Dropping Down

Leaves are falling as I sit in my chair, amongst the Pisgah National Forest. No longer than a week ago, the falling leaves caused me to be on edge, looking in every direction. The constant impact of a light leaf sounded like a footstep when timed properly with other leaves, bouncing off each other, scraping tree trunks and landing on the forest floor. Now, they're simply an ambient noise and sight to match my thoughts. One leaf lands on my leg and I see how many of my morning routines I can accomplish without it falling off. It's the simple games like these that make bike touring so wonderful. One large bowl of cheesy grits and an oatmeal cookie has my stomach smiling. Kerouac's Dharma Bums has consumed my morning, as it did my night. For years his books have been suggested to me, yet only now am I finding myself within their pages. The more of his work I read, the longer I find my sentences becoming, with commas replacing many of my customary periods. Hueso lays in his hammock and reads, while I've chosen to pack everything up and sit on the ground, until I sit on a saddle for an extended number of hours.

Two nights ago, we found camp on sightly Price Lake, right off the Blue Ridge Parkway. Relatively clear water, with large rocks sliding into it as platforms. I dip my toes in the water to find it chilly, yet refreshingly inviting. Diving in, the cooling compress of cold water feels great after a sunny day on our Surlys. We listen to Jack White as we bob up and down, about twenty minutes before sunset. Little fish swim around our feet as we watch the bigger ones pick insects off the surface, further out. We relax and dry off on the bank, drinking a heavily hoppy IPA, smoking a rolled cigarette, and waving to others as they partake in the same activities, a few hundred yards across the lake. They move to a different location, under some trees, as if they've been caught. We watch the sunset settle in, lacking any vibrant colors, but casting a placid vibe amongst the trees. This is how lakes should be enjoyed.

Darkness falls in and we eat a meal of which we call Slosh. Instant mashed potatoes (the good kind made my Idahoan), a can of corn, one large can of baked beans, and a considerable amount of ripped up honey ham slices. In total, the meal comes out to 2.84 pounds in each of our deep bowls. Mass consisting of some of the most dense food one can possibly eat. I wrestle with my tub of food and look for a tactical way of finishing it off, while Hueso conquers it with a little more ease and tops it off with some leftover beans.

Finishing up in complete darkness, we hear a group of people coming down a nearby trail. We extinguish our lights and hope they'll pass by, twenty feet away, without interaction. As they draw near, we realize it's a guy and two girls, about our age, carrying on the most peculiar conversation. The kind of conversation you hear in parts, wonder how it began and evolved, and lastly how it will end.

Unknown girl in woods: "...I guess I would prefer to be raped by a friend."

Unknown guy in woods: "How would any rape be better than another?"

Second unknown girl in woods: "It would at least be a little less scary than from a creepy guy in the woods."

Right at that precise moment, the girl in front sees Wes' hammock in the periphery of her flashlight beam. She trips on her feet and confused thoughts for a moment, figuring out the spaceship looking object between two trees. Wes and I are sitting near our hammocks in complete darkness and I realize it'll be better to make ourselves known at this point, rather than allow them to become overwhelmed with fear. I turn my headlamp on and create a laugh, as if to join in on the conversation with the irony of us and the conversation they were having. All three take a few quick steps forward in fright, then slow down a bit to act as if not phased by the oddity, yet never stop. Two of them return brief laughs, only as a means of not having to say anything to us. They scurry onward down the trail. "We promise we had no intentions of raping you!" Wes yells to them in the most friendly tone possible. Such ironic timing of conversation, sighting, and interaction. They probably went out that night with "the two creepy guys in the woods" as the topic of conversation for the evening.

In the morning, we have one more trail interaction. As we're packing up, an older man walks by with his wife, and points northwest. "West Virginia's that way!" he says. Insinuating that the civilized people of North Carolina don't camp off trails in the woods. Only in West Virginia can us mongrels dwell amongst the trees of the forest. Frustrated looks are shared between Wes and I, as we continue on with our packing. I often have this urge to explain to people how silly they are, but realize it probably won't help anything. This man was crotchety and nothing I was going to say could change that.

Starting the day out with a grueling climb, I wonder how we'll meet our planned mileage goal. We summit to the highest point on our trip thus far, 4,400 feet, and share conversation with some curious cyclists. Rock formations are encountered in ways we haven't yet seen. Rocks hundreds of feet tall, without any vines or plants growing on them. Barren spots of smooth gray on the hillside. Some flatter rocks seem to form perfect lean-tos. Beginning the descent, I stop to put on a rain shell to combat the mountain fog. Wes realizes his other front rack bolt has sheared and I brainstorm repairs while he makes lunch. I take the racks completely off and rearrange how they mount, with a new bolt provided to us by Bill in New Hampshire. Thanks Bill, you're a tubular guy. It feels sturdier than before, but only time will prove its strength. The remainder of the day consists of long descents, with short uphill bumps. We're happy to get off the parkway after the first 25 miles, due to the increased traffic a Saturday has brought. Dropping off onto Old Linville Rd, the weather becomes warmer and we begin to feel like we're in North Carolina, rather than the woods of the Blue Ridge Parkway.