Brevard. Saturday I rememebered that this particular Saturday was the worst Saturday to be where I was.
Great Smokey's National Park is the most visited national park in the country. Labor day weekend, the clear marking to the end of summer. The end of family camping, RV's and picnics, carefree swimming in rivers and barbeques.
While it may mark the end of this, it does so by overdoing all of these things. All of which fit perfectly, or can be crammed perfectly, into the smokies and the adjoining Pisgah National Forest, which is where I searched for a campsite.
I had read that you could camp anywhere on the main road that went through the forest. Perfect! I'll throw down my tent on the side of the road somewhere and meet Jason for dinner in Brevard. I called, letting him know I would need 1/2 hour to find a spot and rendez vous in town, and that, after a year, I was excited to see him.
Well, you can't camp on that road. That is clearly stated in a large sign with lettering that would make our nys health inspector proud (everything over 2"!). You can, however, camp on the sides roads, where the brown tent signs are posted... which happen to very few and far between.
After almost 45 minutes of gravel road hunting in the Fit, I headed back to town, ready to try out the camper feature of the car (lowering the front seat as far back as it will go), and sleep in a parking lot. Happy Labor Day!
The town of Brevard, is a cute little southern brick town at the foothills of the Pisgah National Forest, just south of Asheville (or Ashvegas as Jason calls it), with the slight air of a new england college town. Very slight, but noticable if you turn your head the right way and the breeze is blowing just so.
I headed the right way to pick up Jason and head into town for dinner. Seeing him was great! Seeing old friends you haven't seen in awhile is almost always great. We enjoyed a nice dinner in town and drank local brews as we caught up and told stories from the previous summer. From the goodness of his heart he let me stay in his extra bed, albeit against the rules of his housing arrangement. 6 days later I would sleep in my car, utilizing the 'RV setting,' and would be reflectively grateful for the bed in Brevard.
The next day--- Sunday?-- found me plus every human in Tenesseee and North Carolina attempting to reach clingman's dome (by car, of course). Before this several hour fiasco I enjoyed a delightful hummusy breakfast by Looking Glass falls after meeting Eve, who used to travel a lot and admired my solo nature. Before Clingman's I also had an amazing, but short, hour walk beside a stream where I splashed in the cool waters of a babbling brook in the heat of the afternoon. Oh so nice.
Clingman's dome was a test in my patience, and I passed with flying colors. I mean, waiting a traffic line in nature is not quintessential outdoor fun... but, a sunny sunday with amazing views was just pleasant. What could I do anyways? I was stuck, physically, might as well be stuck mentally.
When I got to the walking up the mountain part, I was so relieved to be sweating in the sun, a delicious cool breeze bringing startelingly piney smells that stopped me suddenly in my tracks. I must have looked drunk, pausing with my eyes closed to smell the air and smile serenely. Anyways, we huffed and puffed and made it to the 60's era concrete rampway above the mountain. 'We' is the aforementioned mob of humans. Everyone, from fit hikers to the grandma and the out of shape every-year-olds pushed ourselves up the hill. Everyone muttering that they would work out more after that evening's barbeque.
"I can't doooo it" a little plump girl around five puffed, her red curls and pink face stopping on the side of the trail.
"You can do it!" Her father said, " You have to say that you can do it, you have to to think that you CAN. So let me hear you say it, say you can do it! We'll do it together!"
He was so motivational it stopped me. I looked at the little girl, "You're almost there, and doing a great job!"
"See," the father said, "we're going to do this together!"
Hours of traffice, HOURS through a town whose name I forget, but is excellently described by Bill Bryson in A Walk in the Woods.
Bryson's book would fill the Fit for the next several hours, a timing mistake to be noted in another entry.
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