Return

It has been a week since I had driven the Parkway. I returned home to Charleston with no money on me at all, not even coins. How appropriate, how fitting, how matching of my mood. I had entirely maxed out. I was depressed for two days, in the drowsy Charleston hot-haze mornings, it all oozing by with no car to take me anywhere. I wouldn't be able to get back up to Florence to do anything with the car until my travel companion's family was down for the weekend doing sight-seeing with family.
Monday, my second set of wisdom teeth were taken out. I spent much time playing guitar in self-healing while listening to much much music. Alison Krauss singing Everytime You Say Goodbye always reminded me of ascending a mountain road (US Fifty-Two, wonderfully enough) up and over the horizon-to-horizon mountain wall that loomed above and beyond, so unsurpassable that a tunnel went through, capturing the mists of the morning world. That mandolin always reminded me of the enchanted wilderness, so fresh, so comforting, so assuring of the goodness of life nestled in the good mix of sun and leaf-given shade. That bass searingly pounding, pounding ferocious like the car and like my brave pure heart.
Just think about U.S. Fifty Two, starting in the dirty dusty holy Charleston of towns. From dinge-water lapping the Battery up through the cotton and corn of South Carolina, up through to Florence, to all of the marvelous mist-shrouded Mt. Airys and Pilot Mountains of the world, over the mountain fortress of West Virginia and through some of the most beautiful final ridges of the Appalachians. It encompasses all.

Fifty-Two going through Lake City: Among the rusty dulling dusk, the high clouds usher in Magic City. . .

Driving the Parkway

I made the trip to Florence, South Carolina, where all of my long-distance traveling adventures by car have begun (excluding the bicycle trek from Asheville) for the past year. We headed out for West Virginia first at the recommendation of a friend of my travel companion's brother who worked on the Darlington raceway for twenty years, as well as did much work as a trucker. It didn't yield much enjoyment for myself, but my friend enjoyed it. There was a mountain wall that stretched from horizon to horizon. I had never seen anything like that before. A tunnel had to be constructed to make it through. Charleston, West Virginia was the perfect sad little town, listening to Gillian Welch. Dirty town, coal town, river town. We got a very late start on the Parkway. It really put a strain on the car. I had to drive it very fast and very long distance without much stopping. Virginia was surprisingly beautiful from the knife's edge of a mountain ridge. The May wind and sun brought pinks and pastel colors out of the trees on the gentle mountaintops in the higher ridges -- a kind of reverse autumn. It was something I had dreamed of as a child but never thought I'd actually see. 

My friend was constantly anxious of my driving. I would see a stretch of straight road, accelerate to eighty, and slow up on the hill, but only to fifty-five and make smooth turns just at the edge of the tire's ability to keep full hold of the pavement. I remember missing making Boone, North Carolina by dark by two and a half hours. The night time I believe is the best time for the mountains. Things were so non-stop during the day. I looked up to God's stars, it cooled my mind down. Things slowed. We were in the foggy wet valley, about forty miles either way between high parts of the parkway. It was a starry, though hazy, night, behind the old marby mill, enjoying the rushing water. There was a thunderstorm rolling in the distance. Things are so open around here, it could have been a hundred miles away. I think of how modest the houses along the parkway in middle western Virginia, humble homes and simple fields. So simple, so clean, so good. Things got a bit crazy after Boone, North Carolina. It was the craziest driving I've ever done in my entire life. Like Neal Cassady, driving cars to breaking, but driving them with near-perfect mastery. I remember when dashing up a hill, seeing two bikers suddenly with their bright lights, and, not prepared, hitting the brakes hard, skidding down it, releasing the brakes (to regain friction) with the wheel turned to curve of the road. One tire had a small leak in it. We made sure to keep it in good pressure and check it often. In Boone, we visited an old friend of mine who was working in a breakfast cafe that morning. It was so good to see him, and we enjoyed some organic local breakfast food, anything besides our bagels. We of course spent far too much time there, but I let my friend have the wheel for a little while, all the way down to Mount Mitchell. I was completely freaked-out excited listening to Jim VanCleve and my train mix. It was so much better being a passenger than driving. Black Mountain, just as during LEAF, but viewed from the north end, gained my worshipful awe. How can it be claimed that a mountain of that sort is not alive? It was very very powerful, and it gave utterance. It was brown and ancient and six-thousand feet tall. It was a burnt umber cathedral in the sunlight, kingly and unwavering in the mighty air. The section that I bicycled was like stepping back into time. My driving terrified my friend. He yelled at me and I felt bad. I didn't slow down though, I just got better. The detour from the chunk of close parkway that had been closed since October required driving back up 276. It was annoying hot and time consuming. Driving up the part of the parkway where my bicycle was stolen, I could name all of the look out points. The Pounding Mill sign was gone. It was a race from that point on. From the highest part of the parkway unrolled dozens of miles of mountains, each ridge and valley ascending over the horizon. It completely blew my mind. The day continued to get hotter along the way to Cherokee. It was making the both of us drowsy. Cherokee was the biggest tourist trap I've ever seen, and I'm surprised the Cherokee people allowed all of it for the sake of profit gain. Seems that "progress" is appealing even to these ancient Americans. Their gods would certainly be infuriated at the prospect of desecrating their holy mountaintops with our roads. Things are so different now. America is so un-virgin. The Great Smokey Mountains Expressway was very nice but we were tired. It was a good three hours from here to Florence. The car broke down two thirds of the way home. There was an oil leak. The tow truck came, and it was quite a way to end it all. I pushed that car so much.
Another drowsy morning in Magic City. Everyone was unavailable to get me back to Charleston for work. Today was a throw-away. The moments and mountains are still filtering down my mind and heart. It was entirely worth it.

Waynesboro to Cherokee, Birmingham to Jackson

I have planned all the routes, side-routes, small hiking projects (gonna hike some trail-less mountain ridges and peaks), worked it south-going and north-going. I have listened to bluegrass radio non-stop today, and have done a good bit of listening to a compact I got in the mail. I just realized as I type this that I haven't bicycled big in an entire month. I will store the bicycle in the trunk of the car we are taking and use it whenever we stop for a long period of time. As you could guess, the fact that the trunk is that big makes it clear how much money this is going to take (about 80 dollars more because the car only gets 20 mpg. Oh well, it definitely roomy so sleeping in the car won't be uncomfortable). My friend does not have any money on him, so once again, I shall arrive in Charleston with mere pennies in pocket, tossing them on the side of the highway in the sun, free-hearted desperation.

Now in the post title, Waynesboro is the town that is noted as being the city at the end of the Blue Ridge Parkway, or the beginning. Jackson is the where the line runs out of track in Blue Highway's Through The Window Of A Train. Beautiful painting of a song. The older settings for bluegrass songs -- railroads, outlaws, coal mines, homesteaders -- always gets at my heart. I am going to update this when I get back with the link to the song, lyrics, and an excerpt from Kerouac's Dharma Bums -- all of it like a land exploding to view before you, showing a lifetime in a mere moment. Fayetteville is that town where I lost my favorite thrift-store flannel button-up shirt, that was with me all those weeks of bicycling the mountains in October, and where I will get it back on the way up. Florence is that town where it will all commence one more time.

Preface

With some good deal of planning and formulation, me and my trusted travel companion (who lives a daylight's worth of bicycle travel north) anticipated to traverse the Blue Ridge Parkway in its entirety. We had originally planned to start in North Carolina, but when our original travel date for the sixth of may through the eighth changed for a later date, my fine friend made the wondrous proposition that we do it "backwards". Starting in Swananoa, Virginia and ending in Cherokee, North Carolina, we would take the Parkway from its north end to its south end. The entire route consists of approximately four-hundred and score miles. It certainly was a fine suggestion. It made adding further people much easier location-wise, thus relieving both us the exhaustion of dong all of the driving. Our new travel date allowed us three days to complete and come home, but between two drivers, that still allows little time to be at ease in ratio to time operating the vehicle. Perhaps we could even add to the pleasantness with a trip up to Smokey Mountains National Park. T'would be quite the finisher to a grand adventure, no?

Aside from all the detail, this will be a most perfect time to travel. The spring will be at its pinnacle. Everything is deep and lush, and a certain offshoot trail is blooming at its apex with pink flowers. The trees are perfect in their color. By the by, did you know that in the old english, tree and truth have the same root? Quite fascinating don't you think? It would seem that we chase after all the mountains, but all that we, in actuality, seek after is to see more trees at once, stacked above each other to the very tops of hills. Imagine that cold firm spring wind rolling down the mountains like clear like a stream. Oh! The mere thinking of it, is it not the greatest delight?