rock, the normal kind of separation you'd expect in a rock face weathered for 400 million years, are no mere cracks. These crevices go down and down. They don't seem to stop. Maybe 40 feet below, in some places more, I can see the ground.

All of I sudden, I feel faint, like a rock climber who loses focus and realizes how high up he is. What appears to be one contiguous rock face is in fact many rocks, and the cracks between them are wide enough to fit a human, at least down below. They might not match the slot canyons of Utah in height, but that's exactly what they are — slot canyons. Right here on top of a mountain in Virginia.

Suddenly, a nice mountaintop view takes on an otherworldly feel.

Of course, I had an idea of what to expect on this mountain, part of Channels State Forest and Natural Area Preserve. I've driven here for the first installment in my monthly series on rare species and places in Virginia because I had heard there's nothing else like it in the commonwealth. But words and pictures simply don't do the Channels justice. The surreal quality of the place, the location and scope, are amplified 100-fold in person.

The dogs and I scamper off the sandstone, taking pains not to look down as we hop the human-sized cracks, and jump back into the rhododendron thicket. The trail winds around the side of the outcrop and into The Channels proper.

There's a geologic explanation for this place: The sandstone cap rock is 400 million years old, but during the last Ice Age, scientists believe it was under the influence of permafrost and ice wedging. The freeze-thaw forces shattered and enlarged joints in the rock, creating the passages I now stand in front of.

The first thing I notice is the quality of light. In some places, the crevices are wide, and sun shines in. In others, it's dark, and the ground is moist from never feeling the sun's rays. Some passages are shoulder-width wide, others scrape my chest and back as I squeeze through.

It's a disorienting place, and immediately I realize how easy it would be to get turned around. Follow one passage, turn a corner, follow another. Do that enough times, I think to myself, and I'll have no idea where I am.

I haven't seen another human since I parked on the Washington-Russell county line and started hiking. Getting lost here would be very, very bad.

So I come up with a plan. I have a few things with me — water bottles, a coat, hat, etc. When I come to a junction between rocks, I put one of those objects in plain view and walk to the next junction. When I get there, I set another object down. This allows me to explore without getting lost. All I have to do is retrace my steps from object to object.

The only problem is that I soon run out of items I'm willing to part with. It's cold down here, and I need this long-sleeved shirt. Boots, too, I won't part with.

I look around and decide I've gone far enough. The next fork in the rock-walled road beckons, but why risk it? I turn around to go back, and realize I can't see my dogs. When I whistle, I discover another amazing aspect of this strange world: Noise dies.

I yell for the dogs, and the sandstone seems to eat my words. It's the opposite of an echo. I keep whistling and whistling. Finally, I see them down a passage, but they can't figure out where the sound is coming from. They go the wrong way, then double back. Eventually, they find me by dumb luck, and we hike out.

It's getting late, so we make for home, but not before stepping out on top of the Channels again. Up here it's just sandstone and views. You'd never know, looking out upon miles of mountains, the strange, extraordinary experience available just beneath your feet.