Sometimes walk out the front door, smile up at the cheery sunshine, and take a stroll down the shady little residential street where I make my home. The birds sing in the trees chirp-chirp-tooweet. All is happy and right with the world.
Other days its not like that at all. On those days I’ve grown frustrated with research, not knowing what to call what. Sometimes it’s just a plant I can’t identify. But when I don’t know what to call a new relationship, when I don’t know how to lay off the bottle so I can get some writing done, when I’m waiting on a job to materialize after many promises while the bank account dwindles and the words “We should hear something next week,” are repeated week after week as an answer to my queries, that’s when I need something more than a pleasant walk down the street. During times of angst and frustration, when I’m tired of the fight to create order in my world, I turn to flight. I load a seabag full of camping gear, pack a cooler with some ice, check that the battery on my camera is fully charged. My dog watches in eager anticipation, pacing about anxiously smiling, waiting for me to say the word. After a quick double check in my head I finally say what she’s been waiting to hear: “Come on Mazy, let’s go!” That’s when we jump in the truck, turn on some bluegrass music or Dylan, turn off the cell phone, and stretch the legs of my well traveled little Ford Ranger.
Down the residential streets of historic Murfreesboro, take a right onto Broad, head north, Interstate 840 is in sight…then…of shit!...really? The story of my month. He squats by the side of the road pointing the clunky unconstitutional contraption my way then steps right to the white line and authoritatively swings his arm indicating that he would like me to turn onto the little side street in front of the Harley-Davidson dealership.
“Sir, I need your license and registration.” I hand them over, looking forward, irritated.
“I clocked you doing fifty-eight in a forty-five.”
“But I was going the same speed as everybody else…”
“I can’t catch everybody.” He stepped back and ran my tags. After a few minutes he walked back up. “I’m just gonna issue you a warning. That’ll save you $116. But I need you to sign this citation for not having a current insurance card.”
“Can’t you just call in my policy number and find out that it’s up to date?” (which it was.)
“It’s not an admission of guilt. You just to take your current card to this address and show them.”
“Okay.”
“Have a nice day.”
I drive off. I wonder why so many people say, “Thank you” at the end of a traffic stop? Oh well, this one was fairly painless. And I’m sure if my house was being broken into I’d be happy to see Murfreesboro’s finest show up at my front door. But there is a tyranny to traffic stops. Haphazard law enforcement is worse than no enforcement at all. A lot of good people get drug into an expensive, time-consuming machine for no good reason.
I turn onto the interstate and accelerate…forty, sixty, seventy (the speed limit) is hell and gone before I settle in at a steady eighty-two m.p.h. I smoke a cigarette and just like the pale grey smoke from its fiery cherry the thoughts of this last unpleasantness go swirling out the window, dispersed into the karmic atmosphere of all that I am driving away from…black can not catch the rider whose pace is fast enough.
I travel east through the central basin, climb up onto the highland rim at Buffalo Mountain, ascend higher onto the Cumberland plateau at Monterey, dip across the ridge and valley landscape at Harriman, then up into the mountains just past Knoxville. Driving, listening to music, roots rock now, Cracker, Credence Clearwater Revival. At Clyde I turn off the interstate and drive down to access the Blue Ridge Parkway. Up and up. Onto a ridge. The air is much cooler now. Not much traffic out here. A few motorcycles, a Volkswagen van with Saskatchewan plates driven by a bearded old man with a poodle riding shotgun. Is it John Steinbeck in Charley living out their version of heaven?
We’ve been driving for four hours now. It’s time for a break, a chance to stretch my legs and let Mazy run off some energy. We are high up, XXX Bald…6,053 feet above sea level, the highest point along the parkway. Motorcycleists pose next to the sign, archiving the fact that they had past this way. The old man with the poodle takes a couple of pictures with a high dollar camera then scribbles something in a notebook. What is his story? What Bridge of San Luis Rey brought him to be standing here on this late day in May, accompanied by his dog, living out of a van with Sasketchiwan plates?
The crisp air of high altitude refreshes me as I step outside the truck. Mazy protests at the leash, wanting to run free. There will be time for that later. I walk over to the stone walled viewing platform and look out across steep mountains rolling to the distance. The view is dominated by red spruce and dead Frasier firs, old snags jutting into the air, offering up to the imaginative mind a reminder of what was before the fir woolly adelgid arrived in these mountains in the 1970’s. In the coming days I would see an even more dramatic display of the utter devastation of a species brought about by a similar pin-head sized insect. Behind me scrubby laurel hangs on, gnarled, beautifully twisted and windblown on the crest of the ridge.
I drive farther down the parkway and come to an arresting view: a steep slope of forest ascends above the ridge line then falls away as a hundred yards of exposed granite juts up and out toward the valley below. This is Devil’s Courthouse. As I walk across the parking lot the now familiar VW bus pulls into the little parking area. But here I want to do more than stand in a parking lot looking out on a pretty sight. I walk down a short trail that follows the highway then turn off into the trees. Mazy runs ahead, navigating by a nose that sees more perfectly than human eyes. As the trail winds up I photograph painted trillium, beautiful with its three dark leaves and three white petals with a red ring around the center. Rhododendron is just beginning to bloom along the trail. After a half mile I walk out onto the naked rock. It feels as though I am walking into the sky as the sheltering vegetation is left behind and the mountain is stripped to its barest essential. Exposed rock. Clear views. A couple with a pit bull sits at the edge. We quietly nod toward one another but don’t speak. Not yet. On rocky points like this the wind has no leaves to rustle. It blows cleanly by the ear in a clean, soothing white noise. Far, far below little communities are clearly visible, dotting the valleys. This isn’t the back country wilderness of the Olympics or Smokies. Down below people are living their daily lives in a landscape where others like myself have come to escape for awhile. It bears the mark of man while elevating the seeker closer to God.
After awhile Mazy and the pit bull run around until, in response to some offense the dogs tangle a bit. I call Mazy off then walk over to pet the smitten pit bull.
“He’s deaf,” says the young man who sitting near the edge.
“Oh. He’s a sweet dog.” I pet the dog on the head. “Is there anywhere to camp around here?”
“There’s a campground down at Pisgah. Its just a few miles farther down.”
Mazy and I walk back down the trail. We drive to Pisgah and circle through the campground loop. I think I find a spot but where I think there may be access to a creek. I walk over but find only a small stream with some sanitation lines from the dump station running through it. This won’t do. I consult a map and see there is a Forests Service Campground just outside Ashville. It’s getting on in the evening now though there still seems to be plenty of light.
I drive on toward Ashville. It have some business there tomorrow anyway. I stay at the Lake Powahtan campground, pleased that it is nearly deserted on a Monday night. I build a small fire. Firecraft is one of the most rewarding of easy accomplishments for modern man. I eat a Ranch beans for supper with some cheese and crackers. Tomorrow will be a full day. I finish reading Jack London’s short story “Diable – a Dog” and drift off to sleep.
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