N38°18.664' W078°43.268'
"Where do you sleep?" The man asks, concern lacing the wrinkles around his eyes.
"I camp around a lot. Last night, I was up on the mountain in the park. Tonight, I'm going back to someplace in the park."
He seems to accept this and walks away. I don't know why, but this man's questions are getting to me. I came into this Subway and right through the door he wanted to know where I was going. My bags do draw a lot of questions, and my answers don't stem the tide. But for now, I'm just on the edge of okay with answering. Yesterday in Luray caverns, I didn't say a word to anybody for an hour and a half, even though I was surrounded by people. This morning, I didn't speak to anybody outside of the waitress, and I didn't say much to her. This afternoon, I've been silent except for one screamed expletive as I corrected my posture when I shot around a sharper and steeper bend than I expected. Fill in the blank with your imagination, but remember I have extremely good impulse control when in pain or terror.
The man walks back over to me. "Hey, you don't need a place to stay, do you? We've got a place, it's no problem, really. We had six Appalachian trail walkers stay for near a week, once." Nuts. Now I have to make a decision. What do I want? Well, I want to stay with people, it's true. I think my starting with people has been one of the eye-openers this trip. I'm glad every time I do it. But on the other hand, I had my eye on a place. And I've got mileage fever, today: a condition I named for when I feel the itch to get someplace, and nowhere feels adequate to stop.
Maybe psychology has something to do with how I answer him. Daniel Kahneman pointed out in Thinking Fast, And Slow that it's easier to make a non-decision than to change your mind.
"Thanks, but I want to get some miles under me before I sleep tonight."
"Yeah, there's plenty of daylight."
I get his email and thank him and his wife. They leave, on the condition that I update them. I'm glad I met them. I don't regret a thing.
"Where do you sleep?" The man asks, concern lacing the wrinkles around his eyes.
"I camp around a lot. Last night, I was up on the mountain in the park. Tonight, I'm going back to someplace in the park."
He seems to accept this and walks away. I don't know why, but this man's questions are getting to me. I came into this Subway and right through the door he wanted to know where I was going. My bags do draw a lot of questions, and my answers don't stem the tide. But for now, I'm just on the edge of okay with answering. Yesterday in Luray caverns, I didn't say a word to anybody for an hour and a half, even though I was surrounded by people. This morning, I didn't speak to anybody outside of the waitress, and I didn't say much to her. This afternoon, I've been silent except for one screamed expletive as I corrected my posture when I shot around a sharper and steeper bend than I expected. Fill in the blank with your imagination, but remember I have extremely good impulse control when in pain or terror.
The man walks back over to me. "Hey, you don't need a place to stay, do you? We've got a place, it's no problem, really. We had six Appalachian trail walkers stay for near a week, once." Nuts. Now I have to make a decision. What do I want? Well, I want to stay with people, it's true. I think my starting with people has been one of the eye-openers this trip. I'm glad every time I do it. But on the other hand, I had my eye on a place. And I've got mileage fever, today: a condition I named for when I feel the itch to get someplace, and nowhere feels adequate to stop.
Maybe psychology has something to do with how I answer him. Daniel Kahneman pointed out in Thinking Fast, And Slow that it's easier to make a non-decision than to change your mind.
"Thanks, but I want to get some miles under me before I sleep tonight."
"Yeah, there's plenty of daylight."
I get his email and thank him and his wife. They leave, on the condition that I update them. I'm glad I met them. I don't regret a thing.
Last night, I saw a bear. I was on top of the mountain at the Harry F. Byrd Sr. Visitor Center and Big Meadows campground, getting my backwoods camping pass. I turn into the bike path, and ten feet down the trail, I see it: a black bear, maybe two and a half feet at the shoulder. I stop, scream "That's a freaking bear," and pull out my cellphone so I can prove what I've seen. It skids to a halt and shuffles back into the woods, trying to avoid me and photographic capture. I do my level best to capture it anyway. All I get is some Bigfoot-style mess-o-graphs.
When I finally get my backwoods pass, the ranger gives me some harsh words and a half-joking warning that she'll check on me later that night. I laugh and ride to a different spot than she tells me to go, not because I don't trust her, but because I don't want to lug my bike a mile or more down the Appalachian Trail. Instead, I do my level best to follow all the park guidelines. I'm sure I didn't get a quarter mile from the road, but I definitely covered a thousand feet before I parked and hung my hammock. I didn't want to make it too hard to find my campsite, in case the bear came after my peanut butter. I swung my butter from a tree and swung myself from a different pair. The ferns grew thick around me and choked out any view of the first floor. It may be the most beautiful campsite I find on my entire trip. Green above and green below. Everything felt prehistoric, as if (improbably) I was the first person putting my feet on that ground. I scoffed a little at my silliness and went to sleep, bundled up.
When I finally get my backwoods pass, the ranger gives me some harsh words and a half-joking warning that she'll check on me later that night. I laugh and ride to a different spot than she tells me to go, not because I don't trust her, but because I don't want to lug my bike a mile or more down the Appalachian Trail. Instead, I do my level best to follow all the park guidelines. I'm sure I didn't get a quarter mile from the road, but I definitely covered a thousand feet before I parked and hung my hammock. I didn't want to make it too hard to find my campsite, in case the bear came after my peanut butter. I swung my butter from a tree and swung myself from a different pair. The ferns grew thick around me and choked out any view of the first floor. It may be the most beautiful campsite I find on my entire trip. Green above and green below. Everything felt prehistoric, as if (improbably) I was the first person putting my feet on that ground. I scoffed a little at my silliness and went to sleep, bundled up.
During the night, I wake up groggy to use the restroom. I hate waking up in a hammock. Getting into the sleeping bag is like stuffing yourself into an uncooperative snake, and the prospect of doing it twice in a night is daunting. I unzip the mosquito netting and swing my head out to find my shoes. They're nestled in the ferns, covered in millipedes. There are about forty per shoe. I shudder and hyperventilate as I gingerly pick each shoe up and brush off the insects. I can hear their soft plopping in the greenery as they fall. I feel faint by the time I invert them and shake out a few more from inside. When I'm done with my business, I tie my shoes together and hang them over the rope that suspends the hammock. No more creepies for me.
Of course, the ranger doesn't find me. I take my customary nine-hour semi-hibernation and tear down camp, retrieving my food from the tree in which I had strung it. During the morning, I walk down to see a waterfall. I strip my shoes and socks and sit on a rock in the pool at the bottom. Soon, loads of kids are following suit. One didn't realize how cold it would be and starts crying. Her mom just throws her hands out as if to say: "the hug is waiting over here, but don't be mistaken, I am not saving you from a puddle." A truly beefy man shows up with his waif-like woman. As they're taking selfies, a cut young Latino takes his shirt off. I think he's intimidated by the beefcake, but I don't ask him. I just sit and sketch the waterfall as best I can. I take zero pictures. Maybe I'm a genius, but I'll have to tell you that later. I slap my notebook closed, take my shirt off and put it in the water, and get back into my gear. I think this may be the waterfall dad and Philip and I saw the last time I was here on skyline drive. I may never know for sure. That doesn't bother me.
My ride out of the park is mostly downhill. That doesn't bother me either. At the end, there's a tremendous downhill stretch, and I get tempted to use my watch to measure my speed. I swear I must have hit thirty miles an hour. At the bottom is where I met the kind family in the Subway.
My ride out of the park is mostly downhill. That doesn't bother me either. At the end, there's a tremendous downhill stretch, and I get tempted to use my watch to measure my speed. I swear I must have hit thirty miles an hour. At the bottom is where I met the kind family in the Subway.
Eleven miles later, I pull up to the fire road that should take me into the National Park. The gate has two signs that tell me it's private and I shouldn't go in. I fiddle with my phone for a minute: what happens if I try to go around to get to the same spot? Hm. Six miles. I duck under the gate and hope nobody sees me. I pedal up the old road and stop short when I see a building. My heart starts beating out of my chest. If I weren't already dripping with sweat, I would have started that, too, a nervous sweatiness. The old place has a steeply peaked roof and a wide open space in front. Maybe I can email that family and say I changed my mind. Or maybe . . . I don't see any vehicles. I don't see any tire tracks. I don't see any signs of humans at all. Cautious, I pedal up to the building, and speed past it when nobody is evident. "I'll just go deep into the woods behind and nobody will ever know I was here." But as I go deeper into the woods, following a trail, it becomes clear where I am.
I pass spigots and electric boxes in pairs, each with a space clear of old trees, anyway. There's an old square nailed to a tree that says "74."
This old abandoned campsite is accidentally exactly what I want. When I dismount, I shuffle over to the closest spigot, and check. Nothing comes out, except maybe my paranoia. I set everything up before I walk back to the camp headquarters, swinging a stick to clear the spiderwebs. I try the door to the women's restroom, which has a hook latch, troublingly, on the outside. Locked. The men's has the same hook, but isn't locked. When I go inside, I see some humorless signs about gas and bears (don't look). Oh, the sigh I heaved. Roaming around the back, I try the laundry. Hook latch again, and again, unlocked. But this time, the ceiling is caved in and I don't venture inside. I can't fully close the door, either, and jeweling on it wakes some wasps. I beat a retreat. The pump house for the terrible pool is unlocked, even if it's latched. Nothing interesting is inside. So it's time, whether I'm ready or not. Is the front door unlocked?
I pull open the screen door, and if the spring is rusted or missing I don't know. It doesn't swing shut. Undoing the hook latch, I reach for the handle, brushing away cobwebs with a stick. It creaks open, leaving a clean arc in the mud on the floor. Disgusting. I tiptoe inside, stepping only on the ceiling tiles that have fallen to the floor and become sodden with wet, avoiding the slimy mud. There's a lot of mowing equipment and old broken chairs. On one wall, it says "Coffee Shoppe" in big, round, seventies font. There's no counter, no coffee. On the other side of the room, there are two utterly outdated maps of the Shenandoah valley. One has an x in Sharpie and the words "Pine Ridge." There is a surfeit of deciduous vegetation outside and a dearth of pines. I cough back a laugh.
That's when I hear the bump in the attic.
Raccoon? Anything bigger would have fallen through on my head by now. And I still have one room to look in. I'm worried, now, that there may be some rabid animal inside true manager's office, and opening it will be my undoing. I undo the ubiquitous hook latch and shove the door open. There's a foam pad and a filling system that's fallen to the ground. The aren't even any chairs. I'm not exactly disappointed, but not enthralled, either. I close everything up as I leave. I crush the ceiling tiles a little more and I stride away into the woods again. In the dying sunlight, Pine Ridge is almost pretty, but for the unnamed and unknown terror in the attic.
I had no idea this place existed earlier in the day. I had no clue that I would end in campsite 74 of a defunct tourist destination. I had no inkling that my evening would be this. But looking back, I don't regret a thing.
I pass spigots and electric boxes in pairs, each with a space clear of old trees, anyway. There's an old square nailed to a tree that says "74."
This old abandoned campsite is accidentally exactly what I want. When I dismount, I shuffle over to the closest spigot, and check. Nothing comes out, except maybe my paranoia. I set everything up before I walk back to the camp headquarters, swinging a stick to clear the spiderwebs. I try the door to the women's restroom, which has a hook latch, troublingly, on the outside. Locked. The men's has the same hook, but isn't locked. When I go inside, I see some humorless signs about gas and bears (don't look). Oh, the sigh I heaved. Roaming around the back, I try the laundry. Hook latch again, and again, unlocked. But this time, the ceiling is caved in and I don't venture inside. I can't fully close the door, either, and jeweling on it wakes some wasps. I beat a retreat. The pump house for the terrible pool is unlocked, even if it's latched. Nothing interesting is inside. So it's time, whether I'm ready or not. Is the front door unlocked?
I pull open the screen door, and if the spring is rusted or missing I don't know. It doesn't swing shut. Undoing the hook latch, I reach for the handle, brushing away cobwebs with a stick. It creaks open, leaving a clean arc in the mud on the floor. Disgusting. I tiptoe inside, stepping only on the ceiling tiles that have fallen to the floor and become sodden with wet, avoiding the slimy mud. There's a lot of mowing equipment and old broken chairs. On one wall, it says "Coffee Shoppe" in big, round, seventies font. There's no counter, no coffee. On the other side of the room, there are two utterly outdated maps of the Shenandoah valley. One has an x in Sharpie and the words "Pine Ridge." There is a surfeit of deciduous vegetation outside and a dearth of pines. I cough back a laugh.
That's when I hear the bump in the attic.
Raccoon? Anything bigger would have fallen through on my head by now. And I still have one room to look in. I'm worried, now, that there may be some rabid animal inside true manager's office, and opening it will be my undoing. I undo the ubiquitous hook latch and shove the door open. There's a foam pad and a filling system that's fallen to the ground. The aren't even any chairs. I'm not exactly disappointed, but not enthralled, either. I close everything up as I leave. I crush the ceiling tiles a little more and I stride away into the woods again. In the dying sunlight, Pine Ridge is almost pretty, but for the unnamed and unknown terror in the attic.
I had no idea this place existed earlier in the day. I had no clue that I would end in campsite 74 of a defunct tourist destination. I had no inkling that my evening would be this. But looking back, I don't regret a thing.
Maybe someday, I'll stay with the couple from Elkton. Maybe I'll come through on the Appalachian Trail and I'll hit them up. But for today, I made the right decisions.
Bears.
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