It just so happened that the Pi Day of the century occurred over spring break: March 14, 2015, or 3/14/15 — the first five digits of pi.
The night before this little-celebrated holiday, 10 hikers pushed through waning sunlight and spitting sleet to an Appalachian Trail shelter. Its silhouette emerging through the gray trees was the second most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
The first most beautiful thing was the stack of miraculously dry firewood next to an actual stone fireplace in the three-sided shelter. We shouted and high-fived and set to cooking dinner in assorted pots and pans, half of which still had oatmeal burned to the bottom from breakfast.
Soon a fire leapt up from the kindling, and wet socks were set to steaming on the hearth. Ten hikers, 10 spoons and 10 bowls of rice and beans and noodles huddled around the fire. Someone passed around a bar of chocolate. I was so happy I could have cried.
The weather outside was still poor, but we had something special to look forward to: The next day would be Pi Day. Though we’d scarcely been farther away from the pastry we’d be celebrating, I fell asleep to the sound of friends listing all the pies they could think of. Cherry, apple, strawberry rhubarb, key lime ... like pi itself, the list went on. And like the endless number, our need to celebrate this neglected holiday was irrational.
The next morning was gray with fog, and nothing was left of the fire but cold ashes. But my friend and fellow hiker Tait Chandler had written down 100 digits of pi, and we gathered in a circle at 3/14/15 at 9:26 a.m. to chant them to stomping feet, all the while laughing and dreaming of apple crumbles and pizza pies.
It rained more often than not in Shenandoah National Park last week, which led to a borderline cultish worship of the sun. One morning, six of us woke up at 5 a.m. to hike in starlight to a boulder-strewn ridge where we could watch the sun rise. We sat bundled together with bagels and jars of frozen peanut butter and cheered when the sun crested the horizon.
Another day, we dropped our packs at a crossroads in the trail and ran up a nearby mountain road to catch the last of a golden sunset over the Blue Ridge. We linked arms to stay warm and sang Edelweiss — or the words to it that we could remember. Afterward, we walked back to the trail down the middle of the road, kings and queens of the mountain.
