founding

We are camped not ten miles from where the Virginia Company established the Jamestown colony, settling themselves in land already settled for hundreds of years by native peoples.

In the mornings I wake up and look out our front window onto the Gordon Creek. This morning, I was up early enough to catch the sun just above the plane of the water (didn’t actually see it break that plane, not quite that early). There are shallow reedy patches at spots, and they broke up the deep orange reflected sunlight, like little islands in lava.

And birds, so many birds. Singing. They know it’s Spring, I guess. The roads here are lined with fields in their Spring greenest, too, and fruit trees covered in flower. It’s warm, but the bugs aren’t out yet and the humidity is low. Yesterday evening I sat outside and read.

I like to imagine the colonists, and the Powhatan, maybe navigating the creek outside of our window, fishing or looking for game or exploring, killing each other. Four hundred years ago dragging reed-woven nets from a dugout canoe. Four hundred years ago for God and country.

Four hundred years is nothing. We’re talking ten to fifteen generations. So long ago, but really nothing. I can almost see them out there, hear them.

Peace.

coming on

The past couple mornings, the time of day where I’m consistently alone and have time and room to think, I’ve ended up unhappy with the amount of time and frequency I find myself thinking about “coming back.”

It’s like I’m being pulled in by the gravity I warned myself about… thoughts of returning to normal, ideas and plans and preparation. While these bothersome thoughts haven’t yet blotted out my enjoyment of the trip at hand, I’m worried at their increase.

I can see the turn in my writing, also. Using “me” and “I” much too often, giving everything a self-absorbed tone that turns me off as a reader. Telling the outer story as opposed to the inner one, or worse trying, stretching, to tell the outer because I should. Because I’m growing distracted.

For now, the worrisome thinking is fleeting, easily washed under by the everyday that is our world now. Walking up switchbacks to a waterfall or catching an Uber into town. Snuggling with the kids, making up stories or rehashing inside jokes we’ve been building on now for seven months. Baking cookies or bread. Kicking the kids outside to make love. Listening to the wind in the trees at night in the absolute coal black darkness.

Thing is, I’ve grown greedy. I want this world, these moments, everyday. Not just as things or moments we have to seek out intentionally because normal life lacks them, but as our everyday normal. Not relegated to weekend trips to take a break or family movie night to share a couch.

It’s not about the RV, the job, the location, the bank balance… it’s about being steeped in each other so deeply. I don’t know if my greed for that even has an end. I’ve not found it yet, and this construct is temporary. Makes sense, then, that my thoughts sour as I contemplate it coming to a close.

Until later then. Love.

chance

We needed a stopover spot on the way to Shenandoah National Park.

Coming from the Virginia/Kentucky border north and east, the entrance to the park we were aiming for would make for more than five hours of driving and, while that’s far from impossible, we don’t like to do much more than three.

Usually, when we’re moving, we need to stop at least for supplies. Sometimes we’ll need gas, or propane, or both. Sometimes, we need to hit a dump station before leaving, too. If all of those things need to happen on the same day, three hours driving, plus time to eat lunch, can mean as much as six hours between points A and B.

I considered doing a quick Walmart overnight. The benefit being we can kill two birds with one stone by doing a shopping run after getting settled into a spot in the back of the lot. But with no schedule, why not see what might be around halfway and a spend a couple nights?

At about the two and a half hour mark I found three Virgina state parks in close proximity to each other. Checking reviews, I ended up pointing the navigation at Camp Creek State Park, not far off Interstate 77. The place ended up being a gem.

Nice grounds, nice weather, laundry, playground, waterfalls and hiking trails and bike trails and great friendly staff. We stayed two nights and spent our warm sunny down day splashing around in the creek and riding bikes. I wore shorts and a t-shirt and flip-flops for the first time in too long.

Sharaun and I both agreed it was an amazing piece of luck to find the place. She even said it was her favorite stay in a long while.

Good times.

hiking

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.

tradition

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

tough

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.

where the dollar store is the only store

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.