It’s Saturday morning. I awake in the forest around 7am. It’s early, but it’s light outside. I hear the flowing creek nearby and a gaggle of woodland critters, mostly birds. I see no bear claw marks in my tent, thankfully.
The best way to handle my situation now, (click here if you haven’t yet read the previous day’s entry,) is to try to get as far down the mountain as possible before I have to stop. The man I met yesterday told me that the town was 4 or 5 miles away; I assume that I have at least a 5 mile trip ahead of me. I am shooting for Doan’s Garage, but with no directory or cell phone signal, I have no idea where that might be. In the condition that my car is in, I do know that every second counts, and it will be a give and take relationship between speed and heat. The farther I can get the car down the mountain before it overheats again, the less distance I have to walk. My goal is two miles; that leaves me with a comfortable hour-long hike downhill.
As I’m packing up the tent, I’m suddenly about 15 feet away from a deer and her fawn. They had just rounded a pile of wood, and had apparently not heard or smelled me beforehand. For a long second we stared at each other before they both turned and bolted. These were smaller, Michigan-style deer, unlike those I encountered the night before. I finish packing up camp and haul the gear up the trail to my car. The trail is a switchback, cut across a very steep grade. It is a short but grueling climb as the trail rises in elevation at least 150 feet.
I turn on my cell phone radio, hoping to know as soon as I’m back within coverage. With everything thrown somewhat pell-mell into the car, I start her up and quickly back out of the pull out and into the road. It isn’t yet past 8.30am, and the traffic is very light.
For the next mile the road is neither down hill or level, but a slight grade up. However, it is slight, and the engine holds. The temperature quickly rises to normal operating temperature, albeit in an abnormally short amount of time. After about two miles, small homes begin to dot the road. I know, at this point, that I will avoid I worst-case scenario. The phone vibrates, telling me that I have now have messages waiting and that I am back within coverage. I take a short pull off, coasting along the length of it and quickly punching “auto service” into Google Maps on my Blackberry. I select Doan’s Garage and tell it to take me there. The car grumbles back onto the highway. I now have contact with the outside world, a destination, and a way to get there. It feels good.
It’s a mere 2.5 miles to go and it looks as though we’ll make it.
Just then, the descent begins, and I am suddenly looking down a winding mountain road. I’m elated. I can feel the rarefied mountain air coursing through the car – through the windows, the radiator, and around my body – a feeling made only more comforting by the heater thrusting hot air through the car at maximum power, a meek attempt at a substitute radiator.
I round a pass and am suddenly looking down on a quiet little mountain town, with a beautiful lake forming a gateway fence. The causeway over the lake and into the town reminds me of flying into New Orleans. But the town beyond is a different scene. It looks happy and even cozy. I coast down the steep grade, applying breaks sparingly – a break fire is almost as high on the list of things I want to avoid doing as an engine fire – and stay off the gas. It’s only another mile until Doan’s, and I am now sure that hiking in will be unnecessary.
I park the car in front of an old shop titled “Doan’s Garage” and am a little dismayed at the “CLOSED” sign. Especially in light of Doan’s open garage door. I walk in the oversized door. I’ve never been so excited to be greeted with a greasy, crooked-toothed, hillbilly smile.
Jeremy and I pop the hood and have a good look inside Old Smokey. Confirming what I’ve known for the last 12 hours, he tells me that she “sure is boilin’” and that this sort of behavior is not normal. He tells me he’ll have a look at the car and give me a call when he finds something. I ask him what he suggests for breakfast, and he points me down the street and across an alley to the homely Mountaineer Diner. I load up my pack with a gallon of water, my laptop, camera, and some books. I head to the Diner, and enjoy the most delicious Cheese Lovers Omelet of all time. I enjoy the coffee, which, happily, does not cause me to tweak out like McDonald’s Coffee does.
As I leave the diner I again consider my situation. It is far more pleasant than when I last did so. I’m in a quiet little mountain town, shades of South Park, and there is a beautiful lake not far away, her surface broken only by kayaks, fishing lines, and the occasional sandbar.
I again turn to my trustworthy Google Maps. I plot a course directly for McDonalds about a mile away. It is truly a scenic town.
I wash my arms and face at the McDonalds and offload some of the pictures from my memory card to my laptop. I take no food, having just eaten at the diner. I leave McDonalds and see a Visitor’s Center across the road, finalizing what had been a rapidly growing suspicion that I am in a tourist town; I am trapped in a city that people visit voluntarily. I step inside the Center but feel uncomfortable within the large shoulder-to-shoulder mass of people, many speaking English only as rough second language. I quickly turn around and exit, seeing a sign that says “Estes River Trail 1.2 miles, <—.” I head down the trail, along the same river seen above. I leave the concrete trail and head down a dirt path the hugs the river. Suddenly I am in a golf course. I smile at my change of circumstances.
Eventually a find a bench with a wooden shade that rests on the shores of the lake. There are a few fishermen. Having finished 1776 the night before, I settle down with H.G. Well’s The Time Machine, a book I read as a boy many years ago.
Jeremy calls around 2.30pm and tells me that he has found the problem. Luckily, it was a destroyed radiator cap and not a broken water pump, as we had both originally feared. I finish The Time Machine and return to my car. It’s quite a walk back, but I find an interesting surprise along the way.
After I get my car back, I enjoy a homemade meal from Taco Bell.
I begin to consider where I will spend the night. I know the National Forest outside the town – where I spent the last night – is free and secluded, but I’m not quite ready to enjoy those circumstances again. I opt for the Hermit Park Open Space, a(county-run?) campground outside of town. There is a small fee, but that in itself is a small price to pay for the security of people. I meet a fellow at the registration office who happens to be camping with his sons and a couple of their friends in a campsite just down the trail from mine. Between the two of us, we get the last two available campsites in the park. Allen invites me over and I tell him I’ll see him after I pitch my tent.
There is a slight drizzle as I set up my tent. I’m relieved to be in the company of others again. The night before was a truly unnerving experience, one that can’t be explained until you’ve known it. The reality of being alone, unable to reach anyone by phone or by, for the immediate future at least, car, is unsettling enough. To be over 1,500 miles from home, in a bear-populated forest, with little other that topographical knowledge of what lays ahead makes the situation even more unsettling.
Fear is not an accurate description, because I was not scared. I was uniquely suited to spend time outside. Bear attacks, as frightening as they may be, are quite rare. The fact that my car may not run was irrelevant; she still contained a virtual outdoors store within her frame. I had food for weeks, means with which to catch more in the remote possibility that it ever became necessary, clothing with which to weather any weather, and gear to complete almost any task. Was it the mere threat of loneliness? The knowledge that I could not, if I wanted to or needed to, get a hold of anyone, regardless of how hard I tried? Whatever it was, it manifested itself in an unsettling feeling. Fear, no.
Allen and his kids have a warm fire going by the time I arrive at their site. Again, it provides a special warmth, especially after the previous night’s happenings. I laugh at how easy it is to get a fire going when there are virtual cords of dead and dry wood nearby and visible in diminishing daylight. We all talk for awhile and eventually I head back to my own tent. I start on Well’s The Invisible Man. I don’t get far before I drift off into a deep sleep. And I sleep later than I have any other night in the last three weeks.
A note on updates: It’s clear that I’m running about a day or two behind on updates sometimes. This may not always be the case, and I’ve started working in days of the weeks to avoid confusion. If you are receiving your updates by email, remember to go to the full site at http://www.reidksmith.com to see a full sidebar with a (semi-live) map of my location and Twitter updates of my activities.
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