The Trans America Trail winds itself through some pretty far away places to avoid any kind of serious civilization. In the eastern states (NC, TN, GA, MS) you’re never really far away from a town or possibly a city, but most of the time, you can’t just look up and see one. The way I decided to navigate the trip kind of puts me in a tunnel and adds to the experience of feeling disconnected from the population.

I’m running a Garmin 600 on a Ram Mount with 100K Topo maps installed and have loaded a combination of Sam Corerro’s and gpsKevin’s tracks loaded onto it. I follow Sam’s route almost exclusively, but have gpsKevin’s route available in case of trail closures, etc. I also have my Galaxy Note 5 mounted on the bars with a Hondo Garage Perfect Squeeze Phone Mount running any of a number of mapping apps, my favorite being Locus Pro. I have both Sam’s and Kevin’s tracks loaded into it and Locus Pro has some very nice offline maps available for download. So far, this set up is working out very well.

Staying on the TAT leaves one with limited dining options. Sure, you can deviate into the nearest town and eat like a king, but I prefer to stay on course and work the details out myself — one of the advantages of soloing; the eating decision is always unanimous. This method kind of turns you into a gas station gourmet. Not the best diet, but it works until it doesn’t. It certainly makes me miss my wife.

Toward the end of each riding day, I begin to look for where I will camp or sleep. Arriving in Cowan, TN I check the list of campgrounds and motels I added to my GPS during the lengthy preparation phases of my trip. That search really revealed nothing close to Cowan so to Google it is. A short search for camping brings up Circle E Guest Ranch. The reviews were good and they accepted tent campers. It had been a hot and dusty day of riding so a shower was a must and they had them. To Circle E it is. 

When I arrived at the office, it was closed with a note on the door. “After office hours, call Christine.” As I pulled out my phone, a friendly lady was walking in my direction and said, “I’m Christine.”

“Well I guess I can hang this thing up then,” I joked.

They have tent camping available along with cabins. It is the weekend before Memorial Day, so I pretty much have my choice of accomodations. I choose to camp and once I’m all paid up and back at the bike, a quick look at the radar reveals that I’m likely to get pretty wet. I decide to take a look at the camper trailer they have available. A decision I don’t regret. As I’m leaving the office, a man pulls up in a pick-up truck. Mr. Evans is the owner of Circle E Guest Ranch and Christine tells him I’ve rented the camper. “That’s good. If there’s anything you need over there, just let me know. Ya know, there’s a big dirt bike riding area just down there road there. We know they have a big event when we see a bunch of trailers headed down the road there,” he tells me.

“CMRA? I have a good friend that ran that for quite some time,” I tell him.

“Darryl Moody!” he exclaims.

“Yessir.”

Strange how small the world gets when you get out in it. Ray had known one of my best friends for years and through chance, happenstance, and a Google search, I’d stumbled into him. Pretty awesome!

The camper is clean, the A/C worked great and the shower is perfect. There is even a carport to put the bike under. Anytime I have a sink available, I wash my riding clothes and hang them to dry. This is a system that keeps me from carrying a bunch of dirty laundry in drysacks that hold in odor. The key is having everything dry before I put it on in the AM and this can be a challenge in the humidity of the south. I sleep well in the camper. It reminds me of a simple time in life when I didn’t have much and was happy nonetheless. The morning brings drier air, a short conversation with the neighbor, and a good start to a good day.

The backroads of Tennessee are beautiful. There is a mixture of poverty and wealth, shacks and shanties, mansions and ranches, hills and flats. It’s really an odd mixture. If I stopped at everything I wanted a photo of, I would never make it across the country. It all interests me and I think the reality of it is, I want a photo of everything because I am terrified the expereince will end and I will forget. It’s the same reason I write. I feel like somehow, in the future, I will be able to look back on these words and hopefully remember the experience, vividly.

It’s time for gas. Stopped in the shade of an old oak on a backroad, I search the GPS for the next gas stop. It’s not too far from here so I putt along, taking it all in. At the station, I pull up to the pump and take my helmet and gloves off. 

“There’s a state trooper on a motorcycle hidin’ up there about a mile poppin’ people,” a heavily accented woman’s voice says from behind me. 

I turn to face her, “Aww, this thing isn’t going to upset him very much, but thanks for letting me know.”

Once gassed up, I start to pull out of the gas station and when I look left, I see a Tennessee State Trooper on a Harley riding by. He gives me a doubletake as he passes by and I pull out going the opposite direction. A glance to the right as I pull out reveals him turning around and coming back pretty hot. My route has me turning right pretty much immediately and as I do, I hear a buzzer, the kind emergency vehicles use to warn traffic. I check the mirror and see him behind me with no lights on. We’re on a pretty steep hill and in the sun, so I motion toward a spot of shade that’s in a flatter area to let him know I plan on stopping, just not right here.

He pulls alongside me and shouts, “Hey! You got a second? I just want to have a look at your bike!”

“Sure!” I say. I really knew that’s all he wanted from the moment he went by me when I was pulling out of the gas station. He never gave any vibe that he was stopping me on official business and I knew I’d done nothing wrong, so it was kind of cool that he just wanted to talk bikes.

Trooper Alvarez was very apologetic for stopping me and apologized (almost too much) for wasting my time if I was in a hurry. I reassured him it was not any issue. “All I have is time. I quit my job to do this. I have absolutely no schedule,” I tell him. 

“Aww, man! I wish I could do that! That’s all I want to do. I’ve been cussed 12 times today just for doing my job. I wish we would get some BMWs instead of having to ride this Harley. I don’t like it.”

We talk about different bikes. He’s been eyeing the KTM 690 Enduros and he’s pretty sure it’s what he wants. I feel it’s the best bike for the job, but I’m a little partial and fully committed. 

Trooper Alvarez’s story is the Everyman story and it reminds me of how fortunate I am for having this experience. He just wants to drop out of the rat race and go on an adventure. We take on lives we think we’re supposed to have and sometimes it turns out to be the life we wanted. But sometimes, it turns out to be a trap that awakens in us an appetite for new horizons that cannot be extinguished. Russell will have his chance I believe. He’s a good man doing a terribly hard job and deserves it.

This one goes out to all the working stiffs. May you one day have your great adventure.

“Sail Forth- Steer for the deep waters only. Reckless O soul, exploring. I with thee and thou with me. For we are bound where mariner has not yet dared go. And we will risk the ship, ourselves, and all.” ― Walt Whitman

Getting on the bike and underway early has many advantages; longer riding day, cooler riding for longer, wildlife viewing, golden hour of light for photos, things just look and feel crisper, you can knock off earlier in the afternoon when it’s hot, you beat most people to the roads, etc. Other than my forestry friend, I had seen no one else out on the double track forest roads.

This part of Tennessee is mostly national forest and when it isn’t, it is very rural. Poverty is widespread. All day I pass by dwellings that look as though they’ve been vacant for years, yet families still live in them. All manner of junk litters the yards – old cars calling for an end to their owners’ procrastination, old appliances awaiting pick-up, childrens’ toys probably belonging to children long since grown and moved out. It really is depressing. Appalachia has long been poverty stricken. Being poor mountain folk is no new phenomenon. There’s plenty of it where I live and I see it every day. But when you are far from home, and see that it isn’t confined to just your own neighborhood, it plucks a string you haven’t really heard before. Its intensity out here is really an in-your-face kind of thing.

As the sun gets higher in the sky, the temperatures climb. I keep seeing all of these mountain streams while I am clammed up in Gore-Tex from head to toe. That cool mountain water is calling my name. I’ll also take the opportunity to switch to my “hot weather ride configuration” which is just rolling my coat up and putting it into a dry sack and putting my riding jersey over my armor. 

I spot a picnic area next to the stream and no one is in it. Now’s my chance. Getting parked at a picnic table, I jump off the bike and immediately pull my pants down. Relief! Gore-Tex is great for anything up to – ooohhh – say 80F degrees. After that, it’s a steam oven back there. 

Reminds me of the time a friend and I were on a big tour out west on our motorcycles. It was mostly a road tour as my buddy was on my old Aprilia Futura. It was August and we’d decided since we were that close (Salida, CO), that we may as well ride to the Grand Canyon. It was brutally hot and my Tiger was cooking me. There was a gap between the seat and the tank that was just bringing hot air right off the engine like a purpose-built heater duct straight into my crotch. It was terrible. I had the worst case of saddle sores I ever had. In fact, I’d never had saddle sores in my life. Even having ridden centuries on a bicycle, being a bicycle messenger, riding to the beach on a bicycle, and tens of thousands of miles on motorcycles, I had never experienced anything like it. We were getting ready to hit a turn and I was just so uncomforable. I spotted a small spot of shade on the road and bee-lined for it. It was a desolate, high-desert road next to a small lake. One tree threw a small shadow on the road and I pulled into its shade, threw the kickstand down and dropped my pants right there in front of God, country, and the kids on the jetskis in the little lake. The wind on my rear felt great and I really didn’t care who saw me. I had riding shorts on, so it wasn’t like I was breaking any decency laws. Remembering that trip and how that happened, I wanted to stay ahead of a similar predicament. So letting it air out back there whenever possible was going to be the strategy this trip to avoid such a calamity.

Standing there with my riding pants around my knees, I hear a car driving by on the gravel above me. The driver gave me a look, but I wasn’t budging. That breeze felt too good to make me modest now! 

Stripped down to my undershorts and sandals, I went and sat on the rocks with my feet in the water. It made me miss my wife. She and I used to do this sort of thing when we’d go out on rides. I imagine there will be cool mountain streams in Oregon. She should bring a suit!

Back on the bike, the TAT leads me into north Georgia. Some of this section is familiar to me as it is part of the Georgia Traverse – a compilation of dirt roads and trails in north Georgia that I have explored in the Jeep. 

It starts getting late in the day and time to look for a place to sleep. I have a campsite saved in the Garmin that is free and right along the trail that will work just fine. Until….

The road being closed in this spot means my camp is past it and it will also mean backtracking after the detour to get back to camp. Many times a road closure means it itsn’t passable to cars and trucks, but a bike would be able to get by, so I ride past the closure signs to investigate and come up on a bobcat operator working on clearing what looks like a slide. He stops, giving me the “oh this again” look as he throws open the glass cabin door (are these things air condidtioned now?!). I didn’t even have to ask. “It’s closed, buddy.” 

“So no way I could sneak through on this thing?”

“Nah, man. I let you through there and the district ranger will have my ass in a sling.”

“What about if you didn’t let me through? What about if this crazy guy on a dirtbike just flew by you and there was nothing you could do?” 

“Naw, man. I can’t.”

“Ok. Can ya tell me how to get around it?”

He tells me how to get around the closure and still end up going the way I need to go, but it doesn’t solve my need for a place to camp. So I ride on into Chatsworth, GA to get gas, food, and to formulate a plan. The local burger joint was pretty good and while I’m there I find camp at Fort Mountain State Park about 8 miles away. It’s a fancy RV’er type campground ($30, two trees and a shower), but it’s cheaper than a room and it has showers. Once I have a site picked out and the hammock set up and I am gathering my things for a shower, the camp host drives up. He asks how long I’d been riding that day, how many nights I plan on being there and whatnot. He then mentions that they have a lot of people duck in and duck out without paying, etc. Then he warns me, not of their bear problem, but of their raccoon problem! Apparently they have some rogue, badass little raccoons that are terrorizing the campground. It made me laugh and then it made me paranoid. If those little guys tear my bags up trying to get to my soap, I’m coming out shooting! The night was crisp and windy, and every little noise had me thinking about raccoons, but otherwise it was a good night.