Clemson, Air Pressure, and Clouds Make Me Happy

After two more days at 81 Blake, I got back out on the Blue Ridge Parkway. As I could guess, I had become domesticated from the time of plentiful food and indoor rest. I awoke in a cloud. I know I got a late start because of it. I had to walk down the trail to the road to realize that it really wasn't raining. Although the fog seemed to stretch time and to dampen progress, I came to really like it, so much so that I wished it had stayed. It adds a surreality and beauty you can't without it. It made Graveyard Fields perfect. Solemn, slightly morbid, barren and moist, a beautiful eeriness. The idea of a field covered in burnt oranges and tans and dark browns is the most amazing thing to me. The mist and occasional gnarly, bleached, denuded dwarf trees tranced my mind to a very contemplative state. It was a barren, beautiful wasteland covered in cloud and past endeared memory. It was actually very similar to a dream I had as a young teenager.

The previous night, I biked for the first time under a bright moon, with a rather unnatractive view of the valley towns beneath: dirty, dingy, actually brown. The sky was wonderful, and biking alongside a mountainside, blasted-away rock sections ashine from the precious lifewater bleeding from them. I sang so loud, my bike screaming down the hillsides as well. 3rd gear, speed 6 (3;6) was unlike any speed I've experienced on two wheels.

Things were constant trouble for my new bike as I roared down 215 and towards Whitewater Falls (on 281 just north of the NC/SC border). Back wheel became wobbly, and by the time I got to the end of 215, I could only ride the bike downhill (an all-too-familiar situation). I was appalled that everything was uphill on 64, and luckily got a ride from one Russel in a maroon truck, because I was caught short of Whitewater Falls some 6 miles, and had to set up camp in a very conspicuous spot between the road down below and a private drive above. A dog protested my presence while I set up my tent and tarp in the near dark. The clouds kept overhead, and filled the fading day with a grey I swiftly tired of. That night, as the water still partly made its way in, I dreamt of being driven home from James Island and being with my sister's family, and I was glad to finally be back home. I swore I had made two trips back home by time morning came (which was just a lighter grey, how I tired of that color). I knew my adventures were done and going downhill would end my adventures and give way to much sore-inducing travel by bike, as soon as I was in Clemson.

The trip to Salem was mostly a 4-hour walk. As I type this, the song Hickory Wind , by Emmylou Harris, makes me think of the pines and scenery that changed with just having come out of the mountains. My friend picked me up in Salem Saturday, and we were in Clemson in a matter of minutes it seemed, and the traffic (both of rubber and leather) was immense but surprisingly not overwhelming. The game between Clemson and Coastal Carolina had just finished. I was still wet (I had been such for almost 2 days now, I was beginning to forget what it was like otherwise, but I'm glad I had Dunbar's tarp to keep my backpack relatively dry. Sunday was wonderful. Much spiritual nourishment, and I truly enjoyed my peers' company. The day was mostly filled with church service and a CES broadcast. Absolutely wonderful. Warm smiles and laughter were abound from Dieter F. Uchtdorf's inspired words.

Monday and Tuesday revolved around making sure my bike was suitable for the ride home. Monday, I took a bus to Anderson and looked in the thrift stores for a back tire. I stayed at Daryl's place Monday and Tuesday (nicest guy in the world btw), and biked to Table Rock via 133. The cloud that rolls down from the mountains every morning, combined with the air sucking moisture off the lake, open dew-soaked fields (with an occasional lone tree -- so perfect), and mountains in the distance, made the ride there everything I had hoped it would be. Of course, the tire wall was too weak (it had seen many many miles) and on the way to Lake Jocassee, the air pressure forced the tube through the hole in the tire wall and popped. Called Daryll, had him come and get me (it was his tire that got me into this mess anyway, though he was right, I could have biked around closer to Clemson), and while walking to Hwy 11 (with hills one mile from one crest to the other), the clouds in the late afternoon sun were amazing. Hot reds paired with white blues at a different altitude. I couldn't help but be in awe and smile. There's not much more to say. . .