Best Shots in This Park Need a Lens

The deer appeared as if conjured out of the mist that lay on Big Meadows after an afternoon rain. We began to count . . . one deer, then another, then another.

Suddenly, from behind a tall shrub, a spotted fawn stepped into view. It seemed cast right out of Walt Disney’s “Bambi.”

In this case, however, there was no tragic scene of the fawn’s mother being shot by a hunter’s bullet. All the deer in Shenandoah National Park, which is divided down the middle by scenic Skyline Drive, are protected by the National Park Service.

That protection explains the rather fearless behavior of Shenandoah’s deer. Whether in Big Meadows, a too-obvious name for what is the only large tract of cleared land in the park, or at the edge of one of several camping grounds, these deer seem to hardly notice the human beings that elsewhere might be their enemies.

So engrossed are they in feeding on the park’s abundance that they will approach close enough for even an amateur photographer to shoot a wildlife portrait. And that is the only sort of shooting that ever happens here.

Established by Congress in 1926 and dedicated by President Franklin Roosevelt 10 years later, Shenandoah National Park and Skyline Drive, which was completed by the Civilian Conservation Corps in 1939, encompasses 280 square miles of the Shenandoah River Valley and the Blue Ridge Mountains that surround it.

Where once were mountain farms, now forests of hickory, oak and pine cover the land. According to a National Park Service brochure, “Vegetative restoration has been so complete that in 1976 Congress designated two-fifths of the park as wilderness. Deer, bear, bobcat, turkey and other animals that were formerly rare or absent have returned.”

The return of the forest, however, disrupted some human lives. Those who lived here when the park was established were removed by state and federal officials. On a ride along Skyline Drive, one may invoke those people’s spirit on a car radio.

Small stations play an eclectic blend of bluegrass and other country music styles, from the commercial sound of Dolly Parton to the traditionalist Johnson Mountain Boys.

While Skyline Drive emphasizes the thrill of panoramic, mountainside views, the beginning of a Shenandoah Park tour takes one underground. At Front Royal, a series of large roadside signs point the way to “Virginia’s Famous” Skyline Caverns.

For $8, one is treated to a wacky cave tour that covers science, religion and the delight of spelunking. With multicolored lights adding a touch of kitsch, the cave, discovered in 1937, discloses its hidden treasures.

According to a flashlight-toting guide, Skyline Caverns is the only cave in the world that is home to anthodites--”the orchids of the mineral kingdom”--white, spiny, crystal formations that cling to the damp rock ceiling and whose tendrils seem to grow upward in defiance of gravity.

Other features of the cave also defy credibility, among them “the Shrine,” where a stumpy, lumpy stalagmite is said to resemble Jesus Christ. In another room, the guide points out what appears to be Dolly Parton floating on her back.

As a public wildlife preserve, Shenandoah Park and Skyline Drive are carefully preserved from commercialism. The winding road, bordered by trees and in late spring, blossoming mountain laurel, rises and falls. Except for the calls of warblers and other birds, a general silence prevails.

At many scenic overlooks, visitors may view valley and mountain ranges that take in miles of countryside. The Blue Ridge Mountains earn their name and so, too, do the many indigos--birds of a deep blue plumage--that flit from tree to tree. Other creatures also take in the views, especially broad-winged hawks that circle for prey.

Four campsites dot Skyline Drive (a fifth, Dundo Group Camp, is reserved for youth groups). We stopped for the night at Loft Mountain, about 80 miles from Front Royal.

As we explored the grounds before dinner, we saw and trailed for quite a while a group of deer grazing on saplings and other vegetation. The animals would sometimes approach campsites only to back away, perhaps because of the smell of fires and hamburgers.

Along the way we saw several signs noting, “This is Bear Country,” topped with illustrations of cute brown bears about as frightening as Yogi and Boo-boo.

Park rangers had given us the usual warnings: Don’t leave food out, don’t put food in your tent when you sleep. But we considered it all perfunctory. And as we cooked our hot dogs, we made jokes about inviting some bears for dinner.

Our meal done and a fog rolling in across the campground, we relaxed with cups of coffee.

Behind us we heard a belch. I thought it was some fellow who had too many beers. Leaving my companion at the fireside, I went to the car for the lantern. I had my head about as far inside the trunk as it would go when behind me, about 10 feet away, came another belch, deep and long.

Several screaming fits later, we had driven to the ranger station.

“There’s a bear in our campsite,” I said, so overcome with fear I was almost--honestly--at the point of tears.

The ranger almost yawned or smiled, I’m not sure which, and spoke calmly.

“Yeah, we know about them. They come around looking for handouts,” he said. “We had one the other night putting a dent in a trailer going after some food, but there’s nothing to worry about. You’re not going to let this spoil your vacation, are you? Where you from?”

I answered and the ranger almost yawned or smiled again, and continued to reassure us we would be safe as long as we took the proper precautions. With bears capable of putting dents in trailers, I wondered what one would do to our tiny tent.

I did not get much sleep that night, and things got even worse when I realized there were several sugar packets still in my pockets even though I thought I had cleaned up every scrap and crumb of food in the camp for 50 yards around.

Would the bear smell the sugar? It is the sort of question one can mull over for hours while zipped up in a sleeping bag. For a city kid, I thought as I lay awake, nature is not only a gentle, cuddly deer.

The success of Shenandoah National Park’s reclamation of the wilderness around the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia is that there is room in that country now for deer and for bear and for people to roam free and prowl through campsites.

The next morning, after a breakfast of coffee and jelly sandwiches, we began to take up our tent when we were again joined by company. From the woods behind us a deer appeared, approached the picnic table where we had left our food and gobbled up a leftover jelly sandwich.