The stay at the Moreland Farm put lots of wind back in my sails. The tire is holding air and the rest we got there was much needed. With an early start, I say good-bye to the DR boys and set off west toward the Oklahoma panhandle. The morning is cool and the humidity had blown through overnight leaving a crisp, blue sky and a steady breeze.

Passing through alfalfa, soybean, and wheat fields, large wind turbines appear on the horizon. The midwst is littered with these things these days and it’s become quite the industry. When I was a boy, I scratch-built a model of one for a seventh grade science project. I’d seen a story about one on PM Magazine — a television show about various subjects. I used fire place matches to build the tower, an electric motor from a hair dryer to spin the blades, the rubber noses off a couple of badminton shuttlecocks for the hub on the rotor and back of the generator, and I built a cardboard building at its base to house the battery which was wired to the hair dryer motor. Since the hair dryer motor was 120v AC, a 1.5v D cell battery moved it pretty slow, but it was still a little fast for scale. Still it was pretty good for a 12 year old. I won. Seeing these wind turbines everywhere brings back that memory.

The road requires my full attention. It’s rutted and washed out in spots and more than once a big section of washout surprises me and has me soaking up some front wheel swallowing bumps. It’s makes the riding tedious, but the riding is why we’re here. Why fight it?

In the planning  phases of this trip, I’d found there is a large salt flat in Oklahoma of all places. I’d never heard of it and decided I wanted to see it. It is about 20 miles south of the TAT so I make the turn south to have a look. It is already beginning to warm up, but the air is dry and I’m still comfortable. Turns out, the driving route thing the park service has set up dumps you out on the highway, effectively kicking you out of the park. The section it takes you through is little more than marshland and, to be frank, boring. 

Great Salt Plains — sort of.

“Look! It’s a heron!”

Get out and stay out!

I decide it isn’t worth the effort to backtrack on the highway to the entrance of the wildlife refuge and point the bike toward Cherokee……Oklahoma. The highway on the 690 is horrible. The bike has the power to handle it with no issue. It’s just not what it’s made for. I don’t like it at all. 50MPH is about as fast as I want to go on her. There’s about 10 miles of 65MPH speed limit to get to Cherokee, OK. I stick it out going 55MPH since there is plenty of opportunity for vehicles to pass me and pass me they do. I even got passed by pick-ups towing travel trailers. I’m not proud. 

Many times when I do a search online for something Cherokee-related, Cherokee, OK would show up in the form. And here I am, in Cherokee, OK. Not a whole lot going on here, just gas and food….and some nice homes. So now, when I do that online search and Cherokee, OK pops up in the form, I can say I’ve been there, too. 

Waking up in Newkirk, OK has me moving slow. The extra miles to get there the day before drained me and I enjoyed being indoors for a while. Figured I would go right up until checkout time before leaving. With the bike loaded, I backed out of my parking space…or attempted to. The bike didn’t move as easily as it should given that it was on a slight decline. I was geared up, it was very humid and I was on the way to get gas just down the block, I would just look at my flat tire at the gas station. My flat — the third in as many days. It was beginning to be difficult to maintain a positive mental attitude. Perserverance was giving way to procrastination.

“I’ll just go to the auto parts store in town and pick up an electric pump and keep pumping it up. It’s just a slow leak,” I think into my helmet as I ride the three blocks from the motel to the gas station. This is obviously a bad plan, but I was really tired of changing tires and especially pumping them up with my hand pump.

Three blocks down the main drag in Newkirk, OK. Surprised it didn’t break the bead.

At the gas station, I pull up to the air compressor. “Free air, push button” was printed on it and it was running. Putting the gauge to the valve, it doesn’t even move the stick. It’s a miracle the bead didn’t unseat. I guess riding at 10 MPH down Main Street saved me that honor. As it turns out, the “Free Air” sign must have been referring to the air that had left my tire and the air I was breathing, because the compressor did not work. It ran, but would not deliver air to my flattened tire. I was already drenched with sweat before I pulled my hand pump out again and filled the tire. This shit was getting old. I pumped it up to around 30 PSI and went inside the gas station and got a bite to eat. It was already after 11am and the humidity was oppressive. Google said there was an auto parts store in town so I went there to find an electric pump.

No electric compressor in Newkirk, OK.

Locke Auto Parts is your typical small town parts store. There’s a gentleman behind the counter shooting the bull with a local perched atop one of those Champion Sparkplugs barstools at the parts counter. I walk in the door looking like I’ve just come out of a swimming pool wearing riding gear, yet I go unnoticed. There’s a serious problem solving session going on and it is centered right there at that parts counter.

After looking up and down each aisle, I ask about a compressor. No joy. Guess I’m just going to pump the thing up until I can’t take it anymore and then change it…..again. The air feels like a sponge you could reach out and wring. It’s not raining yet, but I’m wishing it was.

My strategy is a pretty bad one. I know this. I just can’t get my head around changing the tire again. About five miles outside of town, I can hear that low-pitched rumble that a full knobby tire gives off when every single knob on it is on the ground. The tire is flat again or at least pretty close.

My muggy gymnasium.

“5 PSI,” I mumble to myself. The cheap gauge with electrical and duct tape stored on it was barely registering. Just 20 minutes ago it had 30 PSI plus. Putting 30 PSI into a motorcycle tire with a hand pump while in full riding gear when the dewpoint is equal to or possibly greater than the temperature is miserable work. I opted to carry a pump for a couple of reasons: 1. It’s lighter and more reliable than an electric compressor. 2. I figured I could use the exercise pumping up a tire would give me. In my motorcycling career, I can count the number of times I have had to repair a tubed tire in the field on one finger. I definitely didn’t foresee this sort of trouble. It was harshing my mellow for sure.

This cycle of ride/pump/ride/pump was set to go on all day. I’d bumped in to the DR boys in town and they were headed to the Moreland Farm to do oil changes and I was just trying to get there to change my tube in a shop with an air compressor and hopefully some shade. They were getting gas and food so I left out ahead of them to try and find the Moreland Farm on my own. I pumped that tire up five times on the way and pulled in at a house with “Moreland” on the mailbox. Two cars were in the driveway and the front door was wide open. I felt very strange walking up to a stranger’s door and knocking, but the Moreland Farm had put their name on the Trans America Trail list as a place with water, camping, and an extensive repair shop so I rang the bell with no answer.

My bike was parked in front of a very large shop building and in the yard was a storm shelter. I started seeing these things in Mississippi. Surprisingly plenty of homes have storm/fallout shelters in tornado prone regions. I’m kind of fascinated by it. I offload my bags and pull out my tools. I ready a tube and prepare to remove my wheel when the DR boys pull in. Not long after they arrive, a F250 pulls into the drive. It’s Mr. Moreland. He explains that the Moreland who’d invited us to use his shop and camp was his son about a half mile down the road. Mr. Moreland is 84 years old and still going strong. He radios ahead to his son and lets him know we’re there. I’d almost rather just change the tire in this spot since I already had a pretty good start, but the DR boys convince me to repack my things and join them down the road.

Matt Moreland — Lifesaver

Once we get to the Moreland Farm, it becomes obvious this is the place. Matt Moreland farms 10,000 acres and his is a huge operation. His shop is extensive and well-insulated. He explained how he got involved with the TAT and put his name in the hat as a place to rest, camp, and repair bikes along the route.

“In 2006, we were putting in a 10″ water line down the road there and pretty much had the road completely torn up and closed. We were working on it one day and a guy shows up on a bike all loaded down and asks if he can go through my field to get around the construction. I tell him sure, but I’ve been seeing you go through here for months and we’ve been working on this project for weeks. Why’d you come this way knowing we have the road closed? He said, ‘That wasn’t me! You’re on the TAT, man!’ So I looked Sam up and let him know to tell the riders they could stop in if they wanted to. We’ve met people from all over the world.”

The DR boys get to work changing oil and I get to work fixing my flat. It’s still humid and it’s getting hotter, but being on a cold cement shop floor and in the shade helps my morale and the work doesn’t seem quite so difficult. The stiff sidewalls on the non-DOT motocross tire are a real pain, but eventually I have the tube in and the bead back on the rim. This is when I am reminded why I will never take a handpump instead of a compressor and CO2 again — the air chuck on Mr. Moreland’s air hose won’t reach my valve once it’s on the wheel. The angle just won’t line up to get air into the tire. Who’s hand pumping his tire again? This guy!

Trailstand has been worth its $32 pricetag and then some.

While I was finishing up my tire, Jon and Eugene were finishing up their oil changes. Jon’s bike wouldn’t start for some reason and he killed his battery trying. It wasn’t making sense. All he’d done was change the oil…..and cleaned and oiled his air filter. With no filter oil available, he substituted 90W gear oil. This proved fatal for the mighty DR350. It was a snowball of errors after that, I believe, caused the bike to not run until a nearly complete teardown of the carburetor, the removal of the valve cover to check the timing, checking the valve clearances, checking the fuel filter and lines, cleaning all of the oil off the air filter, and anything else we could come up with. For seven hours, Jon worked without a break to get his bike running maintaining, for the most part, a positive attitude. Looking back on it without the heat and fatigue, I think what happened was this: The oil from the filter was pulled into the carburetor’s jets and passages and completely prevented fuel from reaching the cylinder. When Jon first tried to start the bike, it was locking up under compression, mimicing being out of time. That was probably caused by the gear oil on the filter essentially sealing off the intake and causing a vacuum lock for the first few starting attempts.  Chasing the causes of the symptoms took us all over the place for hours.

One sick DR350.

Mr. Moreland and his sons would occasionally come by the shop in the course of their work and check on us kind of surprised that we were still there working on a sick motorcycle. We were kind of surprised, too. I could have left, but it’s not really in my nature to leave a situation where I could be of help to a fellow rider. The DR Boys had been looking out for me and provided a net just in case.

Mr. Moreland stopped by again. He was cleaned up and obviously on his way somewhere. He’d asked us earlier if we were thinking of camping and if we had any food with us. We’d not planned on staying this long and we really didn’t have a plan. Nor did we have any food. Matt put a package on the tail of my bike and explained we could cook those burgers and camp on his property for the evening. For reasons I cannot disclose here, Matt’s hospitality is over the top. He didn’t know us from Adam and welcomed us into his shop and his home.

Moreland Farms Organic Beef — the burgers were delicious!

When I set out on this odyssey, I hoped to shed my cynicism and find faith in people again. Mr. Moreland and his family, among others, have helped move me in that direction. What he did for us, however small in his mind, was pretty incredible.

Camped out on the Moreland Farm

The struggles with my tire all but went away the next day and it’s been good ever since. 

Port Orford or bust!

Still holding air the next morning.

Author’s note: Posts about my ride prior to this are in draft form and will be published at a later time. I want to catch up and try to write more present tense now that I am getting ready to enter Colorado! Thanks!

Long, straight dirt roads lay in front of me with nothing but grazing land in sight. Central and Western Oklahoma is pretty much that, if not consistant. I’ve heard many complaints about how boring it is. Vast, open space doesn’t bore me. It’s provides my mind room to wander. A horizon gives me something to look toward. Each crest of a hill gives me a new view. If there is no hill, the view just becomes bigger. I tend to take things at face value.

To this point in my trip, the weather has been pretty much perfect — one humid day, and a sprinkle. Temps have been moderate to hot and for the most part, it’s been dry. This definitely helps my outlook and attitude with regard to Oklahoma’s topography. It’s pretty easy to enjoy nothing when you’re relatively comfortable.

The week prior to my arrival, record rainfall hit Oklahoma and Arkansas along with some severe storms including several tornados. Evidence of some pretty gnarly rains are still present in the roads. The roads the TAT uses to traverse Oklahoma are little more than farm roads the farmers use to get their tractors into the fields in many cases. The roads divide their farms into a square mile grid for the most part and the TAT meanders through in a Tron-lightcycle-like squared off route. Some roads are better than others, but you can certainly tell where a road was used while it was wet — usually near an oil or natural gas rig. It looks like they were getting to the rigs rain or shine and the damage to the roads bears the fact. Deep ruts, mudholes, washed out sections, road underwater; all part and parcel for western Oklahoma roads (at least the roads I’m routed on).

Sections of road are completely under water through the Osage Indian Reservation with no evidence of a plan to do anything about it. Costly detours are running me up against my maximum fuel range. I end up having to divert to Sedan, KS for fuel. Sure, I could use my spare fuel, but with two sections of road under water and half of the state to go, who knows how many detours there will be?

Riding alone on a trip like this, unforeseen circumstances can be harrowing. It’s part of the excitement, but it also requires one to keep a level head and react logically and be resourceful. When the fuel light comes on in an area that seems to keep throwing water hazard after water hazard at you, you have to remain aware of many factors, possible outcomes, potential pitfalls, and the possibility of a major problem. 

There is no gas or any store of any kind on the Osage Indian Reservation. I am unable to find even anything that resembled more than a group of rundown houses. What do these folks eat? There is a church which I borrow some shade from, but that was about it. Working around all of these submarined roads, is taking a toll on my fuel planning. I have 120 ounces in MSR fuel bottles that I would rather avoid using unless an extreme need arises.

After fuel in Sedan, it’s getting a bit late in the day. It’s time to look for camp. the detours and workarounds continue and I decide to press on to Newkirk, OK. The trail to there begins to mellow out and goes through some grassland and open range. Lots of cattle and even some in the road that have to be persuaded to move. This can be a delicate dance as some cows are stubborn or just simply oblivious. Having a factory muffler on the bike makes it a little more difficult to muscle my way through with noise, but it usually does the trick to just rev the bike at them.

I make Newkirk, OK at nearly sundown. The owner greets me at the desk and has a bit of a strange accent. Turns out he’s India-born but was raised in the UK and has been in the states for around 20 years. We talk for a good 45 minutes after I check in, me in my riding gear and sweating profusely as the sun beats down on the poorly air conditioned office. The conversation is interesting though and worth the sweat. We were able to solve a few of the world’s problems before I retired to my room.

The room is cheap and looked it. While clean, it is old and has only one working outlet that is in the toilet. Makes getting all my gadgets charged up a chore, but that is a minor complaint. In all, a good day despite all of the road closures. The upshot to all of the detours was it made me knock out 100 more on-route miles than I was planning on. There’s always a plus side and maintaining the right outlook helps me see that fact.

Northern Georgia is as deep south as it gets. Relics of the Civil War litter the countryside. Battlefield monuments here, old cannon displays in town squares there. It’s a part of what shaped the nation and for most southerners, it’s a part of their family history. As the losers, it’s hard for some to let go of the grudge. There are many Confederate battle flags here – flying in front yards, tacked onto the sides of all manner of homes, stuck on tailgates of old rusted out pick-up trucks, even hand-painted versions made of plywood just leaned up against a fence post at the entrance to a sketchy looking driveway. The South never really got over losing the war. It’s a good thing she did lose though. Imagine if she’d won and been allowed to exist as the Confederate States of America. She’d be a third-world country.

The riding in Georgia is a mixture of pavement and gravel. The paved sections for the most part are fun, wavy, twisty sections that would be great on a motard, but still fun on a fully loaded dirtbike. The weather is again warm, but not too hot and the humidity is low. The dewpoint is for the most part the most important number for me. If the air is dry, it can still be hot and yet comfortable. The wind from the bike can evaporate your sweat and cool you off if it is dry. When it’s muggy, it’s miserable at any temperature.

Looking for gas I pull into a mom n’ pop joint that looks like it’s seen better days. It’s just off a state highway and looks like it’s a local stop. The place could use some paint and maybe a fulltime maintenance guy. While I’m taking a break in the shade, a older fella pulls up in a pick-up. In the back of his truck is your garden variety lawn equipment – a weedeater and push mower and a rake, etc. He hops out and gives me a nod. He’s tall with short, white hair, a medium build, a clean, light blue polo shirt and blue jeans. He’s got a wide-brimmed hat on and a big grin on his face. As he’s pulling his gas can out he looks my way. “Great day for a ride!”

“Yessir. It is.”

“Man, that looks like the kind of bikes I grew up ridin’.”

“Yea?”

“Man, yea! When I was a boy, I had a (insert alpha-numeric soup here) and we used to ride straight up that mountain over there,” he said, pointing at the barely perceptable ridgeline to the south. 

“Heck yea, man! Bet y’all were hell on wheels.”

“Shoot yea we were! Used to be dirt and we’d tear it up up there, till someone called the law, then we’d spread out and try to make it home without getting busted. Hell, the sheriff knew who we was, so we were just prayin’ he didn’t rat us out to our folks.”

“Well, I’m trying pretty hard not to cause any trouble with the law.”

“You’re loaded pretty heavy. Where you goin?” 

I am asked this contantly. The luggage on the back of a dirtbike is a great conversation piece, even if sometimes you don’t want the conversation. “Oregon,” I say this time. It’s becoming the standard answer.

“WHAT?! You gonna ride that thing to Oregon?!”

“Yessir. I hope to.”

“Ain’t no way I’d ride somethin’ like that to Oregon!”

This is the typical conversation with curious strangers. Some get it. Some do not. Then when you try to tell them about the 85% dirt part, it takes a different turn. 

“Dirt roads? Heck they’re pavin’ everything. How you gonna find dirt roads?”

Then it’s explaining the whole concept of the Trans America Trail. It can be fun so long as you’re not sweating your jewels off in the sunshine trying to explain the whole thing. 

The kind stranger finishes getting his gas and bids me a safe journey. I suit up and roll out for another 100 miles or so of north Georgia countryside before the next gas pump conversation. Each stop is teaching me exactly what I had hoped to learn – generally, people are good. Anything else you hear is a lie designed to sell you something.

Lost Creek had its share of noisy neighbors. The bullfrogs in the creek stayed up all night talking to each other about whatever it is bullfrogs talk about. I was awake from about 4am on staying in the hammock trying to grasp onto whatever sleep may return, but it wasn’t going to work. At 4:30, after trying hard to sleep in, I decide to try out the lights I’d installed on the bike. I also practiced my visualization skills by packing up in near complete darkness. The moon was very low on the horizon and was giving off reflected light in the trees. Just enough to make packing up what little I had pulled from the bags possible. Once packed and dressed I used the lights on the bike and my own flashlight to sweep my camp, making sure I hadn’t dropped anything or absent mindedly left something behind, and set off into the damp, dark morning.

Almost immediately I discover I’d forgotten something — cleaning my visor. It was bug-covered from the previous night’s post-sunset search for camp and nearly impossible to see through. My lights, while working extremely well, were drawing all sorts of bugs into my path. This also makes it impossible to just open the visor and keep moving without risking my eyesight. After a quick stop to clear the visor and snap a night photo, I’m off again.

On the trail at 5:30am.

I putter through the forest finding a lot of evidence of recent storms. Surrounding all of the downed trees are dozer tracks. Crews had cleared all of this storm damage very recently. As I lumber through the woods, first light starts showing through the trees and that dim balance of light and dark that only happens at dusk and dawn takes over the forest — twilight.

The GPS shows a left turn growing closer and as I approach it, I see the outline of a vehicle sitting in it. It’s a black Dodge Durango and there is a rather burly guy standing beside it as I approach. I notice the Durango has a trailer attached to it as I begin my left turn by the imposing figure in the pale morning light. I downshift and as I am releasing the clutch and rolling on the throttle, he yells, “HEY!” in a commanding tone. Great.

I stop, expecting…..I don’t really know what I was expecting, but I wasn’t expecting anything good to come of it. He comes over to the still-running bike and tells me there is a huge tree all the way across the trail about two miles in. Relieved I shut the bike off and ask the FAQs — can I get around it, over it, through it, etc. He was pretty sure I couldn’t get around it. We talked about my bike and the bikes he had as a kid and the bikes he wants now. This is a common theme with almost every stranger I speak to — men anyway. They all had a dirtbike of some kind as a boy and wistfully speak of how they wish they still rode or wish they still could.

Then he told me an interesting story about the tree. He’s been working for the forest service in the area for a month or so and one afternoon he was driving to a work area and came up on two women in a heavily modified Jeep Wrangler Rubicon. He said they had to have had $100,000 in “thuh thang” and they were both pushing 70 years of age! When he rolled up on them, they had their winch line hooked to this primordial tree trying to move it out of the road. “They said they’s on some kinda trail and they started at the outter banks and were goin’ to California or somethin. They showed me some kind of Roledex thang they had their route on. I told ’em, ‘Ladies, even if you do git that tree to move off that bank, your Jeep’s a goin’ with it! That thang has to weigh 10 tons!'” I told him about the TAT and that I was also doing it and he should get used to seeing a lots of bikes and 4x4s heavily loaded passing through there. He laughed, “Buddy, I ain’t never gonna get used to seein’ two old ladies in a Jeep tryin’ to winch themselves off the mountain.” I worked out a way around the giant tree, but only after riding up to it to take some photos. It was indeed a huge tree and it did indeed block the entire way. Mystery solved.

Winch this.

Since Brevard is east of the TAT and I live west of Brevard, I make the decision to stay the night at the best bed & breakfast in the country. So I point the bike toward the house via a mixture of forest service roads and the Blue Ridge Parkway. The weather for the start of my grand adventure could not be more perfect — low humidity and warm, not hot, temperatures. No doubt I will be spoiled by it.
I haven’t quite figured out how to let go of the homesickness. I know many adventurers are eager to leave their wives and families to gallop over the horizon. I think for me there will be some sort of radius, a geographical point, where I am far enough away from home to make it “official.” I think at that point, I will settle into the idea of the Trans America Trail, but while I am headed to the house, I don’t think treating the symptoms with the cause is quite the right prescription.

Traffic on the Parkway is light. In fact, I have the Highest Point on the Blue Ridge Parkway Motor Road to myself long enough to put a drone in the air and take a selfie.

Alone on top

Once home, I unpack the bike and relax in the best bed & breakfast in the country. I consider and reconsider just staying, but that would become a monumental regret. The next morning, she readies herself for work and I ready myself for the journey. Resetting the things that need to be more streamlined and they are few. I packed pretty well and things are pretty much good to go.

I stop by her work for one last good-bye and roll out. This time for real. The excitement mixes with all of the other emotions.

She’s beautiful. Why am I leaving again?

“What’s that noise? Is that new?”

“Hope this bike makes it to Oregon. Heck, I hope it makes it out of the state.”

“You sure about this?”

“What’d I forget? There has to be something.”

Settling in to any journey like this takes a little while. Fumbling with unfamiliar set-ups, figuring out better configurations for simple things, these are all things that take time and real world application. Finding the most efficient way of doing things comes with the daily struggle. It’s part of the journey. In trips past, by the time I had streamlined everything, I was pulling back into the driveway, disappointed that the adventure was over. I get the feeling this ride will be different.

The first day brings more perfect weather and some familiar but good dualsport riding in WNC and east Tennessee. Forest service roads through the Great Smoky Mountains are beautiful and the riding is great. It’s home turf so it can be hard to get fired up about.

“One of the most tragic things I know about human nature is that all of us tend to put off living. We are all dreaming of some magical rose garden over the horizon instead of enjoying the roses that are blooming outside our windows today.” — Dale Carnegie

The loaded motorcycle is handling poorly in loose, big toe-sized gravel – especially uphill. Obviously all the weight is on the back of the bike, squashing the rear spring, and relaxing the head angle enough to have a detrimental effect on handling. I had tried to add some preload to the rear, but for some reason, no matter how hard I hit the adjusting collar, I couldn’t get it to turn in either direction. Standing up helps and the giant peg extensions that I was given a lot of grief over turned out to be sound upgrades. The other issue with the soft spring is, the kickstand is too long. It makes parking the bike a chore and it makes me glad I added a Ram Mount ball to the kickstand as a catch for my boot to raise and lower the stand. I’d be sunk without it.

I decide to stop by Wheeler’s in Robbinsville, NC. He’s a good friend and riding buddy and world-famous for salvaging vacations. A sign on the wall in his shop claims, “My mother says I can fix anything and I’m not going to disappoint my mother.” He’s a real mad-scientist kind of guy. If he doesn’t have a tool, he disappears into his full machine shop and reappears with one.

He has the same trouble with the adjusting collar that I have. It doesn’t respond to solid taps with a punch and hammer. The soft aluminum notches are getting deformed and still not moving enough to stiffen the spring. We make the decision to remove the shock to get a proper tool onto the collar. With bolts removed, linkages disconnected, and even a slight modification of the obstructive bashguard, we discover the dogbones won’t swing far enough out of the way to drop the shock out the bottom. Terrific. Apparently the shock has to come out the top. This means removing the subframe (gas tank on this bike) bolts, rotating the tank down and bringing the shock out the top. Add to that the removal of the cargo rack before you can get to the tank. Obviously, Wheeler could do that, but not within the constraints of my time table. I decide to suffer with it, adapt to it, and ride it like it is to Salida, CO where I will have access to a garage and tools and one of the best KTM guys I know of. Pumping up the compression and rebound helps slow the bouncing down enough to mimic some preload and settle the bike down. It could in reality be me that is settling into the bike. Adaptation – it’s important.

The rest of the day is spent in the beauty of WNC and ETN. Lots of roads I have ridden and some I haven’t. Using the GPS tracks exclusively has a strange effect on the experience. It seems to allow me to immerse myself into the remoteness of the regions I am passing through. Most of the time, I have no idea where I am in relation to places. I just know so long as I see the little motorcycle on the light blue line, I am not lost. I give myself a chuckle when, in my helmet I say, “I have no clue where I am, but I am nowhere near lost.”

Evidence of some pretty rough storms the week before.

The infamous crossing on Witt Road. The stone grooves add to the excitement when on a motorcycle.

Dabbed a foot in another of the crossings on Witt Road. Note: waterproof boots work both in and out.

As the day winds down, I am searching for camp. While preparing for the trip, I spent hours in Garmin Basecamp adding various points-of-interest to the route. At the end of the day, the next nearest marked campsite is too far to make, so I’m now looking for a bootleg campsite or dispersed camping. Suddenly, as if by request, Lost Creek Campground appears. Deserted and free – perfect. Next to a mountain stream I set up the hammock just after dusk and go over the day in my mind. A month plus of this?

Arriving at a meeting point 45 minutes late on a motorcycle is bad form. People tend to worry and besides that, it’s just not nice. I still get a chuckle about anyone freaking out over anything less than two days. Good news travels fast and bad news is nearly instant. I misjudged traffic on a near perfect Mothers Day Sunday on the Parkway. It was busy and, being in the NC mountains, cell service is spotty at best so calling ahead wasn’t possible.

I’m to meet my son in Pisgah Forest for lunch and then afterward, we’re going to do some primitive camping. I pull into the space behind his Jeep at Hawg Wild BBQ. He walks over looking a bit concerned and relieved at the same instant. He mentioned being worried. I can understand that. Forty-five minutes is a long time.

We get seated really quickly and our food comes out almost immediately. We talk about many things and the subject of his level of preparation comes up. Have a sleeping bag? “Aw man! I left it beside the door!” A tent or hammock? “Ugh. Left that at home, too.” Oh boy. This could get interesting.

It was forecast to be in the low 40s in Brevard which was at a lower elevation than where we’d be camping. He went to Walmart and picked up a cheap hammock and a fleece blanket. I told him he’d be cold, but he felt like he could handle it. So with ice, beer, hotdogs, chips, and the cheapest sleeping arrangements available, off we went into the woods.

He followed me up a forest service road in search of camp. After a few miles I find the perfect campsite. Ok..well it wasn’t perfect, but it was free and as a bonus, there was some wet firewood laying around.

No Camping Here Camp

We got set up, cut a stick for cooking the dogs, and lit a fire. Despite using some of my gasoline from the bike, we only managed to get a mediocre fire going. But beers were had and stories were told and suddenly it was 10:30 and getting chilly.
I am set up for both ground and hammock camping for this trip. I have a two pound, two person, Nemo backpaking tent and an Eno Sub-7 hammock that is under seven ounces. I prefer to sleep in a hammock, but I did not bring an underquilt. For cool nights in a hammock, an underquilt is a necessity. Figured I’d try it anyway and commiserate with my son, because I knew he was going to freeze.

Around midnight, he ended up in the Jeep. Leaving me to commiserate with myself. I woke up to the sound of my teeth chattering and never really got back to a solid sleep. I was comfortable, except for that whole shivering thing. It doesn’t matter. I was camping and camping with my son!

I got up at daybreak and let him sleep a little while. I took a walk up the closed trail we were camped in front of. Looked around a bit and headed back to camp. As I walked into camp, I noticed something a bit concerning. A big No Camping Here sign posted about 20 feet up in a tree basically right over top of my motorcycle. Though we weren’t blocking the gate, we were camped illegally. Oops. Oh well, it was time to break camp anyway and go get breakfast.

Waffle House was the first thing we saw and the first choice. Breakfast was good and quick. We chit-chatted with our server who wanted to know how she could get the two weeks paid vacation my son mentioned in our conversation. She was like a characiture of a TV sitcom waitress. She launched into an animated story about having to meet the helicopter at the hospital when they were picking up her mother and the pilot offering her directions to the hospital. “I just said, ‘Chile, I’ll prolly beatchu derr!!!” She was a lively spirit to say the least.

After breakfast we explored a little and stopped at the Pink Beds Commisary — couple of old buildings along US276 I’d been meaning to check out forever and finally had the time to do it. 19th Century America intrigues me. We had a look around at the exhibit and drove some more dirt roads. Pisgah is a beautiful area. In my mispent youth, I used to bootleg hiking trails on my mountain bike. In the late 80s in NC, a mountain bike was a thing of wonder.

Forestry School with my son

We finished up with a cold drink at a gas station and said our good-byes. What a great send off!