HIKING THE TRAILS--Trip 2

The beavers hid during our early morning hike of 2.7 miles around Price Lake, but evidence of their whereabouts was everywhere: saplings bent, twigs piled at water's edge and downed trees sharpened to pikes by gnawing teeth. We picked our way carefully through rhododendron tunnels, over the spider-webbed roots that crisscrossed the path and through the oozing muck of black earth and trampled marsh grasses at the lower end of the lake. Two huge piles of twigs and logs dammed the inflow, certain evidence of occupation.

"I'll bet the rangers relocated them here," said Andy. "They would not have wanted beaver dams at the outflow near the campground." The three older couples who cooked breakfast over a pit fire, straightened up their camp site and launched a flat boat onto the lake for fishing would probably agree.
Wilson Creek Valley Overlook at 4,356 feet provided spectacular views of Wilson Creek Valley, but grey skies dulled the perspective. "We're much higher here," said Andy. "That's probably why the leaves are so much more changed."
"That's Linville," said Andy, pointing to a white band of concrete in the distance. "That stretch of road was the last one finished, even though the rest of the Blue Ridge Parkway above and below had been completed years earlier."

We stopped in the Visitor Center. Lincove Viaduct, completed September 11, 1987, exactly 52 years to the day after the Blue Ridge Parkway was started, linked the two main sections of scenic roadway. It took years of study so construction of the quarter-mile stretch of highway left the boulder field of Grandfather Mountain undisturbed. We climbed 1,400 feet up to Beacon Heights from the parking area along a rugged, granite-spewed trail. Leaves in the distance painted a rainbow of red and yellow and brown on the green palette. "No way is this .2 mile climb a ten-minute stroll like the sign said," I told Andy as we picked our way over granite slabs and twisted tree roots to the Beacon Heights rock outcroppings for a picture of Grandfather Mountain.
We waited a generous ten minutes for the pilot car around Mile Post 314. It guided us through a whole lot of nonexistent road construction and a short section of grinding and repaving. "I wonder what they do at night," mused Andy. "They must run the pilot car and station people here all night long. There are no lights, so they can't work, and it would be dangerous to just leave it open. The month of October is the busiest month of the year on the Blue Ridge. This really takes poor planning to tear up sections of road now!"

"I can't believe they actually closed 18 miles to make people detour during leaf season," I said. "It just doesn't make economic sense."

Camp Creek Trail needed major renovation. We slid down the mud embankment, ducking under fallen trees and scrambling over rhododendron branches.
Linville Falls Trails kept us moving for more than two hours as we climbed 1.2 miles to Erwin's View, Gorge View and Chimney View. On the way back, Upper Falls offered beautiful photographs of the cascades from every angle. An .8-mile trail on the opposite side of Linville River gave us a totally different perspective of the falling water.

As the breeze picked up, whirlwinds of yellow leaves spun and twisted in the updrafts, as water, framed by pine trees, plunged from the heights. Even Dugger's Creek on the other side of the Visitor Center sheltered its own smaller waterfall, a secluded cascade of 20 or 30 feet. What a magical natural wonderland. No wonder this area competes with Vermont for visitors in the autumn season.

The weathermen were right. It took all morning, but as the cold front settled in, it brought blue skies and bright sun.
We headed back to the Viaduct for a look at Grandfather Mountain silhouetted against blue. The photographs looked beautiful, but as the wind picked up, we felt autumn in the air. Snow is predicted for tonight in the mountains.

Linville River Bridge Trail (.2 mile) featured an unusual stone bridge across the Linville River. The sloping path led through a protected rhododendron and pine forest to the river's edge.
Our last hike of the day, Chestoa View Trail, looped around the top of a peak for .7 mile overlooking Chestoa Valley. Photos didn't do justice to the panorama that stretched for miles before us, and with a bright sky behind us, the hills and trees came out as black silhouettes on a white sky canvas.
A few miles posts later, we had the same results with Mount Mitchell, highest point east of the Mississippi, at 6,648 feet.
And that's our destination for more hiking tomorrow.

MILE POSTING--Trip 2

At Peaks of Otter the peak leaf season starts tomorrow. Leaves are turning. One brief light frost along the Blue Ridge a couple weeks ago was enough to nip the smaller trees, now brown and yellow or almost bare. Occasional maples stand out red against the green fields and mountainsides. Lots of rain this year means a less than spectacular fall show. Regardless, we have lovely weather with blue skies overhead and billowing clouds to the north.
Our first stop, Cumberland Knob, was actually in North Carolina. The interpretive sign explained that here in 1935 the Blue Ridge Parkway started when heavy equipment was left by the government to begin building the road. This was also the first recreation spot constructed along the length of the Parkway in 1937, a picnic site with hiking trails and a half-mile loop to a shelter on Cumberland Knob.
The next stop, Fox Hunters Paradise Trail, only .2 mile, offered views of the misty blue valley below. In early days fox hunters rested here by camp fires and listened to the howling voices of their hounds as they cornered the foxes.

For 20 miles Parkway repairs closed the Blue Ridge from Sparta to Laurel Springs. We followed the detour through North Carolina back country with rolling hills covered by tree farms and shrub nurseries.

Back on the Parkway yellow leaves rained down. "It's fall here," said Andy. "The leaves are farther along here than they were four days ago at home." With each little gust of warm air, a curtain of yellow dropped from the hickory, sassafras and beech trees.

Three garter snakes crossed the trail together at Jumpinoff Rock, 3165 feet. "Maybe they are keeping warm," I told Andy.

"I'm glad I wore long pants today," he answered.

We hiked the half mile uphill to the rock lookout for the panoramic valley view of hill after rounded green hill beneath us. Up on top the leaves had already turned yellow and brown.

The Lump Trail (.3 mile) climbed a grassy knoll for a 365-degree view to the spot where Thomas Dula allegedly stabbed his wife. In jail before he was hanged, he wrote the song "Hang Down Your Head Tom Dula" with the sad words, "Poor boy, you're bound to die," even though rumor suggested the wife might have been stabbed by Tom's sweetheart.

"Well," I told Andy, "I just learned something. I always thought it was Tom Dooley. I think that's the first time I've ever seen the name written down."
Cascades Trail, a beautiful loop to the mountainside waterfall, demanded a half-mile of more strenuous exertion with a whole bunch of stairs to climb. Lacey sheets of water tumbled down the rock face next to the stairs for a refreshing stop in spite of the climb.
A short walk at Tomkins Knob Over-look at 3,657 feet took us to the Jesse Brown cabin and Cool Spring Baptist Church. Here, Jesse Brown housed the travelin' preachers who came through sporadically to offer "come to meetin'" services, mostly outdoors.
The church was no more than a log shelter from inclement weather, and the one-room cabin would not have had much in the way of comfort. It reminded me of the revival meetings that Maya Angelou described in her autobiographical narrative I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. Even the interpretive sign suggested that this spot would have been a community gathering place in days long gone by. Now almost nothing is left--just the roofed shell of a home, a one-room log church and a lot of graffiti.
Mile Post #294 along the North Carolina stretch of Blue Ridge Parkway marks the sites of two manor house estates donated to the federal government for parks and recreation: the 3,600 acres of Moses H. Cone Memorial Park and the 4,344 acres of Julian Price Memorial Park. After a brief visit to the Parkway Craft Center, featuring as many as 400 artisans from North Carolina, we plotted out a carriage trail walk: House to Deep Park Trail (.2-mile), Deep Park Carriage Trail (.7), Apple Barn Carriage Trail (.2), Black Bottom Carriage Trail (.5), Watkins Carriage Trail (3.3), Carriage Road (1.2), Return to car (.1).
Moses H. Cone, a self-made textile man in the best American tradition, earned the title of "Denim King" in the 1890's. Poor health lured him to the mountains of North Carolina, with a moderate climate, fresh spring water and clean air, where he build a summer estate called Flat Top Manor. The house is now used as a display museum and store for local craftsmen.

At his Apple Barn, we could smell the remains of sweet cider and fresh apples. No wonder. Cone and his wife Bertha, naturalists ahead of their time, planted 32,000 apple trees on the property. Most of the trees were from New England.
Julian Price, his neighbor in the 1900's, had founded one of the nation's largest insurance companies and purchased the adjoining land as a recreation area for his employees. When Price died in 1946, his heirs donated the estate to the government.

We took advantage of the gorgeous fall weather and walked the carriage paths until nearly 4:00 p.m., marveling at the rhododendron thickets and 100-foot hardwood trees.
Without a doubt, Boone, North Carolina, is a college town, home to 17,000 students who attend Appalachian State University. We drove around the campus and checked out the red brick buildings from outside.

"It looks like they are trying to utilize every square inch of available space," said Andy.

Cranes rose above the dorms with construction everywhere in between classroom buildings. To me the campus felt cramped and crowded, squeezed into what remained of the valley, but it commanded a pretty location at the base of the mountains.

BLUE ON BLUE--Trip 2

The cold front came through last night and brought us a crystal morning, sparkling with dew. The sun reflected off Abbott Lake. Concentric rings marked spots on the surface where tiny fish jumped for invisible bugs. We walked the mile path around the lake after breakfast, breathing deeply the fresh, crisp air. It was still warm, almost hot for 7:30 a.m.

Much to our surprise, a massive bank of clouds blanketed the valley. From the Blue Ridge Parkway the mountain stood up crystal clear against a blue sky, but to our right the Shenandoah Valley looked like a gigantic snow-covered lake of white, a stark contrast to the surrounding hills--green tinged everywhere with touches of fall yellow, red and brown.
Stewart's Knob Trail gave us a view of Roanoke from 1,132 feet, and NW Railroad Overlook at 1,151 feet looked down on a peaceful community of red brick homes and expansive lawns.
This part of Virginia includes well-to-do mansions interspersed with poor mountain cabins.

There wasn't much to see in the woods on the half-mile Roanoke River Trail, but we took the extra 500-foot pedestrian path for an underneath look at the bridge that crossed the river. Amazingly, the modern concrete and steel structure dated from WPA times in the 1930's. It's still highly functional today.

Roanoke Mountain Loop Trail, a ten-minute walk to the summit at 2,161 feet, had no real expansive views of the valley, but the granite boulders provided some good, quick exercise.

The half-mile Buck Mountain Trail climbed straight up to a summit view of the Roanoke outskirts. A hiker and a jogger finished faster than we did, but even our old legs carried us up and down in less than the 30-minute estimated walk time.

At Rocky Knob, 3,572 feet, the one-mile nature trail scaled the mountain near Tuggle Gap for spectacular views of the valley below.

Mabry Mill and the Mountain Industry Trail attracted more visitors than we had seen anywhere in three days of travel. The gift shop was pricey, but the Country Store at Meadows of Dan had homemade cherry jam and hand crafted owls for sale.

Round Meadow Creek Trail, the 20-minute loop labeled as moderate to strenuous in the trail guide, actually took us 11 minutes down to the stream bottom and back up. We wondered how time estimates for trail hikes had been determined. At least this one seemed much easier than the trail guide suggested. Lined on both sides of the trail with rhododendron bushes over our heads, the area must be gorgeous in the spring.

We missed Chateau Morrisette. That necessitated a trip back the 15 miles to the best winery in the state. And was it ever worth the trip back north! The $5.00 per person tasting fee included ten (we had 12) generous samples and the glass for each.

"You can't go wrong with wines from Morrisette," said host Jim. "They make the best wines in Virginia."
The 70-year old retired businessman from Ohio knew what he was talking about. Every one of the 12 samples he poured for us was delicious. Two were even marked as Virginia Tech wines and labeled as such for an extra $2.00 per bottle. Jim was an excellent host, knowledgeable about the wines and personable. We were so glad we didn't miss the stop.

Groundhog Mountain demonstrated types of fencing with a display surrounding the two-story lookout building.

Not far away stood the cabin of Olenena Puckett, a local midwife who lived to age 102. She delivered more than 1,000 children, but her own 24 children never lived beyond infancy.
The cabin, at 3,050 feet in the hills, was her home later in life, and the sign explained that she died as a highly respected member of the community.
"I wonder whether she ever imagined she would be so honored and remembered," I said to Andy. "Isn't it odd how certain people become so significant." I guess I'd call it selective history.

CAN'T WAIT!--Trip 2

One ominous roll of thunder boomed while we ate breakfast. "That doesn't sound good," said Andy.

"Maybe it was a truck," I suggested.

It wasn't.

Rain pelted Little Red. Drips swelled along the window moldings on both sides, danced backwards along the door frames and fell in large plops on the velvet head rests. "This isn't going to be good," said Andy.
"Right," I agreed. "We have no Kleenex to stuff in the windows."

Rain didn't phase the semi drivers though. They zipped around us, sending the spray flying in all directions. "What amazes me," said Andy," is that they pass going UP the hills when I'm doing 68." Just as he said it, a piggy-back swooshed past us in a cloud of mist, but by the time we reached Maryland and West Virginia, the rain had stopped and the road had dried somewhat.
Tonight we had planned to stay at Peaks of Otter in Virginia--the lodge itself, a luxurious and stately old pine resort. "The last time we were here on the Blue Ridge," said Andy, "Tara had the chicken pox." He was right. We had checked with the pediatrician before leaving home that year. Drew had exposed her two weeks before. "She might not get it," the doctor had said, "and you won't be around children. Just take along lotion and Tylenol, try to keep her comfortable, and stay away from people if she shows signs of the disease."

We did. We chose a back table in the corner of the dining room and seated Tara, face covered in scabs, in the shadows of the pine logs. "She's had an allergic reaction," we told the waitress, "but she's feeling fine now." Tara took it all in stride.

"That's going on Facebook," I told Andy, as we cruised south through Virginia. We checked out the few tiny patches of blue sky, hoping the weather would clear for our afternoon along the Blue Ridge and our night in the mountains.
"You probably won't have WiFi this evening," Andy warned, "so there won't be any Facebook."

But instead of driving toward clearing skies, we entered a cloud of pea soup mist as we turned onto the Blue Ridge Parkway.
Still early for fall colors, most trees retained the green, but as sheets of moisture drifted upwards, we saw tinges of yellow, red and brown.

At Humpback Rocks we toured the Visitor Center, a mountain farm exhibit. Volunteer Bob, a Cornell graduate, explained how the farm dated back to 1890, at a location in the mountains that attracted only the very poor. The one-room log home had been built for $2.00, all hand labor and only the cost of a few nails and the mortar to cement the fireplace. Most of the cabin had been constructed with pegs.

Bob opened the back door so we could see inside. "I keep it closed," he said, "because otherwise the chickens come in and leave plops all over the floor." The upstairs loft was closed because squirrels had chewed and weakened the top rungs of the wall ladder. "The seven children slept up there, once they turned two years old," said Bob. "There is actually room for 14, two to a bed." Later he walked across the path and picked up black walnuts. "This has been a good year," explained Bob. "These are huge, but you see, I wear gloves to pick them. I didn't when I was a child. If you pick black walnuts bare handed, your flesh turns black until you grow new skin, and your fingernails stay black until you grow new nails. It's a permanent dye." I wondered if the black walnut was used for tattoos or permanent black markers.
Bob also explained that gas prices here were slightly less than at other parts of the state because of proximity to pipe lines.

"We just paid $3.299 a gallon in town," said Andy. "That's 78 cents lower than in Connecticut where gasoline is still priced over $4.00 a gallon."

And Little Red is doing us proud. We tallied about 38 miles per gallon on the highway. You go, Little Saturn!

We drove on to the next pullout. Skies cleared and a coyote ran across the road right in front of our car. "It's clearing little by little," said Andy. Greenstone Trail at 3,000 feet gave us views of Shenandoah Valley, as clouds drifted across the ridge. "We might just luck out," he added hopefully.

At Ravens Roost Overlook a cross marked the spot where some too-adventurous hiker fell to his death from 3,200 feet.

Blooming thistles and milkweed pods ready to explode with seeds lined Big Sky Mountain Overlook. We hiked the short trail and snacked on breakfast bars. "I think we're going to be treated to a thunderstorm tonight," said Andy. "We're not even to the hot part of the day, and the clouds are building."

Yankee Horse Ridge offered views of a small waterfall along the .2-mile loop trail and a stretch of restored rail from the 50-mile long railroad logging route of the early 1900's. The sun came out to stay for a while at Indian Gap, and after the .63-mile climb into the boulder field, we felt the temperature soar.
"Why do they call them overlooks?" asked Andy, as we meandered past Otter Creek Overlook, Oak Flats Overlook and Terrapin Hill. "Why don't the signs just say 'pullouts' since they don't over look anything?"
His argument sounded sensible to me.

At the James River we followed two 30-minute trails along Battery Creek Lock Trail and Trail of the Trees Trail and browsed in the Visitor Center.

At Johnson Farm a solitary deer browsed on fruit from lower branches of apple and pear trees. Stops for short walks at Thunder Ridge and Onion Mountain provided panoramic views of the valley as the cold front moved in and chased the mist north. In a refreshing half hour the world was beautiful. What a surprise! What had started out in rain and fog ended with clarity and crisp freshness.

Tomorrow? Can't wait for it!

ON THE ROAD AGAIN--Trip 2

"On the road again..."
The line of the Willy Nelson song played over and over in my mind, as I carried jackets, book bag, camera case out to Little Red, our 16-year old Saturn.
"You're NOT taking all that!" boomed Andy, pointing at my pile of assorted paraphernalia on the family room floor.
"Sure I am," I half joked, not remembering exactly what I had piled there, how much of it I could live without for five weeks, or even whether all of it was mine."
"NO WAY!" he commanded. "You just try, and we won't go!"
"On the road again...," the words echoed in my mind.
Not go? No way! "Take it easy," I assured him. "Sorting through the pile is next on my list of things to do. Beds are changed; tomatoes are picked, sorted and packed; the last laundry is washing, and here's the cosmetic case," I told him, handing him one more item to load in the car.
An hour later at 1:03 p.m. we were on our way, heading south.
"On the road again... Oh, I wish that I could be on the road again..."
The words repeated in my head as we cruised along the Merritt Parkway toward New York. I hummed the melody as we crawled up the ramp approach to the George Washington Bridge in New York City and inched our way across the lower level to New Jersey.
"I can't wait to be on the road again..."
I sang the words as we sailed south. Little Red, now almost 17 years old with more than 107,000 miles, purred in time. Andy just let out a sigh of relief as we picked up speed and the temperature gauge dropped. For half an hour on the bridge, we had both feared the tiny engine would overheat and our adventure would stop before it started. Not so! The trusty Saturn kept humming past oil refineries, farm houses and fields of drying corn stalks and verdant expanses of vegetables and grasses.
I thought about John Steinbeck and his quest to see and understand America. Could he have experienced that same yearning to check out more country after his 1960 trip? Probably not. To me Travels with Charley conveyed his feelings of revulsion with what he experienced in the Deep South and a sense of confusion and disappointment in his almost maniacal race to return to his Long Island home to end his trip around the U.S.
We, on the other hand, are ready to roam. We are ON THE ROAD AGAIN ...