What did she do?! And why are you being so mean?!!!

I am back in Asheville at Wilson's, camping along the French Broad River, according to our paddled host, the third oldest river on Earth. The Asheville Outdoor Center (AOC) offers a wonderful 7 mile trip from upriver just beyond the Blue Ridge Parkway back to their headquarters adjacent to Wilson's. Weather has thwarted my paddling ambitions the past two trips here and I booked this weekend specifically to paddle before they close for the season November 1. Caroline could not camp with me but she drove over for an afternoon trip and brought picture perfect weather with her.

Much of the trip passes through the Biltmore Estate. This is the view of Biltmore House from the river (Photos today courtesy of Caroline, I was too sorry to carry a camera. Did I say "bushed"?!) There is a road running through the estate along the river and we saw many bicyclists, horses with riders and pedestrians on the road.

We paddled past the elegant new hotel beside the Biltmore winery. There was also a pasture full of horse trailers gathered for a sizeable equestrian event. So the estate was busy and full of tourists, but the river itself was remarkably quiet. We put in with a group of 14 and without much effort, left the group sustantially behind. Except for an occasional sound from shore we felt like we had the river entirely to ourselves.

I am sad to report we saw very little wildlife. And the drought has left the trees turning brown rather than colorful. The amazing thing we did see was this cherry picker parked on the I 40 bridge lowering inspectors under the overpass. I had never seen this equipment used this way and prayed the operator had the truck securely braced.

Caroline has a birthday before I will see her again so we ended the day at this GREAT Mexican place to celebrate. I will definitely be back to visit Papa's again.

And the title to this post? The first time I mentioned on Facebook that my kids and I had just paddled the French Broad, the incorrigible Tom Edwards made that reply. He can tease all he wants to, I plan to do it again...

Damp Yankee

The Central Carolina Paddlers took their annual Fall campout (after hearing about my great experience this Spring) at Fairystone Park near Stuart, VA. Elizabeth, Pat, Shannon and I were joined by my son Ben and his friend, Sydney. Ben and Sydney tented with me in the campground. Pat, Shannon and Elizabeth took a charming waterfront cottage with this fabulous view.

The park was created in 1936. This cabin and several others are original park buildings. I had never seen his vertical log treatment used for cabin walls before. Heavy handwrought door hinges and latches added to the charm. Despite its age, it was comfortably appointed with a fireplace insert and cozy kitchen. Newer cabins are available as well along with round canvas yurts.

It took us all a while to gather Friday night so we put a pot of chili on and sat around a blazing fire until the last arrived. On Saturday, when the morning got warm, we put in on Fairystone Lake and took off exploring.

The weather was perfect, cool and bright with a light breeze. We explored Goblintown Creek and spotted the Civil War iron furnace. We paddled the length of the lake, checking out coves Caroline and I missed the first time. Shortly before nearing the dam we caught sight of the rental cabin. We were ready for lunch when we finally got back to the cabin.

The plan was to put in at the Bowen's Creek boat ramp on Philpott Reservoir and look for the waterfall we'd seen in the Spring. So we loaded up boats and headed up Rt 57 towards Bassett. When we arrived, the boat ramp was closed for the season but the campground host there directed us to the Goose Point ramp back towards the park.

Goose Point was a trek back in the woods. Philpott is a huge lake, fingering like a tree into numerous inlets that were previously mountain coves. When we finally arrived, a light rain was falling. Not to be deterred after the effort getting there, we donned rain jackets and put in.

We paddled over two hours between bouts of light rain and drizzle. The weather was pleasantly warm and we were all appropriately dressed so we were not uncomfortable. And it was evident from the deep drop in the shoreline that southern Virginia really needed the rain. The exposed lake bed revealed vertical rock formations that split into thin layers. Ben and Shannon paddled close enough to pick up some of the flat stones and entertained us by skipping them.

The mountains get dark quickly, especially with cloud cover, so we headed back around four. We loaded up in the dry but rain fell in earnest by the time we were back at the cabin. We set up a small grill under the eaves and grilled burgers, told stories and browned a few marshmallows in the last of the coals with rain dripping around us. At this point, we were all damp and tired and ready for bed.

Our last act on Sunday was hunting for Fairystones. The rain that left us cold and damp for bed the night before was revealing treasures for us to find the next morning. Caroline and I found only a few poor examples in the Spring. This visit, everyone went home with pockets full. Elizabeth had studied and worked as a geologist. Sydney is an avid arrowhead hound, so those two had particular fun, but none of us were disappointed.

Afterwards, we gathered at the campground for lunch and then headed home. The rain held off until we were on the road though I drove home in it most of the way. The blinding stuff had the good grace to wait until I was in the house--giving me the perfect excuse for a nap before unloading.

Upgrade is a four letter word

I taught computer classes in my last position, including developing a class for the then new Windows 10 operating system. I don't mean this to become a rant about technology but it probably is. Microsoft gave Windows 10 away not as penance for the Windows 8 disaster, but because they realized they could make more money selling profiles of user behavior to advertisers than they could selling operating systems. Windows 10 is loaded with spyware. It forces updates on users, including a recent one that crashed my video card at work and it has other obnoxious habits that offend my rebel nature. I really dislike the idea of my belongings tracking me to make money for someone else. And I refuse to have my life defined by the word "consumer". My response has been to learn to use Linux and to replace my aging home computer with one preloaded with the open source Linux Mint operating system. I use the Opera browser with a built in ad blocker and the Duck Duck Go search engine which does not track my activity. I am certainly not totally off the grid but I am grateful to be able to exercise some choice.

So you would think I might be wary of upgrading my rv frig (or "refer" as the service manager calls it in his emails. Somehow that word is a little to close to the word "reefer" for comfort and I am sticking with "frig"...). Anyway, I would love to take an extended trip next year and fell in love with the idea of having a frig that would run on DC power while I am on the road. The original--and now 15 year old-- frig runs on 110v AC or propane but does not have the DC option, possibly allowing food to warm on long days of driving. Or it just might fail from age.

So I called a major rv repair shop near Greensboro and asked for an estimate. The Scamp is a peculiar beast and I presumed this shop would have the experience to to do the job right. And maybe they do, but this job has become a painful comedy of errors.

The "comedy" started when they called Dometic with the model number of my old frig and asked for the best 3-way replacement. When the new (and expensive) unit arrived, I drove LibraryAnn to their shop and left her there for the three days required for installation and testing. A week and a half later, I was able to pick her up--with the door installed backwards, the trailer full of sawdust and the cost a third more than the original estimate. The replacement frig was two inches taller than the previous frig and major alterations (which I did approve over the phone) were required. I waited while they reversed the door, paid the bill, went home an cleaned the camper, and the frig did not work. Oh, and the front door panel fell off.

The next trip involved leaving her to have heavier wiring to the frig installed and some damaged trim repaired. Picked her up to camp. Trim not fully repaired. Frig does not work. Door still falls off. Took her back again--AFTER emailing the general manager. The camper has now been fully cleaned, more trim repaired. Door still not fixed as they finally did the testing they should have done to begin with and the cooling unit is defective and they will do a permanent fix on the door when they install the replacement part. The four letter word today is "Grrr".

To be continued.

Mary Oliver

I spent the last weekend in September back in Cheraw with Ruthie, my son Ben, and Ben's friend, Sydney. Earlier in the week, another friend had sent me a poem by Mary Oliver, At the River Clarion. It begins:

I don't know who God is exactly.
But I'll tell you this.
I was sitting by the river named Clarion, on a water splashed stone
and all afternoon I listened to the voices of the river talking.
Whenever the water struck a stone it had something to say,
and the water itself, and even the mosses trailing under the water.
And slowly, very slowly, it became clear to me what they were saying.
Said the river, I am part of holiness.
And I too, said the stone. And I too, whispered the moss beneath the water.

That weekend the four of us were sitting on the lake named Juniper in a cathedral of cypress trees experiencing part of holiness.

This is my third trip to Cheraw, I made the camp reservation to share this place with one or both of my children. Ben was the only one free to come. But Ruthie is like a sister. Sydney is like a daughter. Maybe it was the sacredness

of being in the dual presence of beauty and love. Maybe the beauty alone was enough. All weekend the lake was windy, to the point of being work to navigate home. But once we entered the cypress, the air stilled and the light softened. We paddled in the reverent silence of a Quaker meeting, watchful, expectant, listening.

We did see pitcher plants, we saw the osprey nest, we saw that crazy sign posted in the lake's middle, and we toured the beautifully preserved buildings in town. But it was the presence of what we could not see that marked this trip and will bring us back to the water again.

No man steps in the same river twice

The ancient Persian philosopher, Heraclitus, said that no man steps in the same river twice. Traveling back to Morrow Mountain with my soil scientist friend, Caroline, made it a whole new park. We had a lovely time camping and paddling from the park across Lake Tillery and up the Uwharrie River as I have done often before. We saw the new fishing platform constructed in the National Forest section of river, visited the waterfall/dam Sydney showed us on our last trip, hiked the loop trail at the mountain's top. Caroline's soils interest took us on a new trail through the

quarry that the CCC used to build the beautiful rock buildings for the park. And we explored the nature museum full of the area's natural history.

In addition to the great natural beauty and fine companionship I always find here, there were a couple of events that made this trip special. The first was meeting a fisherman using hand paddles in this wonderful handmade boat designed by his uncle just for river fishing and scooting into areas otherwise inaccessible. He had a wet well under the seat, a place for his poles and a cooler for lunch. And lots of happy

family memories, a few of which he shared.

Paddling back we saw a heron perched on a boat house, clearly feeling at home.

But the highlight of the trip was Caroline's conversation with the ranger about the two kinds of rock left from the earliest volcanic activity. The Uwharries are left from the splitting of

continents. They were originally 20,000' high. Now they top out at less than 1000, they are really that ancient. Standing in the quarry with shale leaning at every angle, you could imagine the rock buckling at cooling after enormous geological force. But a different, equally fractious rock tops the mountain. Caroline kept commenting on the shards that covered the mountain and littered the mountain top path. She wondered if it had been trucked in to prevent erosion, there was so much of it. The ranger told us the early Native Americans came from all over the east coast for this rock to make arrowheads and spears. The litter we saw was the remnants chipped away from tool-making over thousands of years of human activity. Did I say "humbling"?

Ben and Sydney joined us Sunday for lunch before paddling Falls Lake nearby. We opted for home and rest before the work week with a promise to explore Falls Lake our next trip.

An Almost Eclipse

Ruthie has a Minnie Winnie and our friends Duane and Carol have a Class B. Back in April, Ruthie said, "I just made my reservation at Smokmont for the weekend of September 18. I am meeting Carol and Duane there to see the eclipse. You should come too!" At first I was reluctant as Smokemont has no hookups. It is in the heart of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park and never having boondocked, I wasn't sure I and my equipment were ready. But these are three of my favorite people, so a reservation I made. For the weekend. Sigh. I did't realize until too late that the  eclipse was scheduled for a Monday and I would be at work.

I missed seeing the eclipse there but would not have missed the trip for the world. The state is building a new bypass around Asheboro with a connector to the zoo. Ordinarily I am dismayed when the DOT removes trees for road widening but as I pulled out of town on US64 I was stunned by the beauty of the vistas opened by the road work. Greg and I had always talked of living in the mountains and as I took in the new views, I realized that I did live in the mountsins. The Uwharries, because of their extraordinary age are not tall, but they are rolling and wooded and very beautuful.

As the scenery brought Greg to mind, I was filled with happy memories of trips with him and the children to the Smokies, up this road past places fond and familiar. I have not enjoyed that kind of peace and contentment in a very long time. And it remained with me the entire trip.

Ruthie is great company and Smokemont is full of lovely places to walk. She is

also interested in mushrooms. The Smokies are famous for their biodiversity, particularly mushrooms. Her interest and knowledge made the hikes even more fun. Later, we drove to Cherokee and saw a young elk grazing on the shoulder of a busy road totally unperturbed by traffic. And we stopped at the park Visitor's Center for some holiday shopping. We ran into Duane there, a pretty amazing coincidence considering all the folks gathered for the eclipse. Carol was not well and hadn't come but we traded hugs and good wishes and proceeded outside to the historic farmstead lovingly preserved for park visitors.

The visitor's center with its restored farmstead was Greg's favorite part of the park. There was a particular corn crib that always caught his eye. Our place at home was covered with old

log buildings he lovingly relocated and restored there. When I sold it, the realtor inventoried 15 structures, none newer than 1925, the house as old as 1816. I urged him to take photos of the corn crib and years later he was able to reconstruct a copy of the graceful little crib made with old logs from a nondescript crib he'd gotten north of Pittsboro.

I headed home on Sunday and while I didn't see the eclipse from the Smokies, I did have a great time observing it at the library where I work. An older African American man asked if he could borrow my eclipse glasses as we stood among a gaggle of home-schoolers in the library parking lot. The atmosphere was festive and we chatted away between glimpses of the changing sun. At one point, a passing acquaintance asked if he had a cigarette. The man was thoughtful and said he hadn't smoked in years, couldn't remember the last time he had smoked. Then he said he did remember his last cigarette. He said he smoked the last one the day Reagan was elected. He looked at me with great solemnity and said, "I didn't think I'd survive Reagan AND cigarettes...". I am not allowed political opinions at work but I have laughed every time I have remembered this.

So I can honestly say I did not have the eclipse weekend I expected. I think this one was better.

Birthday Babes!

So kayak buddy, Pat, and I have birthdays in June. Pat had not explored Asheville. Always looking for an excuse to go back to Wilson's RV Park on the French Broad, I made us a reservation for late June, on her birthday and a few days before mine. After days of torrential rains, the French Broad looked a little high for happy boating so with more rain in the forecast, we decided to do the town.

Pat had never visited the magnificent Grove Park Inn with its twin walk in fireplaces inside the huge lobby, or the terrace restaurants overlooking the valley and surrounding mountains. Despite the fact that it was summer, one fireplace was roaring with flame. My last trip here was in the winter, and the terrace restaurants had heaters under the awnings. It's a pretty grand place that can defy the elements. Those who built the place defied gravity raising stones to this height and capping windows and doors with lintels of hewn stone almost as big as the windows they defined.

F. Scott Fitzgerald and wife Zelda haunted this place, often drunk for days on end. I recently read Lee Smith's book, Guests On Earth, about Zelda and her unfortunate death behind locked doors in the Asheville insane asylum, remembered today as part of Asheville's Halloween Ghost Walk. The books is not as grim as it sounds and gives a wonderful insight into Asheville in its early heyday. The Grove Park Inn heyday continues with wonderful gift shops, a high rise wing of modern rooms (if you are standing at the bottom--the rooms go down the mountain with the Blue Ridge restaurant on top) at one end, and a modern conference center and another open terrace restaurant, the Edison, on the other.

The back of the Grove Park Inn with the Terrace Restaurant and Edison Restaurant

We had a wonderful lunch at the Edison, totally unabashed in our camp clothes. The kids and I came to the Grove Park Inn for Thanksgiving dinner one year when Jessie was a student at UNCA and Ben was enrolling at Haywood Tech that January. The plan was to find them an apartment to share for a year and also spare me the job of cooking for the holiday. As a bonus, there is a wonderful Gingerbread House competition held here each year. The Inn was decked out for the holidays, full of fabulous gingerbread houses but also full of holiday guests decked out in their finery as well--men in silk suits and lots of  jewel-bedecked trophy brides and little children dressed like dolls. A fashion editor could have gotten an entire magazine issue out of what we saw. The kids, with their country upbringing and Quaker values, were a little put off. I think we were all glad for the experience but neither of them was anxious to return. I was relieved to discover that casual was OK in the summer. And that the menu at the Edison was way more affordable than the menu at the Terrace Restaurant. Being in the new conference center wing, the fireplaces (and there were several) had gas logs behind glass. Wonderful ambiance AND not miserable in the summer's heat. The food was pretty awesome as well.

The next stop was the wonderful Asheville Botanical Garden and a lovely walk through the woods among native wildflowers, and after that, shopping at the Grove Arcade, downtown.

The Grove Arcade (image courtesy of Flickr) was build by the same man who built the Grove Park Inn and is full of local crafts, fine jewelry and home furnishings. Pat fell in love with Mission Oak and had plenty to see.

Despite the elegance of the Grove architecture and wonderful cuisine, we ended our celebration at my truly favorite place in all of Asheville--the little shopping center near the apartment we found for Ben and Jessie that Thanksgiving. The Urban Burrito has absolutely the best burritos I have ever had and beneath it and to the right, The Hop offers vegan ice cream for a woman with dairy intolerance. Did I say, "Happy Birthday"? You bet.

Grayson Highlands

I cannot recall a more stunning view than this overlook at Grayson Highlands State Park near Mouth of Wilson, VA. My friend Cathy, from last year's Dan River trip, suggested we stay here and ride the Virginia Creeper Trail and explore the extraordinary terrain enclosed by the park. As with earlier trips, we are reliving spring in hillsides of mountain laurel now punctuated with flame azalea and some early rhododendron.

I had not heard of the native flame azaleas when I moved to North Carolina back in the late 70s. Being from Indiana, I wasn't familiar with azaleas period. When my friend, Caroline, was a soil conservation agent in the early 80s, she was selected by the Soil Conservation Service to be part of a team sent to the mountains to explore tree damage due to acid rain. She and others hiked deep into mountain woods with core samplers and brought back soil laid down many years back to track changes in pH. She was stuck up there over several weekends and invited me to join her for one of them and gave me a wonderful driving and hiking tour of the mountains around her childhood home. That is when I first encountered these native beauties and I have been enchanted by them ever since.

In addition to the wonderful flora in the park, Grayson Highlands is also home to several herds of wild ponies. There is a lovely dog trot log cabin that houses a camp store at the entrance to the park campground. Cathy popped in with a trail map to ask the ranger about the best places to hike. I was standing the in the cabin breezeway listening as the ranger said things like, "Take this trail to see the laurel, this trail to see the view", etc. Then she said, "And this trail overlooks the meadows with the wild ponies". At that point, I interrupted as the wild ponies were certainly NOT in the meadow, they were trotting through the parking lot towards the campground.

For the next couple of days we enjoyed peeking out of our camper at them and also enjoyed them

peeking in the camper at us. To the right, you can see this little fella's daddy, the infamous stallion (about the size of a Great Dane) Fabio, famous for his long white mane and tail, and apparently also famous for leading his crowd through the meadow fences.

Along with hiking, we had also come to ride the Virginia Creeper Trail. The kids, Mary Fletcher, and I had ridden it last year but it had been several years since Cathy had been. I'm not sure how she did it, but she ordered up a beautiful day for us, jacket weather cool and dry. Damascus, VA, our point of origin this year, is about 27 miles from the park but the roads are so winding, it took a full hour to arrive, and a good 30-40 minutes to go back up the mountain by van to begin the ride down. The Virginia Creeper Trail is named for the Virginia Creeper train that wandered these hills bringing people and supplies to remote mountain towns. It is a rails to trails project starting at a park at White Top Station and continuing downhill 17 miles back into Damascus, and for the truly hearty, another 17 miles beyond that.

So there are several outfitters in nearby towns. Last year, we were carried in from Abingdon. At White Top, van after van unloads riders and bikes so you think the trail would be as crowded as the parking lot the whole trip down. Not so. To me, the most amazing aspect of this ride is that despite the crowds at the start, everyone travels at their own speed and you may spend considerable time alone riding through deep, rich woods.  There are rest stops, a gift shop, bathrooms, and a great local restaurant about 2/3 down the trail. That day, a local church was having a hot dog sale. We enjoyed our lunch in the restaurant but when we biked past the church group we almost wished we'd waited.

But besides the well-placed conveniences, the woods, creeks, waterfalls and rocks are the real reason to come here.

The Creeper Trail also includes a short strip of the Appalachian Trail and we saw many folks with their backpacks headed to and from the outfitter in Damascus where we'd gotten our bikes. I had read Cheryl Strayed's book, Wild, and recalled reading about her dehydrated meals and how she craved candy and sweets when she got to a trail shop. When we ended our bike trip, we took some time to explore the outfitter and found a wall of candies, lots of lightweight camp clothing, gadgets and gizmos of every description, and two walls of dehydrated foods. Soups I was expecting. Dehydrated ice cream sandwiches I was not. Nor was I expecting a great sale on end-of-season athletic shoes and a great pair of turquoise trainers that fit me!

The rest of the weekend was spent walking in the park. It includes a preserved local homestead outfitted to accommodate weddings and family reunions, stunning rock formations, the aforementioned overlook, horse stables (bring your own horse) and miles of bridle trails. And miles and MILES of dry stacked rock fences. To think of the labor and the love. My late husband labored and loved to rescue a cabin like this and dry stack rocks for the foundation. It was good to feel him near.

15 million years ago...

Fifteen million years ago, a little north and east of the town of Aurora, NC, a piece of ancient ocean was blocked off from the sea and evaporated, leaving for humans to discover the world's largest phosphate mine. Digging through the accumulated silt and sand, the mine owners have discovered layers of fossil rich dirt filled with ancient sharks teeth, petrified crocodile skin, sea urchin spines, whalebone and many other delights including coprolite or petrified fish poop.

This picture, from the Aurora Fossil Museum website, shows one of the mounds of mine tailings provided by the phosphate mine for museum visitors to explore. There is another pile where school teachers and almost intrepid librarians can collect buckets of this stuff to share with their students. Usually, I'm providing early literacy programs to preschoolers, but during the summer, I'm often presenting to school age kids and a real live fossil hunt makes for a great presentation. The best part of the museum for me is that it is just a few miles up the road from my friends with the private campground on Blount's Creek.

Well, I needed some fossil dirt, and my Scamp-owning friend from Virginia, Mary, had not been to this part of our state. So I invited Mary to meet me the weekend after Memorial Day at Kathy Daniels' Middle Creek Landing where Jessie and I had stayed last year. Kathy runs Middle Creek Landing as a women-only private retreat and she was having a gathering of RVing women that weekend. It was to be an opportunity for women who might be traveling alone, like Mary and I, to meet others that might want to caravan or meet up as Mary and I sometimes do.

Mary and her 16' Scamp

It was only a very short trip. I drove down early Saturday and met the gang for lunch, hit the museum with Mary that afternoon and headed back the next day.

We met for lunch on the Middle Creek Landing grounds but gathered again for dinner in Little Washington at Blackwater Jack's Tiki Bar and Grill. Kathy grew up in the area and seemed to know everyone. Her mother joined us for an evening out. It was a great group of women, including the woman who owns the bar itself and generously provided us with discount coupons and great samples. A couple of women were retired military, several of us were widows, all of us love to RV and explore the back roads.

Membership in the private club is nominal and hookups are modestly priced. And the bathhouse is great. No reservations are required once you are a member but membership is strictly limited to women. If you have an interest, I can put you in touch with Kathy.

I have bought my membership and I look forward to coming back (and probably will have to at least every summer as long as I do summer programs). And I really look forward to crossing paths again with this great crew.

Jesus and the Fairy Tears

According to legend, when an elf told the fairies of Jesus' death, their tears became the cross shaped rocks of Fairy Stone, Virginia.

I had passed Fairy Stone State Park many times on my way up to Blacksburg where I was finishing my masters' research at Virginia Tech over a series of long weekends. And I had heard of the fairy stones, but I had never seen one.

Image from bestcystals.com

Geologists call this mineral staurolite. It occurs several places on earth, notably Patrick County, Virginia, North Georgia and Switzerland along with several other sites. These crystals formed as Earth's surface cooled and they took several shapes including the Roman cross, the St. Andrews cross and the Maltese cross. In Virginia they might also be embedded with tiny, pinpoint garnets. Regardless, they are fun to hunt though the best way to get a nice one is to buy one in the park gift shop after it has been tumbled and oiled.

Even without the draw of fairy stones, the state park is worth the trip. My friend Caroline, from the first Cheraw trip, joined me for a long weekend of paddling and rock hunting over Memorial Day weekend.

Caroline was a soil conservation agent and her first action upon our arrival was to sign us up for a rock hunting hike with the park ranger. She also had the foresight to identify the best places to launch our kayaks. In addition to having fairy stones, the park has a wonderful family beach on Fairy Stone Lake, a lovely impoundment restricted to paddlers and fishermen. And the incredibly beautiful Philpott Lake, a major flood control reservoir on the Smith River, is just around the corner.

So we started out on the smaller and closer Fairystone Lake which is fed by Goblintown Creek. According to local history, there never has been a Goblin Town per se but the area and the creek both bear this name. We paddled the creek as far up as we were able, through lovely deep woods and past the barred entrance to a former mine. There was a civil war iron furnace near here and I suspect it was a shaft for the iron ore. Fairystone Lake is not large by comparison to Philpott but it was big enough we did not have time or energy to explore it all. Kayaks and paddleboats were available for rent in the park at the swimming beach and we passed several fishing docks on park property around the lake's shore. As many recreation opportunities as were offered we were pleasantly surprised at how much of the lake we had to ourselves.

Philpott Lake, by comparison, is a monster, but a beautiful one. We were advised to put in at Bowen Creek Boat Ramp as it was on a quieter part of the lake. After devastating flooding of the Smith River in the 1930s, Philpott was constructed as a flood control project and completed in the early 1950s. As you can see, it fingers into many side valleys. These inlets offer quiet opportunities for fishermen while the main channel affords open space for skiers and jet boats. Bowen Creek is fed by a couple of creeks with waterfalls visible by boat. We paddled up to one and 30 yards before we even saw it, we were enveloped in a cloud of cool air from the evaporation of the tumbling water. There were a couple of ski boats and several fishermen with large motors but they were all very courteous, dropping speed when nearing us and sparing us their huge wakes. We saw young beavers swimming near shore and many kingfishers fighting overhead for territory and prospective mates. And everywhere, there was mountain laurel. If I remember anything about these trips this spring, it will be the profusion of laurel. It is as if we have gotten to repeat spring each weekend and rediscover the season's beauty.

The last event of the trip was an excursion into Floyd, Virginia, for supper. When I was a student at Virginia Tech, I came up on weekends to finish my research. I stayed outside Floyd in the Alum Ridge community with a girlfriend and fellow student. It was stunningly beautiful country, but the town of Floyd itself was barely hanging on. The primary employment for many was growing pot as the local economy was so depressed and the remote farmsteads offered privacy. In time, developers from Roanoke discovered the cheap land around Floyd and its incredible beauty and have turned it into a resort area for vacation homeowners and tourists. This picture is courtesy of the Floyd Country Store website. The town was pretty quiet the evening we were there but we had a great supper and heard a little local bluegrass along with it. A good end to our trip and an update to my memories.

There was a severe storm watch our last night. My phone woke me with a storm warning at 3a, but it was for Asheboro, not us. Out trip home was pleasantly uneventful. I am hoping the paddle club will agree to come here this fall for our annual campout. For those not wishing to camp, the park offers cabins, or you can rent a yurt...