Revolution

Skyline Drive, VA
May 31- June 5, 2009

We are walking on the edge of circles whose centers are always shifting and whose turning leave us in stillness.

Rocky Top Overlook

JJJ slept here June 21, 1995

This year the St John bicycle group, the Pannier People, opted for a new venue. The Blue Ridge Parkway has birthed the route of umpteen trips of varying scope, but this year we agreed to go north. The Skyline Drive is an obvious choice as it extends from the Parkway near Waynesboro, VA, slicing through the Shenandoah National Park, and ends 105 miles north near Front Royal. Also of tremendous advantage, one of this year’s peddlers grew up in the area and graciously made all the necessary camping arrangements and led us into and through the two-lane wilderness.
The group of 10 converged from an distance of Columbia, SC to Philadelphia for departure directly after Sunday liturgy at Good Shepherd Lutheran in downtown Waynesboro.


Our leader, John HoffMeister Eckhart, aka ‘Moses’ seen here on the right is an unparalleled scholar of theology and as unassuming as a school bus driver. Whenever a need large or small arose, from tweaking my gear shifter to retrieving rider and broken bike ten miles from the trip’s end, he was always a step ahead. Those Israelites would have had a lot better luck getting to Canaan with John than that other guy.

The first day we peddled about 30 miles to Loft Mt. campground.


The ride was waterless and warm, mostly up hill it seemed,



but the ample shade and breeze at the numerous vistas helped me nurse my two hand-helds of water to a near draw with pleasant exhaustion.
Others pitched tents of sundry style, but I’m still exploring the qualities, limits and joys of tarp-dom.



After watering well, I got in a 3 mile run circling and looping through the campground, then cooked a pot of Kashi 7-grain for next breakfast and just snacked for evening meal. Everyone was tired and turned in with sundown or sooner.

A bright, crisp, mountaintop morning brought us to life just after sunrise. Everyone hit the road without much loitering except me. It was almost 7:30 before I headed down the steep campground road for the main route.



Ed, once again sported his vibrant tights for the cool morning, though he resisted the tempting comfort of the assisted living shoes he donned last year. As it turned out, he was the only one to see a bobcat that morning in pink tights. Ed’s somewhat brilliant novelty this year was to have a map of the Skyline cut into his own hair, depicting all the mountain gaps and overlooks. Pastor Frank is seen here quiet proud of and showing off the accomplishment on his first outing with hair clippers. It just shows you what can happen when talent and intelligence collide head-on.


The day’s 60-mile ride was bisected appropriately by a lunch stop at Big Meadows. Several of us whetted our appetites on sardines and Triscuits outside the camp store and grill as we waited on a quorum to roll in. Big Meadows is the premiere stop on the Drive -best food and facilities all around –even has a lodge and taproom which we’ll visit on the return. A dozen or so AT hikers were also resupplying here while we regrouped. Several of us enjoyed the grill’s Wild Turkey wrap polished off with blackberry cobbler and ice cream. The afternoon would have been a perfect one to waste on a full belly gazing over the large field of grass and fern, the does and frolicsome fawns. But, we had 30 miles to make into our next camp at Matthew’s Arm, and though the ride would not be too taxing, 2pm was as late as I dared to linger.

The afternoon ride had some fast and impressive downhill and overlooks. Almost equally impressive was the pair of young ladies on racing bikes pedaling up the mountain at about the same speed I was drifting down. As we were setting up for the evening at Matthew’s Arm, a few noticed a bear or two lurking in underbrush. We were especially careful to hang our food sacks and police the ground for bear-tempting treats. I kept a stout stick of firewood at hand under my tarp in case I awoke to something licking sardine sauce out of my beard. Thankfully the night was no more eventful than the constant bombarding of Gypsy Moth caterpillar poop pinging away on the tarp.

Not long after daybreak, I elected to do an early run and started walking up through the campground to warm-up. At the top of the hill, I came upon a trail and sign. I believe it said Overall Run Falls 2.0 miles, I knew it would be a tough climb back, but I decided to go with it. A broad generous fire road turned into a slightly overgrown and twisty, tight single-track. There were lots of blind curves. It was the last place I would have wanted to have a fender-bender with an ill-tempered momma bear stalled in the middle of the trail while scolding a pair of misbehaving cubs. Fortunately, I have better luck than my imagination warrants. The trail descended steeper and steeper. It turned into steps and final played out into a bare stone overlook. In the gorge, a fair-sized creek was twisting through a break in the rocks and spilling into an occluded basin about 100’ below. Midway, a large, bronze face-rock divided the falls left and right into brilliant sheaths of watery white hair. I felt I’d stumbled into a counsel of mountain elders –a people of stone from a time before the spirit became living flesh.

I climbed 2 miles out of the gorge with only a few places flat enough to run. I topped the hill and continued my jog down into camp. Just before making camp, about 25 yards over on the hill, was a young bear. He was maybe a year or two. By his slightly skewed posture it appeared he was taking a bear-whizz. He craned his neck around as far as it would stretch and watched me with fixed attention as I passed. My only other bear sighting occurred June 21, 1995 on a hot, hot Wednesday late afternoon at Brown’s Gap about 65 miles south of this spot. I was sitting beside the Drive playing a tune on a recorder when I heard a ponderous trundle in the brush behind me. About 25 yards into the woods was a large brown bear. It was arcing a path along the hill behind me. It eventually disappeared and when out of earshot, I double-timed it up the road. I had strapped onto my make-shift backpack several trays of day-old apple strudel and a large bunch of bananas from the town in the valley below. If this were the source of the bear’s interest, I wanted to put in some miles before crashing for the night. I never saw it again.

Moses stayed behind to help me adjust my chain. It had started to slip off into the spokes frequently when shifting to the lowest gear. After a few tries we hit on a fairly good tension if I shifted cautiously. He had arranged to meet a minister friend 20 miles away in Front Royal for lunch, so we had plenty of time. We stopped at several overlooks and talked about some scambling paths up some of the rockier crags he had done in years past. We were drifting down the road and he pointed out another young bear on the bank above the ditch. It was already trying to get out of sight, but I gave my bearhorn a little squeeze and scared the poor fellar. I felt kind of bad about that afterwards.

Following a hold on for all its worth 6-mile descent into Front Royal, we ate at a Subway and made our way around the north end of the south ridge of the Massenuttens and turned left up the valley through the hayfield heat of the afternoon. It looked like the 21st century and fair slice of the 20th hadn’t made to this beauty spot, which didn’t bother me at all. We were expected at a church camp for dinner, the evening, and breakfast. Once there, we took a dip in the lake before dinner which made me feel somewhat human again.

Several hours after dark, a thunderstorm hit and cooled things down to comfortable. I had time to squeeze in a 5 mile run before breakfast and we headed south up the mountain past FDR’s very first CCC facility.


From the top down into the Shenandoah Valley, it was another white-knuckle descent -crossing the river a few miles from Luray. The climb had burned through my breakfast like a field of dried broom sedge. Luckily, Uncle Buc’s on Main St. was still scrambling eggs. I had mine with a trout fillet, fried potatoes, and a biscuit. It was 4 miles out of town before the climbing proper began, then it was another 4 miles up to the Skyline, then it was another 10 miles of climb to the high point of… well you get the picture – a 40 mile day with several climbs.

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The second breakfast worked it’s magic and I made it to within a mile of the Skyline before I took a break for a bandana bath in a roadside spring.
Our evening rendez-vous was once again Big Meadows, this time from the north. We climbed without any real rush until some thunderheads began to bruise the sky here and there above the valley on both sides of the mountain. I stopped to swap my kilt for some running shorts as the rain was beginning to look certain. In the end we successfully dodged the rain as several of us rolled into Big Meadows together and gathered in the grill. But as the last two riders made it to through the doors, the sky opened –rain, hail, 50+ mph wind. There was a lull and it started again. This time, the lady in charge of the place came from her office and announced the county had been issued a tornado warning. It seems a funnel cloud or a microburst took out a trailer a few miles down the north side of the mountain in Stanley, but we saw no serious action on top. Tornadoes are very rare in the Virginia valleys and unheard of on mountaintops. I wasn’t too concerned but listened carefully anyways. The storm blew itself out in an hour or so. More high wind and rain was given for later in the night. Half of us, including me, elected to rent a couple of rooms, and the other half headed for the campground. After a couple of stouts at the taproom I turned in.

The weather was calm all night. I ran a couple miles down the road and back, enjoyed the luxury of a hot shower and hot breakfast the next morning. The fog was plenty thick and there was some talk that bicycles were being restricted from travel until it lifted. But someone said we had been given clearance to go and so we did. It was only a 30-mile day back to Loft Mt. The drizzle was generally light and no one had any close calls with the very sparse traffic, all of which seemed to be park work crews. I took several pictures and enjoyed the change in weather for the most part.

Bowman's Root


Shrouded Forest


Tulip Popular


[I]Sedum[/I] species


I call it Goat's Beard
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Different biking styles


I knew there was a laundry to dry out the dampness, so I didn’t fret much.

Years earlier, I had made it through here on foot, just on the front edge of the mother of all rainstorms for the Shenandoah National Park. In late June of 1995, specifically, the morning after I had seen the bear, the sky opened. I had slept along the highway, not knowing it was particularly illegal to do so along the Skyline. And the next morning a steady rain began to fall. I was walking the road and I joined up with some AT hikers doing the same. We were drowned after an hour or so and headed down to a ranger station where they said we could wait out the rain and maybe dry out a bit. The rain never let up. I talked to a ranger and told him I was from Abingdon. He said he knew one person from Abingdon. Frank, a Lutheran pastor, who was my pastor in fact at the time, the same one who now had taken to clipping maps into the hair of willing geographers though I believe he is yet to derive income from any such coiffure.

The ranger was very hospitable and offered to drive the soggy lot of us to the nearest trailhead not far from a shelter. I’m nearly hypothermic saved only by a heavy vinyl rain suit that held some heat. The shelter is packed, also a plus, and the lot of us wait out another day of rain –June 23, 1995, my 16 wedding anniversary. The clouds parted on Saturday and we all head north. At Swift Run Gap everyone but me continues on the AT. I head down the highway eastward off the mountain on toward D.C.

I told this story to John. It turns out his brother was a park ranger in those days and he and his brother were friends of the ranger who picked up the others and myself. He called up former ranger, Sean Greene, whose name I’d long forgotten and told him we were staying at Loft Mt. He arrived before dark, with a fresh strawberry pie. Yes, it was raining. He had difficulty in remembering me and I him of course, but we both remembered the storm of ’95.


(Sean is standing beside me, Moses is next)

The next day it rained us all the way back to the cars in Waynesboro. We had completed a 240 mile loop from a sunny Sunday afternoon to the following wet Friday. I had also completed a different sort of “wheels within wheels” revolution.

JJJ

Missing Tent Stake Throws Suspicion on Whitetop Corvid Gang.

May 22-24, 2009
Buzzard Rock, AT


This past week I finally got the dragon oven far enough along to start building some small fires in it to “cure” it of lingering dampness. The clay inside was still surprisingly wet considering I applied it about 6 weeks earlier and had pulled out the sand mold 2-3 weeks ago. The firings were only 1-3 hours each and we did cook a chicken in a dutch oven, but nothing of a bread nature.

My main task has been to help Bonnie get few things ready around the house for a group of her lady friends who would be spending the weekend for their annual retreat. And since I had been politely asked to make myself scarce, the thought a weekend on a trail was really a little reward for me. At first I thought about paddling down S. Holston Lake and walking across the mountain to the Blue Hole, but my kayaking gear was not in order, so I decided on something more familiar for which prep was more of a second nature.

I’m trying to keep my little Go-Lite Lite-Speed pack more or less ready to go anytime. So really food and clothing are about all I have to customize for the weather and trip duration. My hiking shorts, kilt, a couple short-sleeved tech shirts and a l/s fleece, a pair of sandals and socks, and Five Fingers shoes seemed plenty adequate for Friday night, Saturday, and Sunday morning. There was a beautiful weekend forecast given for Whitetop, VA and I was determined to be there.

I usually like to experiment a little with camp cooking, but pressed for time, I just loaded a stuff sack with a packet of Kashi 7-grains, 3 apples, a couple of wraps and about 4 oz of cheese. Also, I mixed up half pound of an easy, impromptu gorp out of the family nut and dried fruit bowl. That sounded a little light on calories since I want to do 2 short runs on Saturday and about 5 miles sometime Sunday. But I had a pair of ProBars(375 cal each), a couple of espresso gels, and I thought I had some couscous and olive oil stored in my cooking kit. I didn’t really check, but since I was getting such a late start and there was really only 4 meals to cover, not including a chow-stop going and coming though Damascus, I didn’t worry about it.

Since next week is the some-teenth annual St John Bicycle Trip, I thought a little road test with a load wouldn’t hurt. So I bungied my pack onto the bike’s luggage carrier and headed over the hill to the Creeper Trail about 4:30pm. The day had been warm and pleasant with a nice little breeze from the east. Lots of folks were out on the trail getting a jump on a long spring weekend. Having replaced my warped back rim makes the 9 miles into Damascus well under an hour even with a 20lb pack in tow. I thought about skipping a chow stop at Fattie’s going out of town, but I had plenty of time, and the siren smell of burgers and fries was more than I could pass. They were doing a good business, but I compromised with a veggie quesadilla and a cold Dos Equis and was back on the trail in half an hour or so.

A few miles up, Big Rock Falls was still running seasonally heavy, but was down from prior weeks. The traffic has thinned, but a half mile latter a stout guy on a hungry looking mountain bike breezes past me from behind and says two more are following. Not 500’ around the next bend, I see he has stopped –probably to wait on his pals. When I pull up he said he had just scared a bear off the trail. It had disappeared over the stream bank into the laurel about 50 yds off into the woods. I’ve only seen one bear in the wild, but I wasn’t curious enough to follow this one, especially with the scent of fast food on me.

I hit the AT at Creek Junction and left the bike locked up at the provided rack. It was only 7:30, and knew I could do a few miles, but had no hopes of making 7 miles to Buzzard Rock before dark. My pack felt noticeably lighter than my trip last month, still, but that's not something to complain about. Its only about a mile and a half of easy trail up to the shelter on the flats of Lost Mountain but up is still "up" especially at the end of a day. There was still good daylight when I got there -a few tents around but no one in the shelter. A hiker directed me to the spring, which I wanted to check out for future running rambles. It was only 2.5 miles further to the SR-603 crossing. Last time I was there, was with Meltzer, his crew, Woodstock and PolkaDot, and Lone Wolf. LW had shown us the spring there, which I’d not scouted either. The twilight was almost deep enough to call dark, so I decided to camp at an easy spot rather than risk my quesadilla going flat on me half way up Beech Mountain. Campsites are not plentiful after the first mile and hard to find in the dark even with a headlight. I started pulling the innards out of my pack and discovered why it felt lighter -it was lighter –exactly one weekend food sack lighter. The last time I’d seen it was on my kitchen counter. That’s probably close to where it still was.

I wrapped one end of my tarp around a big healthy black walnut tree still in bloom and staked the other end down in the grass. I fell asleep counting the calories I had brought instead of sheep. I couldn’t make it much past 1000, before the sound of wind sweeping the treetops scrubbed my mind of all thought.

In the morning, I considered walking or jogging to Whitetop Grocery, but I couldn’t decide if it would be 3 miles or 6 miles each way. And of course I didn’t have a map –why spoil an adventure with a map -right? I could probably hitch a ride once I got to pavement, but was that 1 or 2 miles? Either way it sounded like too much of the day to waste on just a couple of thousand calories. So I fired up my alchy stove, cooked about ¾ cup of couscous and crumbled in some Probar, since there was no olive oil either.

In the past few years, I’ve been up and down Beech Mt enough to sort of know the trail. The first time, in late summer, I remember it as tough. The nettles were tall and sassy and acted like they hadn’t eaten bare leg of hiker in months. But every time since, it has gotten a little easier. Still, if the wild flowers don’t take your breath, the hill will. There are all the usually suspects blooming today: trillium, wood anemone, false solomon seal, jack-in-the-pulpit, yellow pimpernel, and white baneberry which I don’t see so often. Later in summer it appears turk’s cap lilies and angelica will be the main fireworks.

But today, it was the young nettles that were looking vulnerable and tasty to me. My grandmother said she’d eaten them. I might have picked a mess had I some butter and vinegar to tame them after a parboiling. Within an hour and a half I’d made it to the rock and along the way, munched on enough violet’s leaf and flower to squelch an appetite. The sun and wind had made short work of a thin haze of fog leaving the shamrock green valleys and hills for easy view 30 miles into the edge of blueness. With not a lot on my agenda for the day, or enough fuel anyways, I meander around Buzzard Rock. I found the Buzzard benchmark (set in 1979 and checked in 1991), talked to several hikers, some sectioning, some thrus. Most were thrilled with the view, as the spring has been extra moist and the mountain tops fog prone. I found an unbelievably good camping spot down near the eastern edge of the knoll. By some physics of wind and rock there was a dead spot in the draft though the place appears exposed. A pair of towhees took slight offense at my presence and left without being sociable, as did a pair of ravens tacking into the nippy east wind.

After the rest, I thought I might as well head on over to the spring on other corner of Whitetop’s south face. It’s an easy mile’s walk through a gnarled low woods. There was a group of half dozen strapping young men watering at the gushing piped spring. They had been shuttled up to Fox Creek to head southbound for Damascus. Sounded like they had had a little more climb and rocks than they had bargained for but were enjoying the trip. We were talking about camp spots, hiking stuff and I said something like, “Back in ’79, some friends drop my new bride and me off over at Elk Garden and we….blah…blah…blah......blah...blah....blah”. They were quiet for a few seconds and one of them finally said, “Man, how old are you anyway?” I wished them luck and told them to check out Fattie’s Diner when they made it town.

By now I felt like getting in my running allotment of three miles for the morning, so I stashed my pack down in a little beech thick and headed down the FS road. The Garmin said it was only 1.82 miles from the gate to pavement, but I remembered it more like 2.5. But continuing with a left turn, 3 miles total put me just shy of the AT crossing at Elk Garden parking. After a short rest, I walked the AT back up to the spring, got my pack and, headed back over to the Rock for the remainder of the afternoon.

Lounging around, nibbling on a Probar, did nothing to replenish my energy so I nixed a second run. I watched several family groups that made the trip from the parking lot near the mountain top down to the rock and back, most of the distance hikers seemed to have made it through in the morning. I pitched the tarp as a single-plane slab with about 18” of headspace in the quiet spot I'd found and enjoyed the sun, rest, and view. Even the significant fly-buzz had a certain idyllic charm.

My belly made it to 5:30 before firing up the stove, but just barely. At least I had my spice rack with me, so I doused the final cup of couscous liberally with curry, a little salt, and a couple of bird’s eye peppers to keep me warm for the evening. It was more than delicious -it was almost pyrotechnic.

The rest of the afternoon slid slowly under waves of fog drifting from the east, easing down the mountain’s top into my little apse at the south end of the meadow. I expected a clammy coolness to come with it, but with the evenings laying by of the wind, the temperature and dryness held up well. I fell into an easy restful sleep, and except for some minor tussles between the tarp and the wind, heard nothing until an hour or so before dawn.

It sounded as if someone was driving a tent stake into the ground just down the hill from me. As strange as that may be before dawn, it seemed even more odd since there were really only rocks below me –not much of a place to camp except for penitents. But I heard a distinct metallic pounding in a few series of 3 or 4 strike and fairly close by as plain as day -even though it was night. When daylight was barely certain, I crawled out to investigate my new neighbors, though I was pretty sure I mistaken, but still it was worth a check. It sure enough sounded like some one or something hitting a tent stake with a rock, but no one was there.

I ate my last tiny morsel of real food and decided to dole out the espresso gels on the trail as needed. Being in hunger, I was getting an earlier start today. As I got ready to take down the tarp, I noticed one of the loops had pulled off its stake. Before taking down the rest of the tarp, I pulled the empty loop over every possible place it could reach and still couldn’t find a thing. I scoured the ground with eyes, fingers and toes, several times, and couldn’t turn up the errant stake. Suddenly, it became obvious to me that it was stolen.

At first I thought the towhees were the culprits. But a towhee is not much larger than a tent stake, and neither of the two I saw looked particularly strong. Perhaps the wind had loosened the stake and the two of them together, one on each end, had gotten it to the edge of the bluff and dropped it over. Even that seemed somewhat far-fetched for a pair of malicious towhees. The pair I’d seen were not especially friendly but nothing really suggested malicious.

Corvids. Crows, ravens, and some of their kin are decided pranksters in legend if not fact. They are big enough to carry a tent stake unassisted, attracted to shiny objects, and ravens were seen, by me, were in the vicinity only hours earlier. In Virginia, with a soured jury, that much evidence could land you in the pen with a long sentence. So, suspicion falls on the Whitetop Corvid Gang.

I lamented my lose, but was too hunger to file a complaint with the Audubon Society or whoever would have jurisdiction in such a matter. As I headed off the mountain the fog began to lift along with my spirit. It was only seven miles back to my bike and then only 45 minutes to the nearest hot skillet for hire. I walked the few up hills, the technical patches, and some of the flat, but had a good 5 miles or more of easy downhill jogging mingled in. When I got to the bike I washed off in the creek, took the coffee gel, and I was in Damascus eating scrambled eggs, quicker than a raven could fence a hot tent stake.

So, keep an eye on your tent stakes when you're camping at Buzzard Rock.
jjj
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Breadzilla's First Fire

We've had a good bit of wet weather that kept the dragon cloaked, but today was nice enough to add some more structure to the head. Having cleaned out the sand mold weeks ago, you would have thought the inside to be drier, but the clay was still very plastic.

We decided to risk a small fire to help move things along. At one point the paper mold in the chimney caught fire and made for a little fire-breathing drama.


There's still some detail sculpturally that I want to add, but after few more small fires, we may try a full firing and cook something -hopefully before the weekend



jjj
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Barefoot in Paradise

With all system pointing toward go on the running front, recently a fellow runner just so happened to post an article on barefoot running. One theory has it that modern running shoes contribute to a large portion of running injuries on account that the shoes don't allow the feet and the attendant leg muscles to develop adequate strength due to excessive cushioning. Well maybe not everyone, but maybe I'm amongst the unlucky several. I'm reminded of Douglas Adam's, "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" bit on the planet Brontital where civilization collapsed when it reached "the shoe event horizon". ALL commerce was engaged in the production, buying, and selling of shoes. Shoes that were so poorly made that ultimately they made it impossible for people to walk. Gradually people evolved into feet-less birds and never touched the earth again. It did occur to me the other day, that it if the ultimate aim of evolution-civilization- or whatever is to immobilize a populace in front of passive entertainment, having instantaneous communications and within 30 minute delivery distance of a multi-national pizza manufacturer, then WE, in America, have nearly reached the ultimate, the pinnacle, of space, time and all that exists. It' a vicious spiral toward happy, well-fed entropy.

I bought a pair of Five Finger Vibrams a year ago, but never took the plunge and patience to re-train and adapt my feet to the minimalist approach. Then came the need to mix lots of cob for the bread oven a month ago. The Vibrams were perfect foot-gloves for tromping the mire. It helped with adaptation too. So with mileage for April barely above zero, I thought I'd re-try the "barefoot" approach as I rebuild my running regime -at least for a while.

Last Monday I started with half mile and have added a quarter mile to the distance everyday since. I always walk a half mile or more before the run. Due to lightness of foot or general freshness, I've ran a bit faster than I generally would. A day or two ago I noticed excessive tightness and soreness in the calves about the time I noticed my foot strike more toward the fore than the heel which is encouraging. With evolution some pain is expected, but finding the balance hurts.

Yesterday, with some of the soreness and much of the tightness gone I biked up to the AT where it turns up the Cuckoo just past Damascus. I had the pleasure of chatting with a backpacker as we hiked to the top. For casual biking, the Five Fingers are fine if you stay on your forefoot instead of your arch. Hiking was also no problem as I wasn't packing any weight. But I admit I did stumble a couple of times on rocks for no apparent reason.

As I turned back down, and finding a lot good trail bed, the experience of running barefoot in paradise was just shy of ecstasy. The near silence of the foot strike and that toe-to-soil connection awakens primal, non-linear consciousness daring words to defile. Even the brief uphills "wanted" to be run.

But there were rocks too, in places -the hard, sharp kind. Once my feet were blind, but now they could see. With some practice their sight will improve I'm sure, but you have to take some time in rocks that a shoe might not. Still, the extra stimulation after I finished was not painful and though I can still fell a little tingle this morning, it's not a bruised, achy feel.

After I rode home, taking a few flower photos along the way, I started on the dragon head for the oven. I found a good mix of the gold and red clay that was of a firm and supple body and begged for modeling. Again I'm poking in bamboo twigs as I go to reinforce.

I hope all this works.

Galleria

(couldn't resist tweaking this one. In flowers, I see stars, galaxies, and the wholeness of the cosmos)







jjj
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Imaginary Places

I like to explore boundaries and places that cause imagination.

I'm really not a experienced backpacker, but I've been keeping alive this little ember to do a thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail since 1973. Over the years, I've gone out and packed a few miles with Bonnie and our children . Once, I walked across VA, but that's not a backpacking story. Bonnie and I took our honeymoon backpacking on the AT in the Grayson Highlands. It was a blessed 4 days, but distance-wise, it was only about 12 miles and for 4 of those we were lost. But in the attic I've got camping and backpacking gear dating back to my boy scout era that's too well preserved for it's age.

29 years and a trail running hobby later, I kind of got the AT bug rekindled when I met up with Karl Meltzer, an ultra runner from out west who is strong at the 100 mile distance, and his crew on a southbound AT speed record attempt last summer. I'd like to do it fast hike, but not 47 days-fast. For most thru-hikers, it takes 5-6 months to cover the 2100+ miles carrying a 30lb plus pack and re-supplying every 3-5 days. Karl's crew assisting him to the extent that he could focus solely on covering the 46 miles per day. He only missed the record by about 10 days -flooding and injury in the early part of trip set him back. Plus Maine I hear, is a tough place to break into multi-day adventures.

After reading some of the Runner vs Hiker online controversy surrounding Karl, I started to educate myself about how to "hike right" for mere mortals -like not carrying cast iron cookware, how to make an alcohol cook stove from litter, are hiking boots obsolete, do you really need a tent, does Dr. Bonner's peppermint soap make a good toothpaste as the label indicates --that sort of thing. It seems a natural thing that a trail runner and a trail hiker would have lots in common having feet as a common boundary, but it seems a lot of dedicated hikers are often perplexed and even mifted that someone might use their trail for more than merely walking.

Since my running has been truncated dramatically, most recently with a pulled piriformis muscle, I decided with it being nearly healed to cross the Runner-Hiker Divide to the hiking side this past weekend. Using topo maps, I plotted out a course from my front door over toward North Carolina through the tip of Tennessee. It was ambitious mileage and the route was completely trail free in a few places. Then the day before, I came down with head cold symptoms and was't feeling so great. But there would be several options along the way for cutting the trip short if needed.

It was Friday morning before I started really packing, and I felt well enough to give it a start. By noon I was on a beeline toward the AT and very soon snagged a pair of morels to add some wild to my diet along the way.

Since starting late, I didn't want to stand around "magic eye-ing" the ground for mushrooms, but kept my regular eyes to the ground and headed up Sweet Hollow Rd. Turning left onto Government Rd, I crossed one big hill and turned up an old logging road at Sharp Branch. My orthonics seem to let my feet "slip" in my shoe just enough for some hot spots to develop, but I sat down on a rock, taped them before the trouble turned bad, and had no further problems. The last trip up this way, I followed the logging road but went too far and it played out too low on the mountain and brushy, so today I turned straight up a sharp ridge line. There was only a mile to the top, but 20% grade, black flies and saw briers to slow things down.

Taking the AT from the top, I head north about 2 miles and drop off the other side down to Backbone Rock. Most of the Iron Mt gang has done this trail a few times, but it's new to me. There are several very steep places but there were some good bench portions on the ridge too. I walked across Backbone Rock, down into a picnic area and cooled my feet in the stream. It was getting on up in the afternoon and I wanted to get to the spring on top of Iron Mt and camp at Shingletown Gap. As soon as I started back up the next logging road, there were bulldozer tracks. It looked like someone had tried to fix the rutted out switchbacks. They left plenty of loose rock to twist runner ankles, but climbing was not to bad. I made it to the top by 7pm, pumped a couple of litres, and pitched my tarp. Daylight was fading fast along with me. Field testing my new alcohol stove was a success. I had cut bottoms off two aluminum drink cans, then forced them together with a cotton ball inside. I drilled about 12- 1/16" holes around the top lip and few in the indented top to accept fuel. Denatured alcohol is the best fuel, I carried about 6oz for the trip. You set the stove in another slightly larger can bottom that is much shallower. When you fuel up the stove you pour a little in this primer pan then light it. The prime pan brings the alcohol in the stove to a boil and pressurizes it. Then the jets self-light and you're ready to cook. It boiled a cup or so of water in about 5 minutes. I dumped in an equal volume of couscous with a little oil, and wrapped it in my homemade pot cozy -layers of canvas with aluminum foil sewn onto it. While that cooked I fried one of my mushroom and scrambled an egg with it. I mixed it with the couscous and seasoned with curry. It was tasty. As usual, I forgot to bring a spoon or fork, but the woods are full of chopsticks.

It was so quiet up there you could almost hear the sunset, but off in the distant, a barred owl began to sing. I built a small fire to smoke down the black flies and to keep me company. It wasn't too cold, maybe 45°, but I usually have a hard time sleeping the first night out, plus I was fighting a carppy head cold. I woke to one of the most intense 3 second dreams I can remember. All of the sudden Jecholia lifts a flap of the tarp and sticks her head inside and shouts "DAD!!!" Everything is twilight gray except she's wearing an intense red, velvet cap like a bishop and there's snow on it. I couldn't imagine how she found me, but she seemed to be trying to tell me about some emergency situation. I woke up, -to no emergency thankfully.

I packed, ate cold, and was walking by 8:15. I meet and talked to a turkey hunter right at Shingletown Gap. and headed down toward Laurel Bloomery, TN. The logging road is rocky and steep but you could probably manage with a 4WD. It hits pavement in a half mile. I turned east, but missed my turn down to Hwy 91 and ended up adding about a mile to my walk. But, I found a found a piped spring, and the luxury of no filtering might have been worth it. After three tries at finding a 3 litre water skin that doesn't leak, I think the MSR brand is going to work. I stopped in the A to Z Market and had a couple of egg biscuits and orange juice. They had dog food, cat food, feed blocks for cattle, fuel additives for cars, and a picture of Gentry Creek Falls which is where I was headed next.

It was an easy walk through the valley community toward the NC border. I picked some wild broccoli to munch on later, saw a very interesting rock formation,

and a Balm of Gilead tree which are not so common around here any more. After about 2 miles of pavement the road turns to dirt at a trail head that permits horse traffic and takes you up along the top of Rogers Ridge. I headed about another mile and a half to a second trail head for Gentry Creek Falls. There were some cars here and it was a great day for a spring-is-here type hike. The trail was blue blazed and an easy stroll, cris-crossing the creek on log bridges, and some times with a shin deep wade. I saw an new plant,

that I can't identify with my old Peterson guide. It's not a striking plant, but something is odd about it. I caught up to a hiking group from Boone, NC and meet another pair of gents coming back down. The last quarter mile was a little more difficult than than the prior 2 miles. Waterfalls and cascades have always been interesting boundaries to explore. This one was well worth the effort.

I had time for a shower before the group showed up, and I followed them around a break up to the second falls.

They headed back down, but my goal for the day was to crest out above the creek source on top of the ridge near the NC Corner. I climbed around the upper falls beyond the blazes -still there was a very old logging road through a large open woods. This area was big an wild, but after a long half mile the rhododendrons got the better of the trail. I waded the creek. It finally got the better of the creek too, so I started up the inner face of Rogers Ridge. It just a little ways thet I hit a trail again. I t was headed up the ridge but back down the creek. I took my chance back down on the creek with another half mile of bushwhacking before I yielded the gorge to its tangled green sentential for good.

From the creek to the ridge line was only about a half mile up with a 500' climb, but pinned most of the way between the rocks and the brush with 25 pounds on the back makes it more challenging. Every foot placement has to be considered and even a few steps ahead -sort like playing multi dimensional chess with rocks, trees and gravity. I was none to happy to make it to the horse trail at a place where it dipped off the ridge line in my favor.

I followed the road to the top of a small bald. There was some ATV traffic which surprised me. The weather and view was too good to leave so I camped just off the top out of some of the wind. There were lots of black flies, but luckily, they didn't seem hungry. I was exhausted. I cooked and ate, and crawled into my bag before sunset. I felt worse, but finally had a good long sleep after my feet warmed up.

The next morning I still wasn't so chipper, but was packed, and walking before 7:30. 16 miles the first day, 13 the day before, had a few new muscles mildly sore, but I was just out of steam mostly. The ATV trail took me down to the NC Corner which I'd wanted to see since I've made collecting these dilly-dallies a photographic hobby. VA and TN meets up with the northwest corner of NC.

The die man had his "O" in "CORNER" turned sideways when he punched it the first time - a very well preserved typo. After walking a little ways into a Christmas tree farm, I headed down into the Big Horse Creek system. There was some more bushwhacking, some good deer trail contours to follow and ATV trails along the creek through some swampy area. About 2 miles before Whitetop Station, I picked up a graveled state road through more Christmas tree farms. Once at the Station I knew a bicycle hauler would taxi me back at least to Damascus, but I lucked out and the next one through was from Abingdon. He swung by Alvarado Station and dropped me off leaving only a two mile walk home. 36 miles of walking and my own cooking took about 5 lbs off and me to some new imaginary places.
JJJ
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Insulation and Sculpture 101

But first, how about a few flowers to get things rolling?

Christmas Rose, Helleborus niger, I believe it crossed with my H. orientalis
because it's white.


Virginia Cowslip or Bluebells


Bleeding Hearts


Now the dirty work
I got a little impatient and started trimming on my chimney before it was firm enough. Results - it collapsed. So I rebuilt it. This time I made the outer opening larger. I had some bamboo get knocked down over the winter so maybe I could use that for a door. Here's a preliminary.

It will need a piece of sheet metal on the back side and some draft control built in.

Its time to insulate the oven core with a cob mixture using lots of perilite in the mixture. Some straw is used for additional strength. I like to soak the perilite because it keeps the mixture wet for easier treading. I mix with my feet. Those Vibram Five Finger KSO shoes are excellent for tromping the cob.

When the mixture seems about right ingredient-wise, I stiffen and dry it out by adding a little dry perilite at the end. That stuff really sucks up water. I also have been adding some bamboo twigs for reinforcement


The insulation mix is easy to work with but its mush less dense. I'm adding a round or two at a time and letting it firm-up overnight before continuing.
Also, I'm gradually bringing the chimney height up, but there's lots of straw in that mixture.
The stripe down the middle is the critter's backbone with some bamboo re-bar for extending the sculpture higher than the insulation layer.

I never did any sculpture to speak of, so this is all new to me. Bonnie did ceramics in college and for several years after. She mainly threw things on the wheel. She has answered many, many questions about clay and forming.

I haven't had this much fun since Play Doh.
jjj
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Phase 3

In preparation for the chimney, Bonnie and I made a support structure of bamboo and paper mache. There's lots of ways to cobble a support together, I just thought it'd be fun to give this a try. A chimney is not essential for the oven, but it fits my overall plans. This height will be trimmed down considerably in the end.




These cracks keep appearing and I keep filling and patching. The oven wall is approaching leather-hardness. The cracks worry me. I think I'll go ahead and start covering it with the perilite-cob insulation mix. This will allow the inner wall to dry more slowly, and perhaps crack less.



The chimney is essential the roof to a little vestiblue to the oven. Once you have a fire going in the oven you seal the outer door until the fire goes out and the oven is hot enough. You rake out the coals and ash, load the loaves and seal the inner door until they are done.



As I get closer to the top of the arch, I insert some bamboo reinforcement. The high-hay content of this mix also add lots of stabilty while building.



This is about as high as I dare go today due to the weight stress on the top of the arch. I'll have to insert bamboo sticks to shift some of the force to the outer walls of the arch and to add general strenght to the structure. Also I'll need to fine tune the shape of the entrance as drys and stabilizes, cut away the chimney building supports, and make a door for it. Soon, I'm going to need to start on a permanent roofed structure to keep it more or less dry. I mixed some test batches using the perilite. Interesting substance.





jjj
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