The Road To Damascus
Today was a day on par with the Blue Ridge Parkway ride. I slept fitfully last night, as I often do when I'm camping. I took my time getting ready, repacking the trailer to try and get rid of the annoying bounce it developed after I rearranged things a couple of days ago. I finally rolled out of Raccoon Branch at a bit after nine, and immediately started the first climb of the day, up Route 16 to Troutdale. I had been considering making for the church hostel in Troutdale last night, and this morning I was glad that I could never get anyone to answer the telephone there: I never would've made it at the end of the day yesterday. This morning, though, I powered up the hills, listening to Mark Isham's earlier works and reveling in the shade of the forest. I didn't even mind the trucks: full of logs, they grumbled up the mountain, while other trucks full of finished lumber blatted down it, leaving a wash of freshly-sawn woodsmell in their wakes. I didn't mess around; when I heard the telltale engine noise or spotted a truck in my mirror, I pulled over into the gravel on the shoulder and just got out of the way until it passed. Safer for me, and safer for oncoming traffic if the trucks didn't have to swing wide to give me room.
At 3,450 feet, I rested and wolfed down some newtons before sailing downhill into Troutdale. Then it was back up on Route 303, to about 3,750 feet. I discovered that a key motivating factor was replacing the miles per hour readout on the GPS display with an altitude readout. I don't really care how fast I'm going up hill anymore, only that I reach the summit. And I did: a long ride along the Elk Garden Ridge, following the course of Laurel Creek. I crossed the Appalachian Trail, and had conversations with the horses who were hanging out in pastureland and at horse camps.
Then: a glorious, nine-mile downhill into Damascus, through the best scenery I've ridden since the Blue Ridge. There were no sprawling valley vistas, just mile after mile of coniferous hillsides, the rushing waters of streams and waterfalls near the road, and the sheer joy of letting gravity do the work. Just outside Damascus was a section of roadway that look alarming on the GPS map - switchbacks so sinuous that they almost doubled back on themselves. Usually, that means either steep uphill or downhill travel, but in this case, it meant a modest gain of altitude, followed by a plunge into Damascus proper.
Damascus lies at the intersection of the Appalachian Trail, the Virginia Creeper Trail, the TransAm cycling route, and lots of little local trails for mountain biking and horse riding. Fewer than 1,000 people live here, and many of them have made it their business to cater to the needs of through-hikers, cyclists, and other outdoorsy types. I pulled into the parking lot of Sun Dog Outfitters, where I bought a slew of Clif Bars, 25 feet of line for bear-bagging (more on that later, when there are actually bears about), and 20 ounces of white gas. That last item was what let me know I was truly in a camper friendly town. White gas normally comes in gallon or half-gallon cans, and I was able to serve myself from one of those and buy just what I needed for my fuel bottle. Earlier in the day, I had attempted to buy regular unleaded from a gas station, but the pump wouldn't read my credit card. My stove will run on unleaded, but it's a dirtier burn, so I was glad I wasn't able to buy it.
Now, I've checked in to the Dancing Bear, run by transplanted Floridians Bob and Diane Smith. I was able to pedal the rig right into the garage, to which they gave me a key. I took myself to the Baja Cafe around the corner, enjoying a perfectly folded steak burrito and a couple of post-ride Coronas (it's the lime that makes it, you know). From there, I stopped in at Mount Rogers Outfitters up the street, which is a candy store for folks like me whose current lives revolve around their gear. I'll have to go back there tomorrow...just perusing the place has given me ideas about how to consolidate and streamline how I pack the trailer. Later, I walked about a mile up the road to the local Food City, and as I was walking back with my purchases, a nice fellow named Mark pulled over and gave me a ride back to the Dancing Bear.
This is a good place. I'm going to spend the day here tomorrow: I've got some maintenance to do on the trike and the trailer, the battery could use some charging and the yard here has great exposure for all-day sun tracking. Mount Rogers runs a hostel, and I'll stop by to see about dropping off a book I've finished and picking up a new one from the community bookshelf.
There's a lot going on besides the practicalities of travel, but it's getting late, and (as always) I'm a sleepy fellow. More tomorrow.
I'll leave you with another road picture. The composition of these shots is becoming distressingly similar, but then, this is what I spend most of the day looking at.
