Antpocalypse Now

“And all the little ants are marching, Red and black antennas waving; They all do it the same, They all do it the same way.”— Dave Matthews Band; Ants Marching

Late one evening, Kristy told me that she was seeing some ants in the RV.  I gave her my “what do I look like, an entomologist?”-look before realizing this was going to be MY problem regardless of how I tried to package it.  I told her it was probably a few feral “scouts” who were lost and I’d investigate further in the morning.

While I slumbered, a massive logistical mobilization was underway.  Tens of thousands of ants—under the orders of their “I can’t live in this flooded burrow any longer” queen—had grabbed all of their personal belongings and relocated into the more comfortable confines of Chateau Walker de Mobile.  [Note: we later found that this was the name they used in reference to or rig, as all ants are of French lineage.]

When I awoke, I was no less surprised than any adolescent who stared in amazement at the complete overnight transformation that occurs in one’s own abode on Christmas Eve.  There were ants.  Thousands of ants.  Everywhere.  There were ants on my night stand.  Ants in the shower.  Ants on the walls.  And to my horror (and Kristy’s quiet approbation) ants in my 6-pack of maple-glazed apple fritters that I had just purchased from La Walmart Patisserie.  NOW this was a crisis!

“I really knew I wanted to be “Adam,” because Adam was the first man.  “Ant” I chose because, if there's a nuclear explosion, the ants will survive.” –Adam Ant; Musician

With the exception of the red imported fire ant (Solenopsis invita)—whose past primogenitors and future progeny I maliciously despise with extreme prejudice—I actually like ants.  During my primary educational years, ants were generally depicted as hard-working, socially-responsible, and level-headed (well...the ecdysial cleavage is somewhat level).  Against many mother’s wishes, “ant farms” were peddled as “natural learning tools” to help young kids develop an appreciation for working all of their lives for the betterment of a monarch or oppressive ruling party.  Bedtime stories were written, exalting the tenacious work ethics of The International Brotherhood of Formicidae members, and their distain for non-unionized grasshoppers.  Even Saturday morning cartoons showcased The Ant as the arthropod we all wish we could grow up to be; displaying seemingly effortless charisma and self-assuredness, a “living-loose lifestyle,” and universally recognizable Dean Martin voice. 

With such an engrained reverence for these creatures with the Ethel Granger waist, you can imagine my shock and disappointment when I discovered that there was a coup d'état in-progress for control of our rig.  I grabbed my trusty reading glasses and a flashlight, and set-out in search of the origin of this infestation.  Upon closer inspection of the rig, I was seriously impressed with the degree of logistical planning that had gone into this invasion. 

“We rebuilt the colony; better than before, because now we have a very large indoor swimming pool.” –“Z” from Disney’s Antz

There were bi-directional columns of ants infiltrating our trailer via the electrical supply cables, water hoses, tires, and stabilizer jacks.  Every point that had ground contact was being used to relocate the colony into our home.  They were now fully entrenched in our walls, our cabinets, and our under-belly storage area.   There were active trails along every piece of molding, every pipe, and every seam.  We had been invaded.

I realized that they could not be reasoned with, and—even with their French genetics—would not retreat without cause.  I had to create a plan to forcibly remove them from our abode.  I headed to the nearest big-box do-it-yourself store—keeping my mind occupied with the “BunnyTuna” sign that I passed en route—and headed to the pesticide aisle.  Although I had allowed my Department of Defense Pesticide Applicator’s License to lapse, I still wanted to “bring the big guns.”  I was somewhat disappointed by selection of lesser killing agents, so I grabbed a few cans that had the most ominous graphics of an insect dying in agony.  

Once back at the campsite, I received a mission update (from The General) regarding the current status of opposing forces.  It went something like this:

“Are you going to do anything about these ants?  They’re everywhere.”  

I know most of you won’t fully understand all the operational jargon of that mission brief, but trust me when I tell you that things were looking really bad.

I quickly employed a plan of attack, borrowing a strategy from the Desert Storm mastermind, General “Stormin’” Norman Schwarzkopf. Since I planned on using chemical weapons, I decided not to seek out a coalition of my neighboring campers; nor did I seek any resolutions or community sanctions from the campground host to try and pressure the ants to return to their own borders. This was my battle, and I was going it alone.  Seeing how the ants had a propensity for plundering and pillaging pastries, I deemed my mission OPERATION DESSERT STORM. 

“The horror…the horror…” – Colonel Walter E. Kurtz from Apocalypse Now

The first wave of attack focused on their infrastructure.  I took out the electrical cables, water hoses, wheels, and landing gear pathways; cutting off the forward army from the safe confines of their subterranean lair.  With a pesticide residual blocking their escape route, I moved to the second phase of the attack; eliminating the unwanted intruders from inside the RV.  I had to be much more cautious during this phase, as there was food and other items that were in close proximity to the ant population.  This phase would require surgical precision of the close aerosol support.

The nozzle quickly dispensed death to the unsuspecting workers who were busy relocating their potentate's wicker furniture and duvet covers.  It was a quick and decisive battle that had not been seen since the A-10s showed their tusks on The Road to Basra. The mortality was great.  From my towering vantage point six feet above the RV floor, the numerous casualties strewn across the linoleum battlefield looked like it was covered in…well…ants.  The next few days were dedicated to performing “mop-up” operations, finding the few feral stragglers that had escaped, and “dispatching” them.  I returned to a hero’s welcome, and enjoyed an ant-free atmosphere in the shower, the cabinets, and my coffee (I think…it could just be a few coffee grounds).

I love the smell of 0.025% Lambda-cyhalothrin in the morning.  It smells like…victory.

Hartwell (GA)

With an innate feeling that we needed to keep moving southward, we left Clemson and headed to the southern most end of the lake—Watsadler (Army CoE) campground in Hartwell, Georgia.  Although this trip would take us into another state, we enjoyed another short travel day and took comfort in the expectation of setting-up before dusk.  

“Life’s under no obligation to give us what we expect.”  - Margaret Mitchell

This leg of the trip was…odd.  Not really “bad” (let’s face it; we’re on a year-long vacation…how can anything be “bad?”), but just odd.  It’s like one of those days where you unknowingly wore socks that didn’t match; locked yourself out of your car until you found your keys in your jacket; had to take a detour on the way home due to a delivery truck accident slathering bologna all over the highway; and then had a door-to-door aquarium salesman interrupt your dinner.  Nothing catastrophically “bad”…just odd.

En route to Watsadler, we decided to take the scenic route.  It was along this route that we encountered a bearded hillbilly–complete with cover-alls–standing on the side of the road selling moonshine.  The Palmetto Moonshine Company is an interesting roadside attraction. The ground floor of this establishment has two entrances.  One for high-octane moonshine sales & tastings, and the other for no-octane moonshine shirts, hats, bandanas, glasses, and other souvenirs to show your support for your local squeeze-maker. The area around the building is fenced-in, with an array of animals calmly lounging about…that is until you introduce two golden retrievers into their space.  Apparently there is an on-going feud ‘tween the EquusFields & the McCanines that nobody mentioned to either of our hounds.  Once Buddy (aka. Bubba) approached the fence-line, the resident Jackass [oh, where I could go with that statement] started running & bucking as if it had just come off an 8-hour shift of being Chief of Moonshine Quality Control.  I did mention a “ground floor,” and yes…there was an upstairs.  It was labeled, “Zoo on the Roof.”  Perched above the moonshine tasting room, the moonshine bling store, and the customer entrances were numerous farm animals…namely goats.  I’m not knocking the wisdom in housing farm animals above human habitations, but my years in the military taught me about gravitational laws and the tendencies for things to “roll downhill.”  In a very un-Southern display of manners, I kept my hat on when I entered the establishment, and purchased a small souvenir…located on the bottom shelf. 

“None shall pass.” – The Black Knight (Monty Python and the Holy Grail)

When we reached Watsadler, we checked-in and headed to our site.  We reserved a “pull through” as this requires zero backing skillz (hence the term, “pull through”).  There was a patron who was blocking the access road to our site, performing complex algebraic calculations in an effort to figure out how he was going to back his rig in.  Being completely oblivious to our 50+’ of truck & trailer, we decided to give him some time to pontificate the dilemma and simply walk to our reserved site for a pre-setup assessment.  When we walked our reserved site, we found it was not nearly as level as the on-line photo or description, so we found a nearby suitable site and returned to the check-in office to change our camp site.  After changing our campsite, we circled the campground (again), only to find the aforementioned gentleman attempting to jackknife his trailer into his campsite while seeing how close he could get to a very large oak tree without hit it.  After 15 minutes of traversing the same 15",  he managed to get most of his property onto the pad unscathed. 

As we pulled into our new “more level” site, Kristy hopped out and decided to sweep away the leaves where we would park the rig.  This keeps your tires from resting in a continual damp environment, and also gives you an idea as to how much contact the landing gear has on the ground.  After sweeping for awhile, we soon realized this site was level at “leaf height,” but still unlevel on the gravel pad.  We began the our routine of adding leveling planks to make the downward slope flush. With the rig finally set-up, we were ready to enjoy the lakeside site.  The sky was clear, the winds calm, and the distant sounds of Canadian Geese flying through the darkness echoed across the lake.  I grabbed my Canon SLR and tripod, and tried to capture the lake under cover of darkness.

And the blind shall lead the sighted, as we lose the candle glow; No one knows tomorrow, in the blinding light show.” –Triumph, The Blinding Light Show

Being mid-week campers as winter approaches, we have found ourselves with a higher degree of solitude than you would experience during the summer months at these same sites.  I guess we became spoiled, as we got a neighbor at the adjacent campsite.  We’ve had neighbor before, and all of them have been very nice and pleasant to be near.  This one also seemed nice, but for some reason he felt as though he needed to have his campsite seen from space.  The entire campsite was lit as well as any prison camp, with high-wattage lights hung above, and yards of rope-lighting marking the camp perimeter.  We actually discussed how we could rig a make-shift privacy screen so that we could sit by our campfire without wearing sunglasses.

We normally make grocery runs into the local towns, which gives us the opportunity to mix with the locals.  Hartwell, is another small town; with a town square and (during this time of year) Christmas decorations adorning the streetlights.  During our first trip into town, we passed something that confuses us to this day.  We didn’t film our initial reaction, but it looked something like THIS. 

It wasn’t a store.  It wasn’t open land.  It was a large, empty, fenced-in area…adorned with "No Parking" signs and barbed wire (to keep something out), and displayed a large sign with the word “Bunnytuna.”  Perhaps this was a project that involved the genetic splicing of rodents & fish in a hellish tale that mixes the storylines of Deliverance & The Island of Doctor Moreau.  Maybe this was failed attempt to create a culinary “meat-meld” that rivals the now-famous Turducken (although I would’ve named it “Hook-N-Hop”).  I think the answer is far more simpler.  Someone with excess money just wanted to see how many people he could mess with.  Touché’

Next up: Rain.  Lots of Rain.  Over an inch of rain fell in one night.  The rainfall was significant, and there were reports of tornatic activity within 50-miles of us.  The thought of using our RV as a shelter-in-place option was scary.  The rain continued for over a day, but we were spared from any damaging winds.  It was during these long hours of sitting inside during heavy rains that Kristy and I reminisced about our past tent camping days, and how a rain event of that magnitude would make life absolutely miserable.  As the water continued to wash through our campsite, we felt fortunate to have such comfortable accommodations—a dry place to live & sleep, and lots of grub to keep us full.  We weren’t the only one’s who understood the misery that heavy rains can cause, nor were we the only one’s that desired to be in dryer, more comfortable digs. 

Ants.

(to be continued)

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Main Street, Mills & Mortal Monuments

One of the greatest joys we garner while traveling is the opportunity to spend quality time in Small-Town America.  In the rigors of maintaining our road schedule, we’re drawn into locations in search of common services—such as laundry, groceries, and fuel—but often uncover fascinating gems.   While staying at Twin Lakes, we stumbled upon one of these classic examples of Americana—Pendleton, South Carolina.

Founded in the late 1700’s, this area was a key agricultural trade point for both Native Americans & the British.  The “well off” of Charleston would later procure large farms and vacation homes in what was called the “Upstate.”  Wealth & prosperity continued until the Civil War, when the destruction of battle and economic reshaping during reconstruction changed the economic landscape.

The town square is still active, with city workers busy attaching Christmas decorations to streetlamps and a 20’ tree in front of the historic Farmers Hall on the Square.  The original pharmacy—with a doctors office co-located on the 2^nd floor—has given way to an art gallery, but there is an full-service cobbler shop (not peach…that’s three doors down at the bakery) that will repair or construct a pair of shoes for you.

A few streets over is a thoroughfare lined with several churches of various denominations; most of which have their own congregational cemetery on-site.  Walking the grounds of these structures reveal the history and longevity of this smallish community.  There are markers dating back into the early 1800’s, with a few non-descript service-member markers standing out amongst the ornate.  The repetitive surnames, coupled with the elaborate family markers, allow one to piece together the social history of this community.  All of this just by walking down one street.

A few streets further stands (barely) the Pendleton Oil Mill.  This complex of rusted metal and crumbling brick was once a thriving industry for the region.  Located track-side, the mill would extract plant-based oils from the various regional crops—most notably, cotton seed oil.  Today the mill is a scart of buildings that lay in ruin;  the casualty of modern technology and trade. 

What really makes this town great is the people.  Everything written above was told to me by total strangers who I approached and asked if they could tell me a little bit about their town.  Standing a block away from the mill, I was given a historical account of the political and agricultural impact of Pendleton—to a degree that will likely never see print (except here).  While enjoying a fresh-baked apple-cheese danish, I listened as two city workers (hanging Christmas lights from lamp posts) described the evolution of the town square and adjacent historical sites.   Most of this town looks like it’s in throwback mode; and the locals I had the pleasure of interacting with don’t seem to think that’s such a bad thing.

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Clemson (SC)

Less than 100-miles due south of Candler sits the collegiate town of Clemson, South Carolina.  Although the university that sports the name of the town dates to 1889, the town of Clemson has only carried that name since 1943.  Prior to 1943 this piece of land was named Calhoun, after the South Carolina Senator and 7^th Vice President of the United States—John C. Calhoun.

We relished the short trip south, as it made our travel day an easier trek, and set-up tasks were completed well before sunset.  We checked into our new digs at the Twin Lakes (Army CoE) campground, and set-up next to a local Boy Scout troop that had assembled their encampment amongst the aged hardwoods adjacent to the 56,000-acre Hartwell Lake.  The campground is situated on the northern end of Hartwell Lake, and our campsite was on a peninsula that gave us a distant view of the clock tower of Clemson University’s Tillman Hall, as well as the nose-bleed section of Frank Howard Field (aka “Death Valley”).  When we arrived on Saturday, the campground was relatively full; but by Sunday evening we were living in relative solitude. 

"There is no such thing as bad weather; only inappropriate attire." -  Author Unknown

 The weather was better.  Not warm, but better.  Daytime temps only reached into the mid-40’s, but the nighttime temps only dipped into the very manageable “upper-20’s” range.  We still worked to implement our anti-freezing countermeasures, but activities—both inside and outside the rig—were not hampered by the weather.

We had been on the road for 3-weeks, and our S&S (subsistence & sundries) were beginning to diminish.  It was time to roast a turkey.

“Gobble gobble goo, and gobble gobble gickel.  I wish turkey only cost a nickel.”  -Adam Sandler; The Thanksgiving Song

Relevant back-story information for readers:  We have two large dogs that have large dog appetites.  Today’s going price for canned dog food is just under a buck for all-purpose Alpo.  This, coupled with a mixture of dry dog food, would make owning a horse more economically viable.  After trying to find a healthy, yet cost-effective solution to feeding these voracious hounds, we found a happy median—turkey and rice.  We can normally get whole turkeys for under a dollar per pound, and we mix it with rice (which we have readily available in our house 24/7) at a 2:1 ratio.  This ends up being 1) cheaper & healthier than canned dog food; and 2) a quick snack for me when I don’t feel like fixing dinner.

Campground Turkey Roasting 101:  Although this may seem like no big deal, we actually prepared for this activity long before we hit the road.  There are three “main parts” to roasting a turkey while RVing.

The first is thawing.  Being chronically brain-washed in the Public Health arts, there is no bigger nemesis during the holidays than the microbes lurking on improperly thawed meats.  The “M.O.” of these microscopic menaces and their alimentary assaults have been purported for decades; resulting in preventive posturing of vulnerable vittles <whew!>.  Unlike our “stick home,” the RV has a small refrigerator—8 cubic feet to be exact.  The Lilliputian-sized ice-box—coupled with the multiple days required to thaw a frozen turkey—would leave us with enough room to store a pint of half & half (which is the most important food group between 5am-9am).  Our original plan was to thaw a turkey in a cooler, replacing the ice as it melts.  For this bird, we got lucky—the outside temperatures were not expected to rise above 45F, so we had ideal thawing temps outside of our RV!  Only two additional issues to deal with when thawing food in the woods: 1) protect it from animals (see make-shift security detail photo); and 2) making sure it didn’t refreeze overnight.  For the latter, we put it back into the cooler when temps dropped below freezing.  After a few days, the gobbler was ready for the roaster.

The actual roasting of the turkey (the 2^nd main part) was no big deal, as it’s similar to how we’ve roasted turkeys at home for years.  The big difference in the cooking is 1) ensuring you don’t overload your RV circuitry with the electric roaster; and 2) finding a suitable place for the roaster.  The first issue was easily resolved by using the 20-amp campsite service (via extension cord) solely for the purpose of powering the electric roaster.  The latter was a little trickier, as cooking outside in 40F weather prevents the roaster from maintaining proper cooking temps; and cooking inside increases the internal heat, humidity, and turkey smell.  The first two can create a mold issue, and the third does to dogs what a pound of Skittles does to 5-year olds.  We opted to roast inside and run all the exhaust vents.

The last main part is storage.  As mentioned in the first main part, a whole frozen turkey takes up a lot of space.  We start by deboning the bird—removing as much meat as we can.  Then we dice it for easy mixing with rice.  Lastly we pack it into quart-sized storage bags and put it in the freezer.  Even after deboning and losing water-weight (and trust me when I tell you that these companies inject a LOT of water to make extra dough), there is still about 70% of the original bird left to deal with.  After competing our first RV turkey roasting, our freezer was P-A-C-K-E-D to capacity—with room only for two small pints of Ben & Jerry’s (which is the most important food group between 5pm-9pm).

There is a 4^th part (although it isn’t a “main part”)—clean-up.  Namely the roasting pan, the roasting rack, and the copious amounts dog drool on the kitchen floor.

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Candler (NC)

In an effort to position ourselves where we could quickly access mountain campgrounds, we headed  to the foothills of the Great Smokey Mountains; to a small town just west of Asheville named Candler.  This marked the first time we stayed at a privately owned RV park, and we were pleasantly surprised at the very reasonable cost for the full hook-up amenities.  The owner was a very pleasant man who told us during our reservation process to just pick a spot and he’d drop by later to square up.  The park was small—five or six slots tops—but it was located in a quiet area towards the end of the road, and had a bubbling creek 30’ out our back door.  There were hundreds of acres of national forest across the creek that we never got to explore.

Cold, Cold, Cold (from the Little Feat album Sailin' Shoes; 1972)

When we rolled into Candler, the temp was 50F, with north winds at 20-mph.  This would be the best weather we would experience for the next 4-days.  The next day the temperature hovered in the low-40’s, but the wind blowing at 30-mph, with gusts to 40-mph made the high-humidity & overcast day much colder than we were prepared for.  Then it rained.  Then it got colder, with daytime temperatures below freezing, and nighttime temperatures into the teens.  As the temperature and winds continued their relentless assault on our rig, the forecast inside the rig was reported to be 90% miserable with increased anxiety and diminishing morale over the next few days.

We were in all-out heat-seeker mode, both to keep ourselves in a comfortable climate, as well as protecting the utility infrastructure of our rig from freeze damage.  We headed to a local Home Depot and found that they didn’t have a specialized RV department, so we’d need to get inventive on our heat-preservation project.

The duct-tape addition to the external refrigeration panel we performed at Stone Mountain was not going to suffice at these temperatures.  When temperatures get below 20F, the liquid in the refrigerator compressor can start to “jell”, causing damage to the entire unit.  We opted to add a light-bulb in the small compressor compartment to keep the temperatures barely above freezing.

Another cold-weather threat was the freezing of our water lines and holding tanks.  The fresh water supply to the RV is bimodal—utilizing either a pressurized garden-type hose (if “city water” is available); or filling the internal potable water tank which uses an electric (and noisy) pump to keep internal lines pressurized.  The external garden-hose source was not going to work at sub-20F temps, as the hoses will quickly freeze and most likely burst.  We opted to fill our fresh water tank, and fill it with a large enough quantity that 1) it would benefit from the radiant warmth of the RV interior temperature; and 2) it would pose a large enough mass that it would not freeze in as short of a timeframe.  Another tactic to keep the fresh water tank from freezing is to add a bottle of vodka to lower the freezing point.  After careful consideration as to what life around the trailer would look like following the morning coffee, shower, and teeth brushing; we decided to practice this tactic when we had less life-threatening weather events occurring around us.

A huge concern for us was the consequences of prolonged cold weather with regards to the possible freezing, expanding, and bursting of our waste holding tanks.  I won’t use this opuscule to belabor the potentially revolting scenario involving copious cordage of odure oozing about our abode; but rest assured that this was a terrifying proposition that remained in the forefront of our minds.  Unlike the freshwater tanks, you cannot simply “fill” your black-water tanks at will (at least we can’t…although we’ve met those blessed with hyper-regularity), so we opted to pour hot water down the toilet to increase the tank temperature.  Likewise, pre-bedtime showers were scheduled to add large quantities of warmer water to the grey-water reservoir (which didn’t break my heart, as I really missed long, hot showers).  I must admit that when we were planning this excursion, we just didn’t have the clairvoyance to consider how we would heat our waste.  This trip was truly changing the way we think about everyday life.

"A great wind is blowing, and that gives you either imagination or a headache." - Catherine the Great

Even with the measures put into place to heat the holding tanks, the frigid temperatures and high winds were presenting a tremendous challenge in keeping the underbelly temperature—which directly correlates to holding tank and living area temperature—from rapidly dropping.  What we really needed was a wind break around the RV.  An approach used by snow-belt campers is to either create snow berms around the RV—kinda “iglooing” the underbelly of the RV.  Others (likely Texans) stack hay squares around the exterior footprint.  Since we didn’t actually have snow on the ground; and we didn’t want to purchase a literal truckload of hay, we bought a 100’ roll of contractor-grade polypropylene anti-erosion fabric.  After wrapping the base of the RV, we stood frigidly proud of the light, inexpensive eye-sore we had "MacGyvered."

"If it weren't for electricity, we'd all be watching television by candlelight." - George Gobel

 It was during this cold streak that we also discovered the amperage limits of our RV.  Powering space heaters using the RV electrical system resulted in periodic loss of power when the fuse rating was exceeded.  Concerned that this might happen while we were sleeping—creating a really bad morning after scenario—we ran the space heaters off the 20-amp service, routing heavy gauge extension cords into the RV and sealing them off with duct-tape (use # 4,562,132).

We didn’t get a chance to visit the opulent Biltmore Estate, but we did find a few hours to shop at the Asheville Farmer’s Market.  This year-round market houses a treasure of foodstuffs—honey, nuts, jellies, jams, flours, produce—thousands of local small business produced items that show the skill & pride of the agrarian community that utilizes this outlet to sell their goods.

"My wife and I, we like to ride where there's not much traffic." - Evil Knievel

On the ride back to the RV, I asked my trusted navigator if we could make our return trip via the Blue Ridge Parkway.  We have always been fans of this scenic route, known for the breathtaking views and absence of any commercial presence.  Kristy made short work of getting us onto this historic route, and we were cruising the ridgeline towards our camp.  A few miles into the drive, we found ourselves in near whiteout conditions with the dense fog (clouds?) socking us in. 

The outside ambient temperature gauge on my dashboard began to drop, and was soon below freezing (at 3pm).  The last leg of the route home was a twisting, winding goat-path that descended down the mountainside.  The hairpin turns spaced about every 100’, coupled with the narrowing road—especially in the turns—made this portion of the drive a white-knuckle adventure.  I prayed that I would not meet any type of on-coming vehicle, as the dually covered more than half of the road width, and I’m not sure how a passing negotiation would play-out—as there was also a noticeable absence of guard rails.  In the end, my prayers were answered and I never got to add “dangerous mountain road passing” to my repertoire.  The next morning, the entire mountain top was coated with a glistening glaze left behind by the freezing fog we’d endured the day before.

When we were ready to break camp, we still fought the weather.  The dog dishes were frozen, as was the door mats and the 8’x18’ outdoor patio carpet.  There was a heavy frost on all of the RV & truck, which made packing out tricky—as I needed to climb on the roof and sweep any debris that had landed on the roof of the slides before we could retract them.  Breaking camp was profoundly slower than normal, and when we finally pulled-chocks, we had but one wish—warmer weather. 

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Fossors Inc.

Six miles due north of Thurmond Grocery is a fork in the narrow road that signifies the official location of Devotion, North Carolina.  The Road to Devotion—which sounds like a great blues song—begins near Highway 21, where it resembles most other local thoroughfares.  Four miles down this passage the road departs from traditional tar and gravel, and narrows into a washboard gravel road that ascends into the densely treed countryside.  Most “come-here’s” would notice this dramatic change in the byway and retreat by means of the route that brought them to this impermanent destination.  Being textbook “come-here’s”, we executed a “180” at the nearest single-wide and headed back towards Thurmond Grocery.  It was on our return passage that we encountered a site that stoked our curiosity. 

The opportunity to snap (if that’s the sound digital cameras make) a photo of a cemetery bearing my surname was certainly something that I couldn’t pass up; however, as we walked the grounds, the site became volumes more interesting.

First is the term “Graveyard.”  This designation has long been replaced by less chilling terminology, such as “cemetery” and “memorial gardens.” In some instances the term “cemetery” is replaced by even less death-oriented titles; like “Heaven’s Gates,” “Serene Valley,” and other images of a peaceful afterlife.  The usage of the term “Graveyard” was gruesomely hip.

Another interesting characteristic was that some of the “gravestones” were literally that—stones.  Not the highly polished and artistic memorials that we see in traditional cemeteries; but rather varying sizes of (what appears to be) flagstone driven into the earth.  There are about 100 markers arranged in a very orderly fashion, and although there only been two internments in the last 50-years, the entire plot was meticulously maintained.  The Northwest corner proudly displayed an American flag on a stationary flagpole. 

The most interesting (and confusing) aspect for myself was the term “Incorporated” below the graveyard name.  I’ve seen that term thousands of times—mostly on welcome signs as I’ve passed through remote towns that would barely warrant a dot on a map.  I was completely confused as to why  a private  graveyard would apply for legal incorporation.  To satisfy my curiosity, I turned to my most trusted site for legal advise: Wikipedia.

According to the Wikipedia cyber-Barristers, there are seven legal benefits to filing for incorporation.  Those benefits—as well as a little obligatory kibitz—are outlined below:

1. Protection of personal assets (i.e. safeguarding personal assets against claims of creditors and lawsuits).  Not entirely sure that the condition of any personal assets at this point are of any value.  Additionally, I’m inclined to believe that certain Statute of Limitation laws will provide protection for the residing souls.
2. (Ease of) Transferable ownership.  To maintain this graveyard, there will certainly need to be continuity of upkeep; however, I don’t see a clear connection between ownership and maintenance.  With regards to cemetery ownership as a business, I keep hearing Bill’s (Michael Keaton) quote in the 1982 film Night Shift: “Hey, Chuck (Henry Winkler)...this is what you bought? A cemetery? [Ha! Ha! Ha!] Chuck, you know what? This might not be a bad idea...people gotta die, right? Why can't they just die for us? We just sit back and rake it in.  Chuck and Bill's Cemetery!!! [Bill looks around for a moment] Hey Chuck, this one's full!!!"
3. Retirement funds and qualified retirements plans, such as a 401(k), may be established more easily.  Does not seem applicable until someone figures out how to "take it with 'em."
4. Taxation: In the U.S., corporations are taxed at a lower rate than individuals are; and can own shares and receive tax-free corporate dividends.  Even if there were dividends (and I’m unclear of the source of revenue in this case), I’m inclined to quote The Beatles: “Now my advice for those who die; Declare the pennies on your eyes.  Cos I'm the taxman, yeah, I'm the taxman.”  ‘Nuff said.
5. Raising funds through sale of stock.  Just the thought of buying graveyard stock gives a whole new meaning to “Black Friday.”
6. Durability: A corporation is capable of continuing indefinitely. It’s existence is not affected by the death of shareholders, directors, or officers of the corporation.  Not only is the existence not affected by the death of shareholders, directors, or officers of the corporation…it’s dependent upon it!
7. Credit rating: Regardless of an owner's personal credit scores, a corporation can acquire its own credit rating, and build a separate credit history by applying for and using corporate credit.  “Whoever is generous to the poor lends to the Lord, and he will repay him for his deed” (Proverbs 19:17).  Apparently there is a system of loans and credit in the after-life; but no mention of heavenly favoritism of incorporations.

Of course no story about an incorporated graveyard on a lonesome mountain road in rural North Carolina would be complete without a redbone coonhound reference. 

This fine specimen of Appalachian porch pooch greeted us upon our arrival, and (when I bent down to pet her) made sure she stuck her tongue in my eyes, ears, and mouth.  I never did get a formal name, but after her forward behavior I nicknamed her Bathsheba.  She made her rounds as resident curator, and spent her days living the dream…guarding the boneyard.

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Stone Mountain State Park (NC)

 

A short stroll from the original Elk Spur Primitive Baptist Church (constituted December 1873)—and from where the existing Elk Spur Baptist Church (erected 1900)—lies the entrance to Stone Mountain State Park (NC).  This expansive park was established in 1969, and sits adjacent to the community of  Roaring Gap—named for the sound the wind makes as it rolls through the mountains and valleys. 

The centerpiece of this 14,000+ acre park is the granite monadnock that rises more than 60-stories above the surrounding deciduous canopy, providing challenging (read: dangerous) rock-climbing activities.  The parks boasts 16+ miles of hiking trails that connect a pair of waterfalls and a restored mid-19^th century mountain homestead.  The park is meticulously maintained with the assistance of full-time volunteers—such as “Wild Bill” Watkins (The Citadel, Class of ’77) and his canine sidekick “Clementine.” 

The roaring wind drove us to keep our awning safely stowed in the “travel” position, as the swirling down-drafts raced  down the multiple mountain troughs, where they intersected at the campground.  With this wind came the second round of the polar vortex that moved across the region.  More cold-weather preparation was underway, as we added an additional electric heater, and duct-taped the external refrigeration access panel.  

Of all the unusual items that we tote around with us, one that is oddly utilitarian are a couple of pieces of lumber.  These two 2”x10”x6’  pressure-treated timbers were cut to length with tapered ends, and painted with a bright-yellow strip at the midline.  We had toted these for hundreds of miles without needing them, but due to the unlevel (left to right) grade of the RV pad, we found it necessary to stack these planks and elevate one side and level the RV (see prior blog entry regarding the importance of leveling the RV).

Stone Mountains Falls trail is an easy-to-moderate hike that starts at the upper falls, then proceeds to the middle and lower falls.  The upper falls are the tallest at over 200’, and the base pool is accessible by means expansive wooden stairway system that has been erected adjacent to the falls.  

The middle and lower falls follow a more primitive—yet clearly defined—trail that follows the Rhododendron lined Big Sandy Creek and is an easy hike.

The park was popular during the weekend, with locals heading to the hills to get away from the rigors of daily life.  Once parked, the naturalist zealots quickly set-up their “glamping “ accessories; complete with satellite TV, turkey fryers, and flags of allegiance to their most favorite NASCAR drivers.  There was a definitive contrast between the suburbia-flavored campground and the adjacent unspoiled wilderness.

If there are any downsides to this park, it is the access to the outside world.  First, there is zero cell phone service.  This can be a blessing or a curse depending upon your need for cell phone service.  Second, there is zero antenna TV reception.  Again, this can be a blessing or a curse, depending upon your perspective.  Considering the abnormal weather patterns that were partly guiding our plans, it was more of a curse.  Lastly, the entry/exit gates were closed and locked at 7pm.  Previous campgrounds had a “closing time” for their gates, but they were either 1) much later; or 2) they provided an automatic gate with pass-code to enter/exit after-hours.  At this park, we were essentially on lock-down.   Reminded me of a few special times on Okinawa where undesirable actions by a few military personnel resulted in everyone being on an over-restrictive curfew.  Regardless, we had no problem making it back to camp prior to the gate closing; but this came at the expense of us limiting our local excursions…but not that much.

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Boydton (VA) Redux

We found ourselves only 16-miles east of our first stop in a holding pattern, awaiting the first wave of early winter weather to pass through the Blue Ridge.  North Bend Campground is another US Army Corp of Engineer project that sits adjacent to a massive dam that helps maintain this expansive lake.

We caught a lucky break in finding this site, as many of these campgrounds close for the season on November 1^st.  This particular campground keeps roughly 25 sites open throughout the winter season.  We drove our rig through the somewhat tight trail and backed it onto a gravel pad that had a respectable downward grade, and many trees lining the narrow driveway.  I didn’t travel as many miles positioning the RV as I did at Rudd’s Creek, but I was twice as nervous…as the room to maneuver was t-i-g-h-t, and the trees refused to yield. 

After the initial set-up, I thought it would be nice to have a campfire.  Our camp neighbors at Rudd’s had donated their unused firewood to us, and I seized the opportunity to add more ambiance to the evening. Prior to leaving our base camp in Gloucester, my father donated his axe to the expedition.  He had spent time ensuring it was razor honed, and ensured me it would cut through anything that it should fall upon…including my hand.  Within the first hour of set-up, Kristy was using her paramedic skillz of days-gone-by to close-up an axe wound.  After placing a few steri-strips and some bandaging , she sent me on my way to resume my ambiance-building project.

 About a hundred feet behind our campsite was a really nice white-sandy beach that led to areas of the campground that were closed for the season.  This gave us a nice walking path to take the hounds on their scheduled walks…and unscheduled swims.  I’m sure there’s a time where a wet dog while traveling is an absolute joy.  I have yet to find one of those times. 

At the entrance to the campground loop is a small cemetery with a sign stating “Mays Chapel,” which was a Baptist chapel named after a 9-year old girl—May Land—who died in 1894 and was buried at this location.  The cemetery is small, with roughly 20 tombstones scattered throughout.  

One interesting observation is that there are about a dozen grave-sized depressions scattered about, with no markings.  We were unsure if this was the result of the bodies be exhumed and buried at other cemeteries; or if this was the result of settling after the wooden coffins rotted.  At first I wondered why someone would put a cemetery in such a remote lake-side location; but then I realized that this was once a peaceful hilltop, overlooking a forested valley…until the 1950’s when the valley became a lake.

The weather turned cold.  The absolute temperature was only about  30F, but the humidity stayed in the 80-100% range; and the wind blew a steady 20 mph with gusts to 30 mph.  Hard to imagine, but it was too cold to sit next to a campfire.  The knees were hot to the touch, but the back was going numb.  We headed inside to the comforts of the propane-fuelled heater.  The RV heater worked well during the  colder weather, but the wind convection caused us to burn through our tanks at a rapid pace.

You may not consider getting propane tanks filled as being an exercise in your transition from the military to civilian life, but this simple task showed me that I needed work on my day-to-day expectations, as well as finding my non-military rhythm.   

I arrived at a roadside metal building that was adorned with cigarette, beer, and lottery signs covering the pealing paint.  To the side was a large propane tank that appeared to be operational—which was encouraging to me considering the very rural setting.  After passing the fishing tackle, ammo, and disproportionately large jerky display, I asked the oldest staff member how I could go about getting my propane tank filled.   What followed was nothing short of a mini-seminar on human emotions and cultural priorities.  

Her first reaction was one of pain, with her face contorting as though someone had shot a stream of cold air into an exposed tooth nerve.  That was followed by the hissing sounds as she laboriously drew in air across her narrowly pursed mouth—teeth barely showing, but still showing.  Then the oration  phase began, as she painstakingly explained the current situation at this market of rural commerce.

“Uh….uh…<more hissing>…you see, the guy who does that…<more hissing>…well…you see, he’s not here right now…and <more hissing> uh…I don’t know when he’ll be back…you see…’cause he’s…uh…deer season just started you see…and…uh…he’s out hunting.”

I told her I completely understood, told her to wish him luck in “bagging his buck,” bought a Pepsi product (as this store sold NO Coke products) and walked pass the disproportionately large jerky display as I headed out the door.

I arrived back at the camp—propaneless—to find Kristy watching the weather forecast and searching for our next bed-down site.  I found someone the next day who would fill my tanks—probably one of those "tree-hugger" types who refuse to participate in the Bambi-kill-a-thon.  A break in the cold weather was coming soon, and we remained determined to get into higher elevations.   We hitched-up and headed west on US 58, then took a hard left at Danville, Virginia; a hard right a Greensboro, North Carolina; an headed into the North Carolina hills.

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Boydton (VA)

At 11:45 AM on the last Saturday in October, our much anticipated journey was underway.  A little over three hours later, we checked-in at our first stop—Rudd’s Creek Campground in Boydton, Virginia.  This densely tree-laden recreational plot is a partial by-product of the US Army Corp of Engineers creation of the 50,000 acre John H. Kerr Reservoir.  After traveling 170-miles , I added another ten in a metronomic exercise of pulling forward and backing up—trying to get the RV perfectly positioned on the narrow campsite pad. 

Once leveled, with water and electric hooked-up, the realization took hold that our future dreams had arrived.  We sat there, enjoying the moment.  The towering oaks and maples providing a pastel canopy above us; the crows gossiping loudly from their lofty domain; the earthy smell of the fallen damp leaves composting back towards the roots that once fed them; and the drays of squirrels as they leap from the crunchy fallen leaves and seemingly dismiss the laws of gravity as they move amongst the timbers with effortless precision. 

We were in a trance of sensory overload, reaching that most excellent relaxation point, when…

…SSSCCCHHHWWWWAAACCCKKKK!!!!!

From out of nowhere came this unnatural, crackenly-harsh sound—like someone shot a jaw-breaker with a sling-shot against the roof of our slide  With the abrupt and rude end to our tranquil state, we quickly tried to diagnose the sound.  Hail?  Kids with sling-shots & jaw-breakers?  Then it happened again; but this time the it hit on the rubber roof…and bounced all the way down the RV.  Then another one, with the same pattern.  I thought to myself, “Those damn squirrels are playing craps on my roof!”  It was at that moment that I stepped to the door to see if I could spot what had hit the roof with such force.  I looked around, but saw nothing except a bunch of leaves and acorns littering the campsite.  <DOH!>

"Today's mighty oak is yesterday's nut that held its ground."  - David Icke

Even though many years had passed since we set camp trail-side on the Appalachian Trail, we immediately resumed our foraging habits—collecting fallen limbs for our campfire, and stumbling upon a bounty of black walnuts in a secluded grove.  It was at this location that we were able to witness the birth of one of these prodigious trees, which live to be 130-years. 

A short drive from Rudd’s Creek is the historic town of Boydton, Virginia.  Although this small (524 acres), sparsely populated (427) town would make an excellent living stage for Back To The Future XII, it also boasts some historic interests.  The most popular is The Boyd Tavern, an 18^th Century structure that exudes the classic colonial era architectural lines.

“In the middle of the road, you see the darndest things.” – The Pretenders; Middle of the Road

Another notable site in Boydton is the site of the Boydton Plank Road.  Although the original road has been long gone, a replicated static display sits on the edge of town with an authentic wagon from that period.  The original road was constructed using wooden planks 8-feet long, 1-foot wide, and 4-inches thick.  This road—totaling 73-miles (380,000+ planks)—connected the agrarian tobacco & wheat communities with the urban shipping markets.  In 1853 it was considered a superior roadway—free of potholes and ruts—and it would not be until the 1930’s when a hard-surface road would be built to rival its reliability. 

Although these two historic displays are interesting and impressive, the most impressive fact about Boydton cannot be found in Boydton.   During the course of American military history, millions have served; however, only a miniscule percent earned the distinction of “Buffalo Soldier.”  Similarly, The Congressional Medal of Honor—being an exceedingly rare award—has only been presented 3,468 times.  On June 11, 1850, Sergeant Henry Johnson was born in Boydton.  He holds the distinction of being only 1 of 18 individuals who were both Buffalo Soldier and Congressional Medal of Honor recipient.  Unfortunately there are no schools, libraries, or statues in Boydton honoring Sergeant Johnson.  On cool October night just outside Boydton, sitting next to a campfire reminiscent of those that use to burn on the open plains, a toast was raised in honor of an exceptional American soldier.

After taking-in the local culture and nature, we cast our eyes further westward—the Blue Ridge Mountains.  As we made our plans to increase our elevation, forecasts of freezing temperatures and snow began to cloud the equation.  To further complicate things, Rudd’s Creek would be closing for the season in a few days.  We decided to take a chance and delay our trek towards the hills—just to see how the weather would play out.  By chance an older camper told us about another Corp of Engineer campground that—although advertized it closes 1 November—keep one small loop open year-round.  This campground was only 16-miles away.  It was a good “Plan B” should the weather not cooperate.  November 1 arrived.  The weather report from the mountains was not favorable.  “Plan B” was promoted to “Plan A”, and we chartered a short course for North Fork Campground.

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