Just like nothing (else) on earth: Snake Hill Road

By Tim Jon

Complete isolation, peace and quiet can be quite rare commodities these days in the thriving Northern Virginia County of Loudoun, but these conditions prevailed on my first-ever drive down the entire length of today’s subject of discovery. The relative tranquility I found fought for attention, though, with the general rural nature of the roadway: washboard surfaces and enough potholes to make one thankful for shock absorbers but worried about the tires and wheel rims. 

I don’t recall coming across a single other vehicle on my early morning “safari” down Rt. 744, Snake Hill Road, so I felt pretty secure in dodging any really dubious-looking patches. The chipmunk I saw in the first quarter-mile just seemed anxious to avoid confrontation, and the cows on the latter portion appeared indifferent to the day’s events—including (from their perspective) a slightly deranged storyteller on his way to enlightenment. 

So, I kept to our deal: I didn’t go out of my way to bother Chip (or Dale?), and the bovines remained behind their fences, pretending they didn’t care about the entire proceedings. I probably—for that matter—could have parked my vehicle at one of the few turn-offs and taken a nap in the middle of the roadway, it seemed so deserted. But—recall that I said only “slightly deranged,” so I continued my progress along this almost secret passageway through the heart of south-central Loudoun. 

“How did I get here,” you ask? I figured the quickest way to access what I considered the beginning of my exploratory trip was by way of Rt. 626—Foxcroft Road—taken north from the Town of Middleburg, then turning off on Snake Hill a few miles north of town—just beyond the Goose Creek bridge. The trip started as a corridor of green: green upon green upon green—seemingly unending. I started to wonder—amid all the trees, shrubs, grasses, and vines—if any other colors existed, or if I were destined to exclusively study this hue until the end of time. 

And then, about halfway through the drive, the forest opened up and gave way to open plains, many still very green, serving as roaming space for cattle and horses. Miles and miles of space. I’ve lived in Loudoun County for over 25 years, and I still find myself taken aback whenever I confront these truly open spaces—frequently with views all the way to the Blue Ridge to the west. 

We keep packing in more houses and businesses (along with schools, utilities, and other supporting infrastructure) at such a pace I sometimes wonder that we have any greenery left at all. And then, I take a drive along a rural stretch like Snake Hill Road, and my equilibrium seems to return to a more horizontal configuration. Or something like that. 

I’m lucky enough to have a “day job” that takes me out into the wide-open spaces five or six days a week, and I really enjoy those sections, but it’s always the same route, and even I forget just how much territory remains—at least to my finding—a virtual wilderness. And these places (we have so many parks, historic sites, and rural roads in this county—and I count more every year) never fail to have at least a minimal—and sometimes much more—effect on my mental and spiritual health (and probably physical, too). 

The day-to-day 21^st century stress levels, personal concerns, information overload, unending to-do lists—and probably much more for other folks—all these factors, as overwhelming as they can seem, diminish at least ever so slightly when I’m alone amid acres of open, yet personal, space. I’ve come to think that our Spirits require more “breathing room” than you’d find in a typical office cubicle; I’m finding that what we really require—at least periodically—is a chance to “let the horses out of the barn” and just be free. Or just Be. Don’t worry, they’ll come back— they know where their feed and water are kept. 

So, the next time I take a drive down Snake Hill Road, heading west toward the Blue Ridge Mountains, avoiding the chipmunks and the cattle, enjoying the breathing room, I just hope I don’t come across every other resident in Loudoun County—doing the exact same thing. We all need to find our own path.