Author: Dave

Sharaun’s hip was hurting her, probably agitated from our cornhole game with Randy and Kevin, so she wasn’t up for a hike. I asked both kids, but neither were much interested in a hike either. So I put in my earbuds and threw my sweatshirt, some water and food, and a portable battery into the backpack and struck-out solo.

I really wanted to get down to the bottom of the gorge and next to the river. From the map it looked to be about a thousand feet of elevation drop, which of course means another thousand feet climb to get back up. The lady at the check-in warned me that, although the trail map said the river loop was an hour one-way, I should really account three hours due to the steep and rugged terrain.

I couldn’t quite believe the trail guide was 300% underrated, and I know most places will over-estimate trail time to account for the slowest possible hikers. I decided I’d make for the trailhead and decide what to do once I’d arrived, taking into consideration how long it took me to get there and how daunting the descent looked from the top.

I think I really hit the gas on the walk to the trailhead, I was close in under half an hour. Looking back I know this is because I had already decided I was going down to the river, and was wanting to give myself enough time in case it really did take me three hours.

I ended up unable to locate a trail junction which the map seemed to say should be there, and instead took another loop across a ridge in hopes of hitting a second junction. The extra bit added another half hour to my eventual arrival at the steep trail down into the canyon to the river, but like I said I’d already made up my mind I was going. I walked past the warning signs, “steep uneven switchbacks ahead | experienced hikers only,” and started the descent.

About halfway down, I reconsidered, looking back up the way I’d come and pausing to take stock of my energy. I was planning on exiting via another route, making a big loop of the gorge while walking alongside the river at the bottom, but I wanted to be sure I was OK to come back up if need be. The descent was indeed brutal, the trail still in winter disrepair, littered with down trees and in most spots completely covered in a carpet of leaves. Steps were carefully considered.

I decided I felt fine, and I really wanted to get to the water, so I kept on. It was just me, and the solitude was enjoyable. I don’t usually listen to music while hiking, since I’m usually hiking with others, but I found I really enjoyed it, even if I did worry I couldn’t hear a bear should I stumble upon one.

I reached the bottom, walked alongside the river, and ascended the other side of the loop, which was indeed less steep than the switchbacks in but still taxing. I was tired by that point and concluded I’d bitten off more than I probably should have for a “quick” solo jaunt, but I wasn’t concerned I’d not make it back. Forty minutes later, winded and worn down, I walked back into the RV.

I don’t really like this entry, too stark. Should take more time and fill out detail, but it’s done now and everyone’s up so the day is beginning.

Peace.

Joe has been camp host here on the Kentucky/Virginia border at Breaks Interstate Park for two years.

Thin and wiry, he’s well suited for the work required of him in the role. Having spent thirty years working underground in the coal mines, they finally told him he was too old for it and he says he didn’t bother arguing. When the state park offered him the role, he said as long as there was some good work he could do he’d take it. Being productive is clearly important to Joe.

A devout follower of Christ, he plays banjo and sings in the family gospel bluegrass band. He’s not boastful about it, but The Jackson Family is actually much better than good, they make lovely heartfelt praise music in a very traditional fashion. He mentions the band almost in passing, as part of his bigger story.

Joe says from the moment his nine brothers and sisters could hold something, his mama and pappy put some kind of instrument in their hands. One brother plays mandolin, one upright bass, another guitar, he himself took to the banjo, and his sister can sing.

The family is so large and close they built their own church not far from here, he still drives 45min to attend Jackson Church. Before his father went on to glory, his folks renewed their vows at the church and he proudly tells of some 150 people who were in attendance.

Joe is an artist at heart, moreso than just musically. He is a legitimate craftsman. His medium is wood, which he hand carves and assembles into multi-toned detailed inlaid creatures. Possum, bear, raccoon, he says he carves what he likes. His wife shows us pictures of the lion and lamb pair he made her after his heart attack some years back and we can see Joe’s gifts are many.

Once, he tells, a woman was coming through the area documenting native Appalachian craftspeople and their folk art. She took pictures of Joe’s work and later called him to ask his permission to place them on permanent display in a Washington DC exhibit. Joe can’t remember exactly where, which is sad because we’d love to compete the circle and go see them when we’re there soon.

He is warm and kind, brimming with a sort of positivity and visible fulfillment that’s catching. Several times he reminds us to let him know if there’s anything at all we need.

Joe, and others like him, are the salt of this Earth. Meeting these people is a big part of why I enjoy spending time traveling.

Peace

Today Keaton fell into a swirling tailspin of emotion and tears that I could hardly keep up with, let alone understand.

I kept wracking my brain trying to remember what even started it, but was too distracted by her red puffy face any apparent complete overload of sadness. I’m no help, I’m dumbstruck, what the heck even happened here, how’d we get from zero to one hundred? How can she be suddenly so upset, at everything and nothing all at once.

Later, after she’d calmed down a bit, she asked me, “Dad am I ruining this trip for you?” See, the thing is, she’s such an amazing kid. Thoughtful and kind and aware of others’ feelings. She’s also freshly thirteen and overloaded with a flood of new hormones.

“No, of course not,” I answered. “I’m sorry you’re having a rough day, but I’m glad I get to spend it with you.”

Later I made bread pudding and she sang and danced before bed, giving Sharaun and I each a hug and kiss, smiling.

Sheesh. OK.

We out here in southern Kentucky, western Virginia.

We out here in coal country, church country, meth country. There’s one store in town and it’s a Dollar General, Family Dollar, or Dollar Tree. Nothing is really only a dollar, either, so even that’s sort of depressing.

When we checked in Randy was using Krazy Glue to piece back together the taillight on his pickup. He’d backed into the rig in accident and wanted it to look OK enough that his wife might not notice when she got back, long enough at least for him to replace it. He had almost all the pieces, a lawn & leaf bag full of empties and a pile of butts in the grill as proof of effort. “Pick whatever’s empty and what you like and pay whenever,” he said super friendly.

Later sitting outside on this complete fluke of a warm spring day, 78° and not a cloud in the sky. The single washing machine worked but turns out the dryer didn’t, rugs were hung out in the sun to dry. Sitting in camp chairs listening to Stevie Wonder, reading and chatting. Gorgeous afternoon.

Kevin rolls up in a red golf cart on dubs. Yes, really. Fancy watch with a face the size of a small clock, thick herringbone silver bracelet with a red Type 2 med-alert charm in the middle, and a simple silver cross hanging from a chain on his neck. Black shirt tucked into khakis, brown dress shoes.

“Y’all play cornhole?” We look at each other, back to Kevin. “We’re trying to get up a game but ain’t got nobody to play.”

Later, during cornhole at Randy’s site, bought a quart of homemade moonshine from his fridge. White lightning, corn mash. Sampled amply before buying, may account for judgement. It’s in a mason jar under the dinette, guess I’ll use it for mixing when I’m feeling special sporty.

Kevin smokes menthols and only drinks on the weekends. He’s a social worker in Virginia and most of his cases are meth related. He’s had kids barbecued when their meth lab houses went kaboom. He’s been doing this long enough that he’s now taking kids from kids he once took from their folks. Kevin is a sweetheart who tries to take what positivity he can from his job, but he’s seen some shit.

Cornhole goes two rounds before the kids need something to eat. Randy and Kevin are genuinely nice human beings and we’re better for meeting them. They’re both gone when we roll out in the morning so we tape a “thank you for the hospitality” note to Randy’s door on the way out.

Rolling again.

Warmer temperatures in Kentucky mean the welcome return of the shorts, t-shirt, and flip-flops regalia.

We go north, then south, then north again, moving generally eastward with each latitudinal jog. Soon we’ll be in coal country West Virginia. The landscape is already changing (again).

I’m reading Lonesome Dove. Have been reading it for longer than necessary but I stalled a couple times before the halfway point. I remember talking to my dad about literary genres, and he said that if you only ever read one western it should be Lonesome Dove (those little Louis L’Amour tomes were more his jam, because it’s what his dad read, I suppose). I’ve had it on the Kindle for years, and we were somewhere without connectivity so I landed on it while picking through what I had on-hand and un-read.

And, as much as I’ve grown attached to the colorful characters, I’m also fascinated by the description of the cattle drive from Texas to Montana. Particularly the geographic details, crossing rivers and plains and where the towns are and how things like weather and random chance effect the journey. Its honestly my favorite part of the book, the “man vs. nature” parts.

It reminds me of us at the moment, thinking about where we’re going in terms of getting to and getting past cites or mountain ranges or major rivers. Without having driven across this country several times now, I don’t think I’d have near as much appreciation for how absolutely critical rivers are to where people settled and cities grew large.

This country is incredible. Truly amazing when seen from the road or experienced by walking through it. In Call and Gus’s time, it was a lot more dangerous to travel through, but now we simply drive all the comforts of home wherever we want – at the press of a gas pedal.

Peace.

I am so happy I’m writing again.

I remember the times of old where I’d suddenly think, “Oh, I should write about this!” Decided, I’d then turn words around in my head, thinking about what I wanted to capture. I’d relive the moments a bit in the process, and if I was really taking my time I’d try to choose the perfect words to capture feelings and thoughts.

I’m having those thoughts again now, and I can’t help but think about what I wrote a few months ago regarding my mindfulness, or, more rightly, lack thereof. In that writing I asked rhetorically, “Dang; have I ever really appreciated anything? Do I just not stop and think often enough?”

Has writing been my ticket to mindfulness all along? At work my notes are my secret weapon, the action of taking them tickling some part of my brain into paying attention and storing. Maybe the reason I’ve been drawn to journaling for so many years is that it helps me pay attention to life, helps me savor living.

Further, maybe giving up writing for pleasure for the past several years is partly responsible for me feeling like I’m living too fast. Perhaps I’m just not allowing myself to process things in the way that best helps me appreciate them – writing them down.

Peace.

I miss my wife and kids.

I always do when I travel, but I’m finding it more pointed being separated from the state of closeness in which we’ve been living. I didn’t feel this separation as keenly as I’d expected on the flight out, instead I found I fell rather easily back into the predictability of travel. But waking up in a hotel room, alone, has always been the apex homesickness moment for me and that is unchanged.

Conferences seem to be the same across industries, though. Professionals networking, shaking hands and exchanging business cards, suits turned fratboy getting fearfully tossed at the mixers, pressing on the border of professional. All that and it’s New Orleans so Bourbon Street steals 50% of the audience from the morning keynotes.

On a plane again tomorrow and back to the RV.

Goodness.