A Gale

5/4/13       

        Throughout the night wind howled in the trees.

         I half-dozed for short periods, repositioned myself often to get comfortable and warm my feet. But my feet stayed cold and I remained uncomfortable. I listened to sounds of large drops of water hit the rain-fly, concerned that a downpour would soak the tent any moment.

         Daylight, along with Primate's insistence, "Gotta pee," forced me out of the tent and to the restroom.

         "It's foggy," I told Dr. Bobo.

         "The water drops are condensation getting blown from the trees," Dr. Bobo said, getting dressed, when I returned from the restroom.

         I shivered. "I wonder how cold it is."

         "I'll check the temperature," he said.

         I sat in the car to escape the chilly wind, found for my small thermometer, looked to be 47 degrees.

         "My thermometer said 40 degrees in the car, but dropped to 37 degrees outside," Dr. Bobo said.

         Tired of the damp and cold, "Let's break camp and get out of here," I told Dr. Bobo.

         With the car's heater pumping full blast, we warmed our hands at the vents before we stuffed tent and sleeping pads into the back seat and trunk. Fog.

         Next stop - NC high point.

         We descended below the clouds. Trees in the valleys wore coats of young lime-green leaves. Pink and white blossoms punctuated the greenery, announced the promise of a new crop of fruit.

         Fog slowed our drive along the Blue Ridge Parkway towards the NC high point. Drizzle joined the fog for the last four miles.

         We parked in the summit lot, donned wet gear, prepared for cold wind, the gusts sounded ominous. A gift shop and restrooms nearby enticed a visit.

         "I'm going to the restroom," I said, "two birds with one stone." I meant relieve Primate and be out of the wind while doing it.

          "Hey, look, ice," Dr. Bobo said.

          Ice covered trees and safety rails. "This ain't like winter, this is winter," I said.

          "Too cold," Primate said.

          Heads down, against strong wind, we hurried up the concrete sidewalk to Mount Winchell's summit at 6,684 feet. We didn't linger at the natural highest spot or on the man-made observation platform. Ice covered trees and railings. I kept a close watch to avoid slipping. Conditions warned visitors away, loitering not advisable.

Dr. Bobo on Mt. Winchell.

Connard on Mt. Winchell.

"Let's get off of here," I said.
     
Back at the parking lot, we perused the gift shop.

"Do you know what the temperature is?" Dr. Bobo asked an attendant at the cash register.

"There's a thermometer outside." She pointed.

I wiped a wet coating of ice off a protective glass cover. "Looks like 29.75 degrees." But that partly sheltered thermometer couldn't factor the wind chill.

          Once more along fog-shrouded roads we drove, farther south towards SC.

          From the parking lot we hiked the final hundred yards up the gravel road to SC's uninspiring high point, Mt. Sassafras, at 3,560 feet. Quick photos and we left.

          We continued onward after our second high point of the day, in rain and cold wind, but didn't want to endure more of the same over night.

          "We can do Georgia's high point and drive to the vicinity of Atlanta, get a cheap motel room, and stay dry and warm tonight," I suggested. "It won't matter so much when we get there."

          "Yeah, sounds good to me," Dr. Bobo said.

          Rain hounded us off and on as we made our way towards GA's highpoint. High gusting wind with rain greeted us at the empty Brasstown Bald parking lot and made our hike up the 6/10 mile paved walkway to the summit, at 4,784 feet elevation, a minor challenge.

          We reserved a cheap room on the west side of Atlanta by phone, checked in late, mused at the men's clubs in the surrounding neighborhood, one with a neon sign that proclaimed NUDE in big letters.

          "We could consider this our moral low point," Dr. Bobo said.

         Rain continued. The weather forecast on TV indicated better weather to our west tomorrow, the newscasters told stories of downed trees and flooding around Atlanta.

         Even through rain and fog on Appalachian mountain roads behind slow traffic, we drove 489 miles, crossed the Eastern Continental Divide twice.

         Low points - nine; high points - six.

Chile With Spicy Peppers

5/3/13       

        Up about our usual time we pulled out of the national forest, headed for McDonalds for a cup of coffee, planned on an arrival at our next stop, campground and trailhead to Virginia's high point by noon.

VA Mountains

         Partly cloudy skies meant good news. But when would the storm we outran collide with us again? The Virginia high point?

          When we arrived at the Grayson State Park the car clock showed 12:00. We checked out the campground, decided to hike first, then set camp. A cloudy sky with strong gusting wind kept us cool as we hiked along the AT (Appalachian Trail) for most of our distance to Virginia's high point.

          We picked our way along uneven trail, around large rocks and patches of mud, up man-made steps.

          "This is what I hate about the AT," Dr. Bobo said.

          "Keep your head down," I said.

          "You can't look at the scenery or you'll trip."

          We stripped to t-shirts to avoid major perspiration from the exertion uphill, kept a fast pace, but the gusting wind chilled exposed skin.

          The summit of Mt. Rogers at 5,729 feet, covered with trees, provided some windbreak. We hunted for a survey marker, found two. Both markers concurred which of the two rock outcrops as the official highpoint, but we stood on both outcrops for photos. A quick lunch and we headed down.

Primate Sits on Mt. Rogers.

          After a shower, not warm enough to take the chill away, we set up camp, ate our gruel of canned-chili and instant rice, with spicy peppers. Our chosen campsite proved ideal, easy access to restroom, leave gravel pad for the tent, a fire pit.

          Tall, thin trees, with only small buds to suggest the coming bloom of spring at that mountain elevation, swayed in the strong wind while we sat in the car for more warmth. The sky remained overcast.

          I pictured childhood scenes in Kentucky. "This is like winter," I said to Dr. Bobo.

          The campground attendant approached us in a glorified golf cart. "Is it okay to build a fire in the pit in these high winds?" I asked the guy.

         "Yeah, no problem. You can burn anything on the ground," he said.

         "Lets build a fire," I suggested to Dr. Bobo.

         "Fire," Primate said. "Warm."

          We sat on our lawn chairs, warmed by a fire, drank toasts to another high point until well after dark. Distant lights from farmhouses reminded me of fireflies, but without an off switch. Bedtime arrived when most of our collected branches turned to embers.

          We traveled 207 miles.

          Low points - nine; high points - three.

Carolina

5/2/13       

        Rain began, light at first, steady, grew heavier.

        Primate needed to relieve himself, twice, noticed water in the tent, portions of the sleeping bag, sheet and pillow wet. Dr. Bobo and I, awake after Primate's second bathroom trip, confirmed several leaks, found a pool of standing water about one inch deep in the middle of the tent.

         "Maybe, we should go to the car and take our sleeping bags," Dr. Bobo said.

          "Yeah, I can't sleep now anyway," I said. "We could go to the Game Room."

           Dr. Bobo checked the time. "It's 6:30. That's a pretty good night."

           We abandoned ship, watched the weather report on TV in the Game Room, waited for free breakfast of coffee and waffles.

           Finished with breakfast, we collected the tent and sleeping pads in the rain, drove north at 9AM. Overcast sky with spells of rain marked our journey to Jekyll Island where we walked one hundred yards over sand to the storm-agitated low-tide for Georgia's low point. The rain increased on our way back to the car, re-wetted us, as a reminder.

Dr. Bobo at GA Low Point

        The rain eased as we drove farther north. We laid out our wet gear and ate lunch at a South Caroline rest stop. Everything dried, our outlook improved when we neared Myrtle Beach for another low point at Cherry Grove Beach.

        A short jaunt north into North Carolina we stopped at Sunset Beach on Bird Island for another low point, our farthest point east. Weather remained fair, sky overcast but no rain, and we started our long westward zigzag drive.

Connard at NC Low Point.

        Midway across North Carolina we ran out of daylight without finding a campground, but found an approved area with                           eight primitive campsites in the Uwharrie National Forest, which turned out ideal, quiet and dry.

          Another 606 miles traveled today with three low points achieved.

          Low points - nine; high points - two.

Florida High Point?

5/1/13       

        Showers, a quick break of camp and east we went. A short drive, about one hour, seemed too short, we arrived at Dog River and Alabama's low point on the coast.

Primate at AL Low Point

         Several photos recorded our presence. Within five minutes we moved on, east towards the Florida high point.

          Clouds blocked the sun, dropped rain along our way to Lakewood Park at 345 feet, Florida high point. After pictures and a break for deli-meat sandwiches, we felt ready for the Atlantic Ocean on the Georgia coast.

Primate Likes FL High Point.

         
        We crossed the Choctwhatchee River, the Apalachicola, then the Ochlocknee. Drove on, stopped for gas, passed the Suwannee River and still had many miles through Florida to travel.

         Set our sights on southern Georgia for the night and found a KOA campground. Overcast sky and gusts of wind threatened rain. Canned chili, instant rice and spicy peppers complimented our cold beer for dinner in pre-twilight. We headed to the campground's Game Room to watch TV.

          

        We logged 538 miles.

         Low points - six; high points - two.

Tabasco

4/30/13      

        "Pee," Primate insisted.
                 
         I put Primate off as long as possible before I escorted him to the toilet. Birdcalls punctuated our trek there and back. I figured the time about 5:30 A.M. Not ready to remain upright for the day, I lay on my sleeping bag, listened to the chorus of birdcalls, cursed the humidity.
 
          Dr. Bobo roused. "What time is it?"

           "Oh, about 6:45," I guessed, turned out about 15 minutes off.

            Up, packed, with a store-bought cup of coffee and half a raisin bagel topped with peanut butter, we're ready to head east.

             Texas, with more Texas to go before Louisiana. Exits passed. We tracked their numbers.

             "That's how far it is across Texas," Dr. Bobo said. He referred to the exit markers on the highway, "They second as mile markers."

             "Yeah, and we didn't cross Texas in a straight line," I said.

              We left Texas after Exit 880.

              Evidence of swamp country appeared. Long-legged birds waded in patches of water scattered across flat terrain. Thick stands of trees, full with leaves, some covered with creeping vines, others draped with moss, created walls of green along the roadway. Thick haze and an overcast sky obliterated dimension above, hid the sun.

              We made good time to our next stop, Avery Island, where Tabasco sauce is born. Gasoline prices dropped to $3.14 per gallon.

              Onward to New Orleans we passed under cells of heavy rain. Cauliflower clouds darkened. We watched for signs of a tornado, saw none.

              Hurricane or Bloody Mary in hand, we dodged heavy rain in the French Quarter for two hours before we headed to Lake Pontchartrain. Stood in two different spots to alleviate any challenge to our cause, one spot at an underpass and one on a golf course, both minus eight feet, for LA's low point.

              Stopped to camp outside Biloxi, MS and ate dinner at the Half Shell Oyster House. The seafood gumbo tasted delicious.

              Another 443 miles logged.

              Low points - five; high points - one.

The Gulf

4/29/13      

        We woke to a dry morning, cool temperature with light breeze, unlike the windier, wetter conditions of yesterday evening's thunderstorm.
         
         "Sore throat," Primate said, screwed his face, swallowed hard.
         
          "You'll feel better soon. We'll get you some Fisherman's Friend lozenges later, if you need something for the rawness," I said.
         
           Shallow puddles lingered from yesterday evening's deluge, scattered in the low spots on street pavement and RV park gravel.  While the horizon changed from vibrant orange-red to pale blue, we broke down the tent, re-stowed gear in the car, made quick visits to the toilet. Cats from nearby mobile homes and permanent RVs perused their breakfast prospects around our open car, smelled the possibilities, assessed their risks and chances for a food score.
         
           We left the cats to find food elsewhere, drove to the Sonic car-side service restaurant in Fort Stockton, for our own breakfast, then headed east across the expanse of Texas towards the Gulf Coast, a long day's drive.

            We collided with a thunderstorm head-on in Houston, kept going east, then south to High Island where we walked out beyond the higher reach of in-coming waves for our photos of the TX low point.

Dr. Bobo Runs From TX Low Point.

            About two hours daylight remained, so we stopped at East Lucas RV Park in Beaumont, TX for the night.

            The idea of local food and approaching evening made Primate's stomach gurgle. "Hungry," he said.

            My mouth watered. Crabs? Crawfish? Steak? Floyd's served a great seafood platter and Bloody Mary.

            We covered 664 miles, stopped just short of the Louisiana border.
         
            Low points - three; high points - one.

Mexican Border

4/26/13        

        We packed Dr. Bobo's car. The allure of adventure called. Highpoints and lowpoints beckoned us from beyond the horizon.

     
        "Ready," Primate said.
     
        "Let's wait for Janet's return from exercise class so I can say goodbye to her, then we'll go" I said.
     
        “Nine-o-five," Dr. Bobo said, "marked that as our start time. The odometer read... 126,438 miles."
     
        I wondered what we would encounter. Thunderstorms? Tornadoes? Floods? High temperatures? Almost for sure across the deserts. Snow? Yes, on Colorado's highpoint, Mount Elbert. We didn't how deep or how well packed on the trail. Mosquitoes? Indigenous everywhere, except the deserts.
     
         "Settle in," I told Primate.
     
         Our destination for the day, Arizona's low point where the Colorado River crosses into Mexico, lay some eight hours away with steady driving. We had lots of time to think, talk, plan, sightsee. Time, the currency of long-distance travel, the opportunity for companionship and solitude amongst company with a friend, allows my mind to wander. Except where traffic slowed us, the drone of the car's engine created the ever-present white noise of our travel. The car, our time-travel machine, wedged us through three-dimensional space, propelled us towards the future.
     
         By 4:00PM, after winding our way past Yuma, we stared at the fifteen-foot border fence between San Luis, AR. and Mexico that prevented us from reaching Arizona's true low point in the middle of the dry Colorado River bed about one hundred yards beyond the fence.
     
         "This'll have to do," Dr. Bobo said.

     
        A border patrol vehicle headed our way. "Get my picture before the border patrol agent gets here," Dr. Bobo said. Were we in for an interrogation? We posed for quick photos, waited for the patrol vehicle to arrive before we departed. No need to incite a chase. A two-minute conversation satisfied the border agent.
     
        First low point done, we focused on our camp stop for the night.
     
        Gila Bend came and went. How much farther before sunset? Tucson, too far.
     
        Midway across the Sonora Desert National Monument on I-10 we pulled off to investigate an RV park, but Dr. Bobo connected to a friend in Tucson by phone.
      

         I encouraged Dr. Bobo, "It doesn't matter, if we get to Tucson late. We don't have to cook dinner or set up camp."
     
        Onward to Tucson, arrived 8 P.M. Spent the night with Patty. Odometer indicated we traveled 687 miles.
   
        Low points - one; high point - zero.
       

4/27/13        

        Patty treated us to a Mexican breakfast. (Thanks for your hospitality, Patty.)
         
        8:50AM: Our next stop -- Guadalupe Mountains National Park in Texas. Within an hour the sun warmed us inside the car. We moved across the desert, interlopers in the comfort of reclining seats and air-conditioning, rubber-necked at the scrub brush, the mountains, the man-made structures out of place in the barren, hot landscape. Why would anyone live here? Build here?
       
         East on our minds. East.
       
         We entered Mountain Standard Time Zone.
       
          Crossed the Rio Grande. No longer grand, it didn't look like a river. Looked more like a flood-control drainage ditch, a few shallow patches of water scattered over the flat bed.
       
          El Paso came and went. Across wasteland, Wheeler Peak appeared, a ghost in the distance.
       
          We made a brief stop in Cornuda to buy crushed ice for the cooler, arrived in the Pine Springs campground to get the last open spot at 5 P.M. Central Standard Time. Rested, waited for the air to cool before setting up sleeping bags and cooking our dinner of canned chili and instant rice.
       
          We logged 418 miles today.


4/28/13    

         "Hey, it's light," I repeated to wake Dr. Bobo. The horizon glowed orange.
         
         We rolled up sleeping pads, carried our gear to the car.
       
         "Poop, soon," Primate said, stood by the car with crossed legs.
       
          "Hold on a little longer, we'll stop on our way to the trailhead," I said.
         
           Daypacks stuffed with several liters of water each, raincoats, some snack tid-pits, half a lunch sandwich each that Dr. Bobo prepared last night and breakfast we headed to the trailhead. Primate used the toilet nearby and exited the facility when the sun cleared the horizon by two disks.
         
           "Ready for breakfast?" I divided the raisin bagel with peanut butter between us, breakfast-on-the-trail.
       
           I checked my thermometer. "Sixty three degrees."
         
           As the sun climbed we grew hot and wet from perspiration. Felt more like eighty degrees. Low scrub vegetation provided no shade.
       
           We stopped for a short rests when the mountain offered shade and worked our way up the trail in a steady fashion to Guadalupe Peak, 8,749 feet, in two hours, forty-five minutes, a 4.2 mile climb of 2,950 feet.

Connard Atop Guadalupe Peak.

       
           A few photos to mark our presence and we headed down.
         
           "Hey, look, clouds." Dr. Bobo pointed.
       
           Clouds accumulated above the canyon where we headed, grew thicker, darker.
         
           "Could rain," I said.
       
           A few drops fell, easier at first, then more, big and cold. Things began to get wet. We put on our raincoats, glad we'd carried them.
         
           The wind blew harder. The rain fell heavier. We heard thunder. Soft hail pelted us.
       
           We left the campground in rain, but soon found sunshine again on our way to Carlsbad Caverns, thirty miles away.
         
           Dr. Bobo told the ranger, who checked our entrance ticket for the caverns, "We climbed Guadalupe Peak this morning."
          

         "Didn't get enough?" the ranger said.

Dr. Bobo Ready For Carlsbad Caverns.

         
          When we finished the self-guided tour of the caverns, my knees and ankles ached.
         
           But we had miles to go before we slept, so pushed on for New Mexico low point where the Pecos River terminates to become the Red Bluff Reservoir.
           
           With Dr. Bobo's GPS device we walked down a gravel road, discovered the lake's water level low, found a spot along the muddy bank and touched the water for New Mexico's low point.

Primate Touches NM Low Point.

        Where to camp?
           
        "Pecos looks like the best place. We'll run out of light, if we go any farther," Dr. Bobo said.
            

        I had no success finding a suitable campground on the Internet before we arrived in town, so Dr. Bobo stopped next to a replica building of "The Jersey Lilly," Judge Roy Bean's courthouse. While Dr. Bobo searched for a campground, I looked at Robert Allison's two tombstones. A GENTLEMAN GUNFIGTHER on one and HE NEVER KILLED A MAN THAT DID NOT NEED KILLING on the other.
         

Gunslinger "Clay"

            Unable to find a suitable place in Pecos, we headed on to Fort Stockton.
           
            Low points - two; high points - one.