Pilot Mountain

We left the home parked at the winery by prior agreement between my sister-in-law and the winery with whom she has  a more than passing acquaintance. Instead we took a day long ride in their Toyota Prius a vehicle in which I have never previously spent a day riding around aboard so it was an instructive day. Our target was the rocky pimple you see below called Pilot Mountain.

Before the mountain there was the river to cross, a river of wine in this case. Yadkin Valley is home to numerous wineries many of them advertised alongside the freeways that cross the area. The notion that wine can only be produced in California, Oregon and Washington  is long out of date and we have stopped by vineyards in Texas, Vermont, and New York and places I can't even remember off the top of my head.

Geeta and Bob are avid oenophiles and they study the form like baseball addicts. Like most things in my life I know what I like even if I'm not sure why and with wine, or beer, I seek out that which makes me happy. A puckered tongue, a bitter taste or similar does nothing for me. I know how to do the wine tasting nonsense of swirling and looking for legs and measuring sugar and all that stuff. In the end it's the taste that works for me.

After all that talk about plonk much of which actually tasted really good, we moved on to the main event which was lunch at the winery's restaurant. Lucky I was not to be driving as we had a bottle of white to deal with alongside the rather delicious food. Crab dip:

The fussier members of the team wondered why it was served with tortilla chips but I was too busy shoveling to worry about such niceties. It was excellent. My main course looked like this:

A delicious salad on top with a spicy oil and vinegar dressing and chunks of beef underneath with mushroom risotto at the bottom. It was   a really good lunch and I scraped the plate. Geeta and Bob belong to the denial brigade modestly averting their eyes from the dessert menu but Layne and I were made of sterner stuff and ordered four spoons with chocolate brownies and a lemon cake. Guess what? Even the deniers dug in.

Then the serious business of going for a walk. Check out these woods which have delayed changing color this year expressly to celebrate our retirement. Ask me later if I miss work or wish I could answer just one more 911 call.

The parking lot at Pilot Mountain had the usual smart aleck remarks on signboards everywhere for the less bright among us. I told Rusty it was lucky they had put this sign here else he would have gone overboard but he ignored me and declined to give me the subservience to which I am not accustomed.

Bob, stuffed full of fried goat cheese salad and brownie looked over the side and remarked it didn't look the least bit like the Bordeaux wine growing region of France, his latest craze, which was such a non sequitur I asked if it vaguely resembled Mexico? As usual my joke missed the mark. Mexico is next on my list of places to visit, where incidentally they also grow wine. We shall taste it and pronounce on its oak in the nose and sugar content, or something.

The mountain is 2400 feet tall and climbers like to haul themselves up the Knob, a rather rude nickname for the big pinnacle. Ordinary people  who fear falling off cliffs get to stumble unhandily up to the smaller pinnacle and admire the rugged emptiness of the big Knob covered with trees and apparently highly attractive to turkey vultures.

The colors are nice on the little pinnacle and the views splendid whatever they lack compared to Bordeaux.

My wingspan is five foot six with arms splayed so not too well do I compare especially as I have to walk everywhere.

Walking around here is actually a tad bit tricky if you aren't Rusty who leaped like the proverbial mountain goat. The trail is a winding path through rock formations which create natural steps which unfortunately aren't accurately measured to take into account the average length of the human stride.

The result is a walk that is half scramble, half shuffle and always looking where you put your feet as the surface is never flat and smooth, at least it wasn't where I followed Rusty's leash.

I was relieved to see some few people found love here. Apparently it was a place occupied by the unknown-to-me Saura Indian tribe before the rest of the world dropped in. They are a confusing bunch as they are most commonly known as Cheraw and they had their first contact with Hernando de Soto in 1540. He was the explorer who landed in Bradenton more or less, near Tampa and created his own brand of havoc thereafter. Wikipedia says the Saura/Cheraw have essentially been wiped out which may explain why I've never heard of them. They are now reduced to the status of "remnant people" which sounds desperately sad. 

The little pinnacle was filled with people and I was reminded how when Americans look at a dog they wonder about the breed for reasons not known to me. Even more mysterious are Mexicans who want to know the gender. Apparently dog penises are invisible to them. Anyway the answer is "Macho" for male (and you thought it meant something else), and "Embra" for female (which you also thought in English meant something else). If they are going to get personal with Rusty I add they he lacks balls (falta las pelotas) so they know the full story. Rusty doesn't seem to mind. He'd better get used to it where we're going. The other question they ask is if he's "bravo" which in Italian means good. In Spanish it means fierce which has led to some amusing (to me) misunderstandings as Mexicans leapt for the lamp posts when I smiled and said yes, he is fierce. Oops.

The scraggly trees in the distance marked the Knob (not Rusty's). It looked a rather arid destination to climb  but climbers are weird.

In places not known to him Rusty is not of the explorer caliber of Hernan de Soto and prefers to stick close to the known and familiar. Me? I'm ready to wander off down any old trail but he prefers parking lots, outhouses and dumpsters. Lucky me.

They even have a kids program along one trail which I figured couldn't be too arduous for my outdoor dog but he declined and sat on the spot just like Track, until I gave up.

Then we did some people watching. Very companionable. A pretty good day and we had frost to investigate for the first time the next morning. Oh and I dropped my driver's license in Elkin. The day was not over...

Crossing The Carolinas

I have to confess I should have got up when I woke up yesterday and sat like a disciplined little essayist at my desk aboard GANNET2 and started typing. Instead I pulled the bed clothes up a little tighter to my chin and stayed where I was warm.  Rusty, the 5 am alarm clock wasn’t going anywhere, he stayed curled up next to me, if not sleeping then pretending total exhaustion.

We left the campground mid morning and took off for a winery some four hours away in the Yadkin Valley of North Carolina, the wine growing equivalent to the Napa Valley. To get there we started out avoiding freeways and taking South Carolina backroads to Gaffney home to a truck stop. Exciting eh? Everyone in vans  loves gyms and truck stops for a reason as we shall see. 

On the way we came across a traffic jam. Chaos.  Well, not really, as everyone kept their heads and figured out what to do as they waited for the tow truck…No cops, no flags no stress. The Prime truck had tried to take the corner and failed as it was just too tight and his trailer tires slipped into the ditch and would only come out with help. The logging trucks took turns with oncoming traffic one by one and when our turn came we followed the blue Google line to the right and off we went.  Five minute delay. Easy. The no stress accident. 

Why the truck stop? Because it was 55 degrees out and no way were we deploying the solar shower! For thirteen dollars we shared a shower and it was excellent.  The shower was clean the towels were thick and fluffy and now you know why we enjoy showering on the road with truckers. Anyone is welcome to use them no matter what you drive.  Gyms aren’t good for us yet as long as Layne has auto-immune issues in the pandemic but gym showers are another popular way to stay clean when wipes have outlived their cleanliness. That hot shower feeling!

After the Pilot truck stop we took I-77 past Charlotte to the Yadkin Valley and the winery selected by my sister-in-law.  It was perfect, a building on a hill with a gorgeous view to the Blue Ridge mountains to the north, no neighbors, clear skies and silence. 

A weekday parking spot just for us and the offer of two nights at what is in reality a harvest host stop. We had a wine tasting, then bought some wine. The place was ours for the night.

Rusty was free to wander at will and he did, nose down crossing the fields with me in distant attendance. Full sized white tailed deer popped out of the woods to graze at dusk and he watched  in fascination.

The deer are a problem for anyone growing what they view as food so the winery uses electric fences which Rusty seemed to recognize as he avoided it without getting a shock much to my relief.

For some reason the fall foliage is holding on later than usual this year according to our relatives and the colors are superb.

We broke out our puffy jackets.  We have a few days in North Carolina then we drive north to Rock Island and Chicago where temperatures are supposed to be what they are now here. The next test is our electric heater which we will try out and report back.  Our bed is warm and comfortable and made by RV Superbag, a kind of well built sleeping back with proper sheets. The van is well insulated so with fifteen minutes of engine heater we have a livable environment when it’s 40 degrees outside with our windows sealed with insulated covers. It’s actually quite snug. Rusty sleeps comfortably judging by the snores.

My in laws brought chicken to their hotel room and took us to a drive through for fries at McDonalds. This probably doesn’t sound so very radical to you but you have to understand my sister in law and her husband have followed an alternative path through life being annoyingly woke before woke was a phrase in common use. Age brings wisdom and who doesn’t like fries with that? I sure do as did the other old age pensioners in the Prius. I would never have believed it but here’s Bob, proof positive he was in line at a major corporate fast food restaurant overcoming a lifetime of rejection of fast food. 

Dinner was delicious and I scarfed my fries with chicken and wine and got a ride back to the winery for the night. This was where we did the tasting, ate cheese and crackers and caught up with the winemaker in attendance. It was all very decadent. I said to Layne “How long have we been on the road?” Nine days she said. “Oh,” I said, “about half a usual vacation…”  Imagine that and here we are, still going strong!

Wine tasting without driving.  Excellent retirement practice, and I recommend it. Cold yes but out of season means not many people. Thumbs up and bring your puffy jacket as you’ll need it.

A Break In The Forest

The woods were silent and it was easy to fall asleep inside the van which even to us felt warm despite the 45 degrees outside. Rusty woke in the dark and starting yawning to encourage me to do my duty. 

It was dark outside and cold. Rusty started out keen running down the road between campsites sniffing as we went. 

There came a point where the steam ran out of my dog.  He stopped as though up against an invisible force field. With a wiggle he was out of his collar and trotting back into the darkness. I knew where he was going and followed as swiftly as I could.

He just wanted to sit and watch the sunrise so I pulled out my Pico camp chair and sat alongside him.

Later I figured it was light enough and he would be ready to go for a walk and lo and behold there was a trailhead right behind our spot number 14. We were alone and away from the campground and I could let him off the leash in the national forest.  So I did. 

It didn’t last! He ran up to me and trotted alongside me then he stopped to pretend to sniff and sat in the trail telling me no more sinking ever deeper into these mysterious and scary forests. He’s the master of the mangroves, at home there as anywhere and never afraid.  These woods were not anything Rusty felt at home in, even alongside me. We returned to base and he settled alongside the van on his 30ft tether bought expressly for organized campground use

I took my outdoor camping chair again, put my laptop in my…lap and switched between typing and watching the sunrise with Rusty alongside.  A man with a big black dog came by which set Rusty off, his fur on end his little body arched and ready for anything. Above the staring eyes of our dogs who were more curious than aggressive we chatted.  He was from Michigan retired eleven years so he and his wife spend winters in warmer climes with their camper. We plan to return to Michigan next year after Alaska so we talked about the Upper Peninsula. He had seen the winch on the front of the fan and wondered about it. I explained the last ditch principle of winching the van through mud and sand but he thought the heavy van would winch trees out of the ground so I figured he was not one of life’s optimists, and cut my cloth accordingly.

He mentioned Alaska and bears so I mentioned YouTube and bear spray, in the manner of one has given the problem some thought, but he dismissed my plan as ineffective and recommended  a shot gun. That’s a non starter for a klutz like me, more likely to shoot my foot off than anything else, and a bureaucratic hassle to get through Canada and prohibited in Mexico but I kept my peace. 

He tried to take a political tack but I demurred saying I’m retired and have no interest which is closer to the truth than I might want to admit to people who know me.  Let the next generation fight the battles to keep the country sane while we’re gone. I said we were going to Texas and he started on about Haitians flooding across the border which I find interesting as they had emigrated to South America and got the boot. They’ve been stopped at the border and are not flooding anywhere but I think the subtleties of Haitian history are not of interest to a man who would no more travel outside his country than he could understand the travails of a Haitian struggling to find a life anywhere in an uncaring world. People think I’m crazy for voluntarily planning to travel with time money and a decent vehicle to Chile but have no respect at all for impoverished peasants making the reverse trip out of pure desperation  with no means at their disposal. 

I did not dare mention our desire to go to Mexico a land filled with people waiting to fleece Americans as soon as they enter the country where all Americans are viewed as rich and therefore worthy of robbing.   Of course he may be right and we may end up naked and dead by the side of the road.  But I wasn’t in the mood for a well meaning lecture on the perils of Abroad. So I enjoyed his company. I’d like to think I’m maturing as I’m not inclined to think my opinions matter much compared to the needs of the young and intense!

I know most people traveling in campers see The West as the best possible part of the country, thanks to wide open spaces, millions of acres of public land and lots of boondocking possibilities.  The East Coast is much more populated like Europe perhaps with less public land and so forth but I have to admit I enjoy the variety of landscapes, the historic cities the winding wooded roads.  I wish Rusty had been ready to go further down the trail but there was beauty to enjoy:

I’m pretty sure the little tyke will get more adventurous as he adapts to this life. I remind myself it has taken us time to adapt and we aren’t done learning t(e nuances yet, by a long way. It would be a lot to expect Rusty with all his abandonment baggage to adapt instantly! It’s enough he likes being with us and is enjoying the van though I do wonder if he expects us to “go home” soon.  

I enjoyed the woods, the cool air, the realization that we really aren’t going home. This is home and the road has only just started to unspool. It is an astonishing privilege to be here. 

We are going to spend a week with my sister-in-law in the mountains of North Carolina which my wife pointed out was expected to be 26 degrees by night this weekend. So what? I replied. Then we both collapsed laughing.  I have no idea how is will this will go but you know what? We’ll live.

By the way this campground has the cleanest best smelling pit toilets in the Western World. The whole place is maintained like a park by two old men working in a pick up truck and whom I approached to thank for their work.  I trust they will one day pause to enjoy their Federal pensions from the US Department of Agriculture because they deserve them.  

I like this sitting still lark. I could get used to this.  I may have to.