Loose Laces

Drove as deep into the mountains as I could, then walked a few more steps—with the assistance of my cane—until I was too tired to continue. I was able to get a few photos there, and from three more sites on the way back.

The location is on Clark's Creek, which is a fire access road that runs up a valley between two mountain spurs. The powers allow camping along the stream. Haven't camped here since July 2001, and after the flash flood later that year washed out several bridges and some of the roadway, the area was closed for repairs 'til last year.

We first camped here in the mid-seventies, and did so several times each year for several summers. We took our four wheel drive trucks to the tops of the mountains and enjoyed the balds and vistas. Three of us even managed to get stuck atop Rich Mountain on a cold night in November 1978.

Then the nasties took over. They were probably the most uncivilized pack of clap-trap jerks I've ever had the pleasure of not knowing.

In the mid-eighties, the forestry people placed some toilet facilities and other amenities for campers. It didn't take but a few months until they all were completely trashed.

They took their four-wheelers to the top of the ridges and tore hell out of the balds. It didn't take long for the Forest Service to block the roads to the summits.

By the mid-nineties, things were getting back to normal, and people were returning to camp, wade the streams, and hike to the waterfalls, although access to the hill tops was then and is still denied by large boulders placed in strategic locations. Now, on holiday weekends such as this, one has to squat on a camp site by Thursday evening, because by Friday evening, all are taken.

My little jaunt did me some good, although temporarily. As soon as I turned into the driveway of the hateful house in which I am forced to live—at least temporarily—the depression returned worse than ever.

I managed to scrape the hide off a couple of potatoes and slice and fry them for my only meal yesterday. Today, I'm having a can of cold October beans and a slice of stale bread. Can't stand long enough to do much more than operate a can opener.

Tomorrow is another Sunday, and I hate Sundays.