Over the Appalachians

Day 5 - Hittin the Appalachians

We woke in our deluxe campsite and left lazily - around 9:15am. We were literally up-up-and away; up to the Blue Ridge Parkway, which snakes its' way for over 400 miles over the stunning Appalachian mountains; making it one of Americas' most popular drives. Just a bit slower and potentially more scenic by bike. We were sorry to miss the turnoff for the world-famous 'Cookie Lady'; an old dear who provided countless 'Trans Am-ers' with cookie fuel at Afton,  just before the Parkway. However we did stop to meet Connie; the sole occupant of the tourist Information centre. We didn't gleam much helpful information from Connie, but we politely listened to her wistful memories of her own hikes throughout Yorkshire. Matt dripped sweat all over the guest-book she insisted we sign... Did I mention the heat?! Basically, we are both raining sweat at all times. And I used to think I wasn't one to sweat much. While Connie didn't have much in the way of helpful Appallachian-survival advice, she was all heart and came out to wave us off and tell us how 'marvellous' she thought our trip would be. In anticipation of the remaining hills we were about to face, her wise old enthusiasm was worth more than factual advice anyway.

I'm no Thomas Hardy, so I will spare you my clumsy descriptions of the natural beauty we were to behold... The Blue Ridge Parkway is simply stunning. If you think cycling across the US is crazy, then I thoroughly recommend just taking a day-trip cycle of a section of the Blue Ridge. We were climbing fairly consistently, jogging along at about 7 mph. At this speed, we were able to meet and chat with a nameless friendly cyclist - whose family 'support crew' awaited him over the Ridge. Like Connie earlier, he was encouraging and positive about the trip ahead of us, and took our photograph at the 3,200 ft marker (one of a number of high passes.)

After 25 miles on the Parkway, our Tran-Am route took us down to a valley to the west of the Blue Ridge. We were glad we were not going West to East; as the downhill was hair-raisingly steep. Our wrists were aching from braking the switch-back after switch-back turns! We resolved to take stops on the way down, to give our brake-pads a break. At such a point, we happily encountered one of our most interesting introdcuctions so far. Slowly but surely, edging up the hill was a tandem recumbant; teamed by a father and daughter. Kirk and Zoe (who looked about 11)- had just 16 days to go before arriving in New York; having set out from Idaho 4 months ago. Their route had been meandering and experimental; we were both full of questions and if only we weren't half way up/down an intense incline, we would have loved to hear more about their trip. Such an incredible journey for a father-daughter duo; what a cool dad; we were in awe.
Taking Kirks' advice, at the foot of the mountain we stopped by Gurdies' corner store, in the intriguingly-named town of Vesuvius. I was struck by how hot the valley was compared the mountains from whence we had flown... It was like riding into an oven. Gurdie has been servicing cyclists for ages; their signatures covered every inch of the walls and ceiling. In keeping with tradition, Gurdie gave us a postcard with her address, so we could return the favour once we completed our journey and got 'back to base'. She mused 'I've had cyclists through this store from all over the world, and they've all sent me a postcard from when they get home... Apart from some I-talians. They got home and sent me the card I gave them.' Having suffered from a recent football match vs Italy, we happily joined in with Gurdies' eye-rolling racist gestures.

From Gurdies', it was only 12 miles to the campsite we were aiming for; the Mallard Duck. We rolled into a deserted campsite, with permenant-looking trailers and not a tent in sight. The office was locked, and eyes-darting, I started to have 'Deliverance' fears. Matt is of tougher stuff though, so he selected a shady spot where we set up camp. Still nervous, I insisted we track down some locals to ensure they didn't think we were trespassing, and had every intention of paying up once the owner showed up. Reassuringly, Rita and Mike (as we now know them)-told us that the owner would be arriving shortly. They also confirmed that we could swim in the adjacent river (which is more paddling-depth than swimming). With their blessing, we were off to the water with warm beers and sweaty bodies to cool down. An idyllic hour or so of sitting in a cool river; local brew in hand and only slightly mindful of Gentle Ben potentially emerging from the woods for some fish (and foreign take-out.)


We returned to the campsite to find the owner, who could be described as a 'combo deal' of Colonal Sanders and Kennys' dad (South Park).  Foolishly, we had anticipated credit-card payment and cooking facilities at the campsite. Looking around, we could see there was neither - so enquired politely about where the nearest shop may be (raw pasta being fairly unappatising.) Well, we were 'in luck'. The Colonal and Mike were set to hit the store to buy some cigarettes for a guy who had lung cancer, and was unable to leave his tralier. (No joke; I couldn't make something so sick up.)


Hickity-split; we were piled into the Pick-up and fanging our way to the store; a little over 4 miles away. The good old boys were happy to tell us that while we will be starting our journey tommorrow on this route; it gets significantly hillier after that. The store had a little of everything; beer; deli goods; loaded rifles and handguns behind the cashier. We stuck with the cheese and beer; smilingly accepting the 5% commisssion on cash-back.

Loaded up, in the 10 minute return-journey that ensued, we learned that Mike had married his school sweetheart at 21 after 6 years of courting; but divorced her after 3 months (when she cryingly confessed to having cheated on him.) The Colonal revealed a simillar story; only his marriage lasted a whole 21 years before she left him for his best mate. Suddenly, every country song I have ever heard fell into place.
Back at the campsite, we felt compelled to sit around the campfire which Mike proudly built with wood appropriated from a rent-faulting resident; and a shit-load of chip oil (who knows where that came from.) Mike was sweetly insistent that we use his camping hot-plate to cook up our pasta as we sat around with him; the Colonal; Rita and 'Pops' - an old guy who looked like he took an acid trip in the '70's and never returned. He endearingly called out to his dog, Bin-go before launching into an unrecognised ditty about generally rejecting society and women. He then proudly told us about his ex-wife and grown-daughter. Pops supped on a bottle of Wild Turkey whiskey (and frequently invited us to join him; Matt did once, and proclaimed that it tasted 'like Christmas dinner'. This went down a storm.)

Our pasta cooked, we offered some around but the Colonal spoke for everyone when he firmly said 'no pasta' (at which point Pops' looked as if Christmas had been cancelled.) We retreated to our campsite, scoffed some carbs and hit the hay... Only to be torn from sleep by the odd freight-train and more alarmingly; wild animal... I reasoned 'if it doesn't sound like a bear; its' okay'. Doesn't make for a great nights' kip; but luckily the Appallachians behind us lulled us back to sleep.