The Forest Fortress

The nations first scenic parkway, in which building began on September 11, 1935, offers a variety of scenes. Much of it looks very similar to that of Skyline Drive in Shenandoah National Park. Windy roads, which never straighten out for more than a quarter mile, vast views from numerous overlooks, short stone walls lining sections of road and sides of dense forest. The Blue Ridge Parkway has numerous, more specific, traits though. Absolutely no shoulder on the road, vast lengths of cut grass spanning 20 feet from the road, rhododendron line the roads while putting off their strange odor, high mountain fog and massive walls of rock with holes of dark unknown. The roads are well built and maintained. Outside of the Park Service, nobody is allowed to build within a certain distance from the parkway. Various people gave me various numbers for distances so I wont try to report any. Regardless, due to the distance between it and buildings, the parkway allows us to feel immersed in the woods, on a private expressway of fall colors.

It's not a national park itself, but it's been the most visited unit of the National Park System every year, since 1946. It's very busy with motorists, but it's for a good reason. For some reason, I keep relating it back to Machu Picchu, simply in the feeling of disliking the congestion, while simultaneously recognizing it's because I'm in one of the most beautiful places in the world. It makes everything better for a bit and I smile at each person who is over-saturating the park, just as I am. It's often easy for individuals to be grudging or upset at the presence of other people, even though they're also contributing to that same feeling for others. It's a contradictory feeling, which I try to avoid. They swerve around us as we stop to admire a large praying mantis posing in the middle of a lane.

Considerable lunches of barbecue have made it easy to cut our first day on the parkway a little short. All the beauty and splendor of a place mean little when fighting a battle with the weight of my stomach. Bathing hasn't made a presence in our lives since Dirk's house last week and therefore a water source becomes the most desirable facet for a camp spot. Crossing a bridge, we spot Big Bend Creek, fifty feet below us. Clear stream with a bottom of large rocks, scattered beds of sand, ferns lining its sides, moss growing on various deciduous trees and scattered pine trees with characteristic acidic rings at their base where other life fights to grow.

Ghost riding (not really) our bikes down a loose, crumbly and steep path along the guard rail of the bridge, we find ourselves at a campsite which suits all our needs. Weather Bug, an iPhone app which often tells us "0% chance precipitation" while the heavens are pouring down upon us, informs us there will be rain starting in the late night and throughout the next day. Being as we've found ourselves under a bridge, we look forward to the rain for the first time on our trip. We hang our hammocks while playing Under the Bridge from the boombox. His bridge holds much deeper meaning, but ours will keep us dry. We agree we've taken the final step, by becoming bums, under a bridge, down by the river.

I have a checklist of ways in which I wish to hang my hammock. They range from hanging my hammock from within the branches of a single tree, between two rocks, off a train car, under a bridge, on a beach, utilizing my bicycle, on a boat, a considerable height above the ground, above or below another hammock and lastly...with Troy Walker holding up one end of it for an entire night, or eternity...whichever comes last. The list used to be longer, but many have been checked off. These include over water, off my truck, in the snow, above the upper tree line, in my driveway, and many other ridiculous but not specific ways. This bridge enables me to check off two more. My hammock, El Diablo (named so because I find security in something that nothing wants to mess with), is currently hung underneath a bridge and a considerable height off the ground. Technically, it's only a few feet above a concrete base, but the narrow base is about six feet tall. The hammock itself is strung ten feet above a stream, as a beautiful sight to wake up to. Unfortunately it has all come at a cost. I've gone through yet another iPhone screen. It was in my pocket while mounting the concrete base and have now found it to be shattered as I've arrived in my hammock. This case may be "Lifeproof", but it certainly isn't Considerably Careless Claytonproof. It's not as bad of a shatter this time around and therefore I probably won't have it replaced. Writing on my phone a considerable amount, we'll see how frustrated I get now that my keypad punches the space bar when I hit N.

Bathing upstream from Hueso, he washes once to clean himself and again to wash my cleansed dirt off. Realistically not being a factor, it creates good conversation. We bid each other early goodnights, but end up continually yelling back and forth the distance between our hammocks. The acoustics of the bridge enable him to hear me perfectly, while the stream next to me seems to drown his exact pitch.

Waking up to densely wooded views, I look down the ten feet to a stream below me. I chuckle at how awesome my life is, realize how privileged I am and listen as rain drops begin to fall. Anywhere else, this would be the morning scurry I've spoken of. Here, all I do is lay back and watch the waves of rain drops pick up and die down. Protected in our concrete and steel fortress, surrounded by a dense wooded setting, it was the first time I had ever been able to witness the rain from my hammock without the use of a rainfly. The drops fall within feet of my hammock, allowing for a beautiful view, yet I stay dry. It's already later than we planned to leave, I'm hungry and have to pee, but I'll lay here and enjoy this for a bit longer.

We become stir-crazy. Hueso handles it much better than I do. "Radar says we have more rain this evening and through the night. Would you rather be out there or under here when it does?" he asks in a way that desires for me to really think it through. Personally, I'll be anywhere, in any condition, if it means getting some miles behind me and some different scenery from my hammock. The rain stops, we see a predicted four hour break from the rain, and we pack up. Getting up to the road, the rain picks up as soon as we cross the bridge. Shoes find shelter in my panniers, Chacos slip on, rain shells zip up and amphibious mode engages. We pedal through the rain, cautiously on the downhills and soggy on the uphills. Little, bright orange geckos line the edges of the pavement, soaking up the moisture on the asphalt, which would be torridly hot any other day. Hueso's bamboo fenders are his pride and joy, but they offer very little in ways of practical water routing. The rear fender doesn't come down far enough and his tire shoots a stream of water up to six feet tall during fast descents. I try to either be in front of, or 50 feet behind, him. He calls his bike the Bamboozler, for it bamboozles everything in its path and wake. I'm all game until it bamboozles me. Im really starting to hate bamboo. By the end of this trip, I will certainly hate bamboo.

The Galax Smokehouse

We've arrived, starving and in need of a bike shop. The local bike shop is closed on Mondays, so we allow our stomachs to control our steps. Right on the main intersection in town, sits the Galax Smokehouse. Signs in the windows claim it to be the best of the best barbecue restaurants in America. At this point, we're set on eating there and I walk in as Wes locks up his bike. Walking through the door, a sign gives me three more reasons to smile widely. Pepper jack mac n' cheese is the daily special. Wings are 50¢ each. They have homemade banana pudding. We spend weeks eating rice and pasta in order to afford meals like this one. We're going all out.

Tammy, our waitress, asks how we're doing today and additionally what we would like to drink. Two giant sweet teas, please. She races around the restaurant, getting our drinks while asking how everybody's meals are. The restaurant is nearly half full, because nothing is half empty in regards to barbecue, and she's the only server working. Handling it like a boss. Walls are covered in photographs and documents from the town. Photos from times past, along with current community baseball teams. Plastic and ceramic pigs decorate the various shelves and windows. The menu is overwhelming to even a hungry man and we end up asking her three different sets of questions. Each time, she gives us a few minutes to narrow down our decisions.

Wes goes the all-you-can-eat route, for an additional $3. I go with the standard dinner meal, plus six wings. Thinking it's going to take a while, I wash up in the restroom. Returning five minutes later, there my plate sits, piping hot. One huge pile of pulled pork, smoked mashed potatoes, pepper jack mac and cheese, hush puppies, BBQ bread, three hot wings and three teriyaki. As with anywhere in, or even near, the South, the sauce is the boss. Molasses tangy BBQ, two vinegar based, sweet tomato based, hot tomato based, North Caroline BBQ with a hint of mustard, Alabama white sauce with a horseradish base. So many choices, but luckily there's plenty of food. At least I thought it was plenty of food. It should be, seeing as the average person would probably have difficulty finishing a plate. In the end, I pay the charge and bump it up to all-I-can-eat. Tammy is eager to feed us as much food as possible. The cook is asking where we're putting it all, as she raises her eyebrow in questioning.

I'll take another plate, please. More pulled pork, BBQ bread, and hush puppies. This time it's complimented with potato salad and apple fritters. The pulled pork is piled upon the bread, then doused with sauce. I primarily switch back and forth between tangy molasses and Alabama white. Apple fritters are little fried pockets of sliced apple, mixed with sugar and cinnamon. They're best when steaming with heat, so I munch on them first and ignore their resemblance of dessert. Mouthfuls of food are only slowed down by gulps of sweet tea and conversation with Tammy. She tells us more about the town and area, while we answer questions about our trip. The common questions we encounter are as follows. Where do you sleep? Do you cook? When will you finish? Why? Some answers take longer than others, but I'm sure to eat in between, chewing with my mouth closed and swallowing before talking again. It's difficult, but doable.

It's getting late, we don't feel like cooking dinner, we're stuffed and still need to try the banana pudding. We ask Tammy how much it would cost us to take one more final plate to enjoy at camp. She glances around and says she'll see what she can do. Next thing we know, we're being handed a final plate, large banana puddings and to-go containers. Putting the containers out by our bikes, I walk back inside and pay for our meals. We make sure to reciprocate the good will Tammy showed us and carry final conversations with the staff. They wish us safety on our trip and we thank them as many times as possible without overdoing it.

As with any time we stuff ourselves, camp ends up being up the steepest hill of our trip. Short, but extremely steep. I've had a silly goal of not having to walk my bike up a single portion of our trip and therefore crank up it. Having to zig zag the entire width of the road by the time I get to the top. Hammocks are hung and we digest for a couple hours. We eventually return to our gluttonous ways and open our containers of savory BBQ. Wes manages to tackle his entire container. The additional wings I ate must be taking up the nooks he is filling. I eat half my container and half the pudding, saving the rest for breakfast. The pudding is a masterpiece of texture. Creamy pudding with vanilla wafer cookies mixed in, as large chunks of banana make up the remainder. I wish I had another container. Not that's being greedy. Tonight we go to bed very happy, even with uncomfortable food babies.

The next day, we get some needed items at the local bike shop. Bolt for my rear rack, magnet for my cycle computer, and a few tightening turns on our Brooks leather saddles. The man at the bike shop gives us some beta on the parkway and climb up Mt. Mitchell. Allowing us to leave our bikes in the shop for peace of mind, we walk around town. The Galax Smokehouse is a block away and we both have very little self control. We dip right back into it. Tammy isn't here today. This time we try sampler dishes in order to get a variety of the food. All on one plate, I get beef brisket, spare ribs, mac and cheese, apple fritters, hush puppies and corn nuggets. Needless to say, it's all amazing. We eat a lot less than the day before and are able to walk out the door, rather than waddle. All the fuel, and a little extra, needed for a day on a bicycle. Thank you Tammy and the Galax Smokehouse. Hands down, the best BBQ of my life.

New River Rail Trail

We originally planned to ride north of the Blue Ridge Parkway, only cutting onto it for the final section into Asheville. Guys on motorcycles, in Shenandoah, explained it as being rough even on their rumbling machines. Climbs in excess of 3,000 feet, only to drop right back down and immediately climb back up 3,000 feet. Repeat, repeat, repeat for many miles. One source I found online claimed our route on it would require 49,000 feet of gain. After Skyline Drive, valley roads sounded wonderful. We dropped down to the valley floor and have been slowly experiencing the Virginia countryside. It's quite the experience.

However, as it usually happens after a few days, we miss the mountains. The vast amount of trees to hang from, brooks to bathe in, deer to yell at us and enough open space to blare our boombox without being worried about revealing our location. The valley has been great, but we're taking the Blue Ridge Parkway for the remainder of the miles to Asheville. We're meeting my uncle at his second home in Asheville on the 1st or 2nd of October. Seven days of travel, with only 170 miles of distance. Hopefully these famed Blue Ridge grinders will slow us down a bit. If not, we've become pretty skilled when it comes to hanging our hammocks and doing nothing for a whole day.

First we have to make our way to the parkway, up on the ridge. We've heard accessing it is often the hardest task, but with a little research, we've found a rail trail which gets us close to it. Today, we pedal to it. We've had a few little hiccups along the way. Having to aggressively steer my bicycle onto the road, I knee my bar end shifter with my left knee. It immediately becomes sore and tightens up in the first few miles of the day. I knead it as I ride and it becomes tolerable. Icy Hot has been my saving grace for it now. The second hiccup is one of our more common types. We stop at a place called Patty's Kitchen for lunch. Lately, southern food has been our jam. This time it's country fried steak, grits with cheddar, cole slaw, mac n' cheese and cornbread. It's delicious and everything is fairly routine at this point.

The waitress catches us off guard with a dessert menu. Homemade peanut butter pie for $2. We'll take two. These slices are huge, delicious, and richer than any dessert I've ever devoured. Poking a fork in it from the top, I can pick up the slice without angling the fork. Our mouths are salivating more and more, but our stomachs and dignity are yelling at us to please stop. Pipe down stomach. Can't stop, won't stop. We leave Patty's brimming with food and burping loudly.

The rest of the ride to the rail trail is interesting. The side of Virginia which will never be depicted on a post card. Very different from the mountain or valley farming cultures we have seen in Virginia so far. Roads are lined with trailer homes, some double wide. Broke down minivans in driveways. Most houses have a dog and each one barks at us. The Confederate Flag is draped off many of the porches. Strangely, the other flag flown is almost always West Virginia University football. These people live in Virginia, but are fans of the football team of the area which they share more ideals with. They show West Virginia pride, rather than that of their state, Virginia. People act as if we don't exist as we ride by. Most people usually acknowledge the strangeness of the sight with a look, if nothing else. The roads are deteriorated and often times the road is crumbling over the white line. In one section, we find the road to have an 8 inch drop off the side. We ride the line and get plenty of space from most people who drive by.

This rail trail is absolutely stunning. Exactly how we hoped to ride after passing through trailer-lined roads. Aside from one in Pennsylvania, all the rail trails had been paved. This one is 57 miles long and a combination of packed dirt and gravel the whole time. The entire trail is within the New River Trail State Park. The longest state park in Virginia. Ironically, it's also the narrowest, with an average width of 80 feet. Although we only encounter a few people on it, the condition of the trail is very well maintained. For sections of it, it feels as if we're riding on smooth concrete. It winds along the New River, which flows north. Following it uphill on a consistent railroad grade, there isn't a single foot of elevation loss for the entire distance of the trail. Steadily, we'll climb up to a town called Galax, which is right outside of the parkway.

The trail starts out amongst farming. We moo at the occasional cow and see rusty farm equipment beneath growths of vines. Farming slowly gives way to the forest, as the elevation, remoteness and steep terrain make farming less practical. We pedal with the New River on one side and steep, rocky terrain on the other. Trees from both sides touch above, creating the trail canopy which has become a common feature on our trip. The New River is a big river, complete with muddy water and a strong current.

Camp is made, sleep happens and we continue on. We pass by abandoned mines, huge overhangs of rock, old train cars and through tunnels. Even though we stop and slowly walk our bikes, a horse begins freaking out and bucking around with a rider on it. It further enforces my dislike for horses and we continue on, with apologies from both sides. The temperature is perfect for riding bikes. Shade from the trees cool us down, just as the sun hits our backs and begins to heat up our shirts. We come around a corner to find a teenage couple doing awkward stretches and leap frogging. They laugh as we catch them and say they wish they had bikes. We chuckle and ride onward.

Before we know it, the trail ends and drops us in Galax (pronounced Gay-lax). The first building we see is clearly an old factory made of brick, which is now decrepit and being taken over by the forest. We later learn it was a furniture factory. As we roll into town, it shows all the signs of a town left in the dust after industry disappeared. The main street is beautiful, with brick sidewalks and flower planters hanging from vintage light posts. The shops retain their original character, with clean paint and glass at their storefront. However, take a walk two blocks off the main strip and it's a different world. Everything seems run down and scraping by. Many buildings are vacant and others seem to find a meager reason to stay open. Such as a glass and radiator repair shop with a broken front door. One local informs us of Galax's powerful meth presence and both the lack of drive and teeth in town make it apparent. People size us up. It's sad to see and hard to write about in hopes of remembering, but it's a large part of American culture in many areas. Industry is a fuel and it prospers in our capitalist society, yet leaves an area impoverished and often high in crime once it dries up. Galax is such a town. I'm sure it was once a thriving town, but only remnants of it still shine through.

A Little Moisture for the Snails

Riding for what seems like an eternity. Consistent hills. Skirting the Jefferson National Forest. Roads with little traffic. Rapid descents on wet roads. Cloudy moisture hangs in the air. I can drink the air as I pant up a hill. Riding across fields of alfalfa on a soppy dirt road. Large rolls of feed dot the recently cut fields. Titan Cement Company. Catawba Road turns into Little Catawba Road. Little Catawba Road has bigger and steeper climbs, feels like it should be Big Catawba Road. No bugs. Water dripping from leaves above the road. Kids in school buses stare at us. Baptist Churches speckle an open valley. Pickled egg from a dinky store. Man tries to enter us in a catfish catching tournament. He gives us free apples after we decline. Camp is found. Only 30 miles. Axle tweaked in dropout. Rubbed heavily the whole time. Felt like 50 miles. Wrestle thorns to hang hammocks. Wes hangs his above the "pig pen". Dirt. Trash. Stump pile. My spot is descent. Buckling down for a storm. Radar says we're in for a good one.

One mile outside of Catawba, Virginia, we definitely aren't at our favorite kind of camp spot. No water access, we're near a road, there's areas of bare dirt, and it's enclosed within an area of thorny bushes. Weather radar shows a storm moving towards us from the west. It stretches from the southern tip of Texas to the open land of Canada. Roughly 200-300 miles wide. It's now evening and the rain will hit us in the morning. I set up my rainfly in a way where I can see out and also store my bike underneath it. Cutting strips of para cord for drip lines, I multitask by doing my evening stretches.

Glancing across the valley, I see a black bear lumbering across the area cleared for a power line. He looks full and content. It's interesting seeing him roam freely in the distance, while the cows between us are fenced in. While stepping on numerous thorn branches, I tie the drip lines to the two lower ends of my rain fly. Laying in the grass underneath, I admire the shelter I've made. Wes and I hope for the ultimate storm to test our silnylon homes.

Laying back, my focus turns to my elegant Surly. She's beautiful, covered in grime, and not shifting or braking as she should be. I've done minor adjustments, but realize I haven't thoroughly looked her over even once on the trip. Through headlamp eyes, I run through her. Front to back. She's a dirty one. Bolts are loosening up and a rear rack bolt is completely gone. Brake pads are adjusted and dérailleur indexing is dialed. She's a new machine. Still grimy, but functioning properly.

Ingesting a steady flow of hot cocoa, I grab my camera and the night once again becomes my darkroom. I mess with the light, it shows me I don't understand it, yet I know the finished product I'm searching for. Many exposures of me running around with a headlamp. Lighting up an area of the shot for three seconds. Nope, it needs five seconds. Five seconds on the hammock, but only three on the bike due to its reflective tires. It becomes an equation in which I'm factoring in light, time, location and angle. Both in my camera and in physical action. I take a ghostly self portrait and call it a night.

I wake up to leaves on my rainfly, but no beads of water or tapping of rain. Without service, I can't check the radar and Hueso is too far away. 20 feet. I prepare my breakfast of grits and slowly watch and listen to the world wake up. The sun brightens, cows begin stirring in the field and cars pass by as their drivers head to work, school or the fishing hole. Hueso walks over, laughing, at around 8:30am. As he hands me his iPhone, I hear the first few drops of rain. The radar shows we're right on the edge of a mass of various bright colors. Colors which tell me nothing more than wetness. Green tells me I'll be riding through some sprinkles. Blue tells me I need to put on a rain shell and Chaco sandals. Red tells me I better tighten down the corners of my rainfly. There's a few hundred miles of every color in our future. My chair, within arms reach of a hefty supply of hot cocoa and tea, is a great place to view the spectacle from.

I don't have service and I'm not interested in the book I have. Hours are spent playing with my camera and writing. Primarily writing. This of which you are reading, along with plenty other topics I've had running around my mind. Writing in the rain seems to take on its own mood and style. I don't fight it and find enjoyment within it. The novelty of it. Like the runner who itches for a long, rainy run.

I make a game out of collecting rain water and begin filling up random containers. Showing them off to Hueso as if I've accomplished a great feat of ingenuity. Eventually containers are filled, writing has found strange tangents, cocoa has replaced my blood, working out has found me exhausted and the environment has turned from alluring to drab.

It's a long day. We notice the rain drops come to an end at 6:30pm. Full day of rain is now behind us, without any movement or fascinating sight. All the makings for two stir-crazy individuals. As 7pm brings the sunset upon us, we realize how badly we need to move. Not for the sense of miles or goals. Simply to not wake up in this same spot the next morning, with nothing to show for it. We're on the road an hour later. Darkness is fully upon us, with the harvest moon poking in and out from behind scattered clouds. Rear lights flashing away and bright front lights illuminating the way, we set off, out of the rainy escape. Riding at night is a wonderful experience. Nothing seems to be as big of a deal. The longest climb is the hundred feet we can see in front of us in which our lights illuminate. We notice the signs more. They're one of the only things within our area of vision and they're extremely reflective. During the day, they zoom past without any acknowledgement by us. The air is crisp after the soaking rain and the night brings on a cooler temp. We see silhouettes of buildings, rather than their fully detailed constructions. Without knowing their exact location, nor their restraints, nor their intentions, we pedal faster every time we hear a dog bark near the road. The road is mostly downhill. We keep up our speed and momentum carries us through most of the hills.

Occasionally we encounter a car on the road. They usually slow down to a near stop before they realize what they've encountered. I'm sure a massive bicycle, fully lit on these country roads, is a rare sight. Eventually they pass us, rubbernecking in the process. One lady stops. "I'm with the sheriffs office. You need a light on the back of that thing." she exclaims. I readjust the backpack on my rear rack. "Woops! It was covered up. You should never start a conversation with that statement. Always start with a greeting. It’ll go a long way." I respond. Our goal for the night is food in Blacksburg, Virginia. Whenever we set a goal, it seems to be at the top of Mount Olympus. It seems as if Google Maps thinks we want to dine among the gods. The grade is ridiculously steep for the last two miles, but anything is possible with warm food in our thoughts.

Turns out Virginia Tech is in Blacksburg, Virginia. On campus, we find a Waffle House. We eat our "happy waffles" with plenty of sides. Eggs, ham, raisin toast, and cheesy jalapeño hashbrowns. Hueso's mother, Colleen, tells us people aren't going to be as caring towards us once we become pudgy. Meals like this make it all worth it though. Hueso's gloves smell so horrible it's hard to sit next to him. Our waitress puts them through the sanitation machine for him. Twice. Not even hundreds of degrees, sanitizer and a high pressure spray can undo the damage he has done to those gloves. Nothing like getting in some miles and feasting on some midnight breakfast.

We ride through the campus and it reminds me a lot of Boise State. Open areas with few trees, late teens scurrying around the dorms and modern-style brick buildings. We both reminisce about college and how it's hard to recognize the greatness of something until it's in the past. Late nights of energy drinks and Kraft mac n' cheese with friends in order to cram for a test the next day, seemed torturous at the time. Working through the week to make sure our weekends were free to be used as college students do. Sometimes even pretending a Tuesday was a Saturday and getting buck wild with Buck Range and Trizz Nation. We ride, reminisce and conclude we'll have to go back and get our masters degrees. Until then, setting up hammocks atop a coal mine at 1am will have to suffice. Good night.