GETTING OFF

GETTING OFFI

You’d think that by the time you get to be fifty-four, you would know some of the basic elements of your own makeup. It’s not as though I hadn't had some experience with wanting to be alone. I remember when I was in college and would go to the library to do some research, find an isolated corner table, spread out my books and paper, then look around for someone to talk to. Those evenings I usually wound up in the student union sharing coffee with some other lonely soul. However, there are things I just can’t seem to learn.

I’ve been going to Fall Creek Falls for over thirty years now, ever since it first opened, in fact. If you go there, you will see a stone walkway to the nature center, and down by the steps is inlaid “YCC 1974” It was put there by my students during a summer stint with the Youth Conservation Corps. They used to dive off the top of Cane Creek Falls. 80 feet. Not me.

So, the first year my school went on a year-round calendar, and I got a two week fall break, I thought it would be a fine thing to ride up there and camp alone for four or five days. You know, just get away, be alone with my thoughts, read a little, add some new insights to my journal, and generally forget about everything for a while.

I spent the weekend getting ready, but without any idea of what to expect. I hadn’t pitched a tent since Boy Scouts. I bought a little stove, cooking kit, some dried soups, coffee and trail mix, It took an hour to find the brand new tent I had bought years before and the garage sale sleeping bag, filled my saddlebags and bungied everything else to the rack on back. I left at five o’clock Sunday morning.

The ride out there is as good as it gets. I took 840 to Murfreesboro and enjoyed the hills and farms rolling off to each side, then east on 70 S. Back when I was at MTSU, it was only two lanes with belly-tickling dips and sharp curves, now it is an almost deserted four lane all the way to McMinnville, but, like all of Middle Tennessee, the scenery is good for the eye. I had lunch at a mom-and-pop greasy spoon where they feed you like a farmer fresh from the fields, three giant pieces of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and collard greens all for about five dollars. I couldn’t finish. From there, I turned right on 30 to 111 then left on 284 to the park.

The friendly little girl behind the counter told me to find a site then come back and check in. There are a few hundred places to choose from, so it took awhile. I passed up some really pretty ones to get as close as I could to one of the “facilities.” When it’s two o’clock in the morning, and your bladder begins to scream for mercy, and it might be raining, well, you see what I mean. On the other hand, there are no bad sites in the park, each has it’s own water and electricity. I pitched the tent, arranged my stuff and dug out a book, The Ghost of Scootertrash Past, by Tiger Edmonds. If you ride a motorcycle, this one needs to be in your library, along with his other one, Longrider; he’s ridden over a million miles and knows what he is talking about. At about five, I got antsy and tried to find someone to talk to. It was Sunday night, and everyone had already left. The bike beckoned, so I got on and went to see some of the old familiar sights. The sun was near the horizon and shot gold shafts of yellow through the trees and across the road. Insects and falling leaves twinkled as they passed. When I got to the overlook they call Buzzard’s Roost, the rock face of the cliff across the chasm was bathed in gold by the setting sun. I cursed myself for leaving my camera back at the tent.

When it began to get dark, I heated some water and poured it in my cup of ramen, then made some tea. After cleanup, I read a little, and went to find someone to talk to. No luck. Two couples pulled up in matching fifth wheels behind matching Dodge dually trucks and began to set up. They had Florida tags and I lived there for about twenty years, so this seemed like my chance. They were evidently uncomfortable talking to biker types, so I went to take a leak in the public bathroom. It smelled of shower water, mildew, and harsh chemicals. Back at the tent, I crawled into my sleeping bag with my clothes on, and just laid there. The good news is all the camping places are nicely leveled, the bad news is they did this with gravel, Not round pebbles, but crushed rock. I had taken note of this earlier and removed any protrusions before I set up, but after about an hour, I could count at least a dozen I had missed… I made up my mind to ask the name of the gent whose idea it was to use this stuff to sleep on. I spent no small amount of time dreaming of how I could hunt him down and hurt him as he had hurt me. I have an active imagination, and came up with a number of delightful tortures. Oh, and it got cold. Very cold. But, somewhere along the way, I fell asleep, and in the morning was awakened by one of the Floridians, “Hey honey, bring me that thermometer!” About twenty minutes later, I heard “Thirty-two degrees!” I moaned.

I fried bacon and eggs for breakfast, and made some coffee, then went to take a shower and think how long it had been since I last had a case of athlete’s foot. Afterwards, I went to find someone to talk to. Around and below, there were side by side campsites with two campers and two tents, each. Their tags said Texas, so I asked a really intelligent question, “Ya’ll from Texas?” 

“Yup.”

“I was born there”

“Really? Where”

“Oh, some little town nobody ever heard of, Waxahachie.”

“No way! That’s where we’re from! You’ll have to come back tonight and get liquored up with us. We got liquored up last night and pissed everybody off.”

“Well, that’s my tent over there, and I didn't hear a thing.”

“ No, man,” he said pointing, “Those people gave us dirty looks, the ones over there scowled and dragged their kids into the tent, and the old folks in that blue tent called the ranger. We had a blast.” Turns out, they were two brothers and their scattered, grown sons having a reunion. I promised to be there that night.

Meantime, I had all day to get better prepared for another night. Back when I taught in Crossville, I managed the family farm down in the Sequatchie Valley and knew that was a pretty route to the closest Wallyworld in my old home town.. I left through the front gate on Hwy. 30 E.

When you get to the edge of the Cumberland Plateau, the whole world opens out on one of the two rift valleys on the world’s surface, and the drop-offs are so steep, you wish there were guardrails of some sort on all those switchbacks. At the bottom, I turned right to Pikeville, took the Y to the left, and went through town. (A little aside here, there is a fabulous Bar-B-Que on the right just after you turn off. Grandma does all the cooking and most of the food they grow themselves. We’re talking the real thing here, and it’s as good as it gets.) It had been decades since I drove through town so I had to ask how to find the road that follows the East side of the valley. Left at the light and I was on my way down memory lane. The first landmark is a lonely Victorian lamp post that is the only thing left standing of someone’s home. If it is any indicator, that must have been some beautiful place. Back on the road it was about ten miles to the old farm. The county line between Bledsoe and Cumberland county ran right through the house , so I would sleep in Cumberland, and eat in Bledsoe. I really like Ranier and Shanna Braun, the folks who live there now, but they weren't home, so I got back on the road to look for places I recognized. I met the parents of John Brown, a former student from twenty years ago, working in the yard of the farm that bordered the back of mine. The rest of the way up the valley is stunning and exits up a steep road with more switchbacks. I could tell you about many of the places I passed, but, can’t do them justice; it is an amazing ride.

Back up on the top of the plateau, I passed someone’s beautifully manicured Confederate memorial with flowers and tall flag pole sporting the bars and stars. Further on, I looked for an exquisitely ugly house to see if it had burned or maybe got fixed up, and there it was, just as I remembered. I guess somebody likes it, but if you don’t believe in Feng-Shui, one glance at this place would convert you fast.

At the next curve, I was flagged down by a kid who was running as hard as he could. “Help me Mister, I just wrecked and my brother is laying in the road.” So he climbed on and about a half mile up the road the little pickup was upside down with the boy lying next to it in the ditch. My heart melted at his first words, “I can’t feel my legs.” Since there is no cell in Fall Creek Falls, my phone had been off, so I had some battery left, and called 911. Reception was terrible, but someone on the other end pushed a button that boosted the signal. I had no idea what the name of the road was, and neither did the kids, so they were triangulating us, when someone finally drove up who could give directions. The kid was trying to move, so I told him “Don’t let me see you even think about moving,” and he stopped. He was just eleven years old, and I have to give him credit, he never whimpered. When the EMT’s got there, they determined his left leg was badly broken, but his back was OK. “Whew!” Then mom got there, and she was in awful shape. “Sir, can you drive me to the hospital?” I looked at the deserted road out in the middle of nowhere, looked at my motor, looked at her, considered a minute, and said, “No ma’am you’ll have to get one of these other folks, and somebody volunteered. When we loaded the boy on the stretcher, I could see the break. It was bad enough that it looked like the lower half of his calf would just flop down when I helped pick him up, but someone offered a third hand. I was glad when all that was over. And, of course, I never heard how everything turned out

All I wanted was one of those cheap rubber rafts to get me off the ground, but it turns out they are a seasonal item. I found a three dollar blanket with a howling wolf printed on one side at Wally’s.  Big Lots was a no go, then I found K Mart. There I got an exercise mat, a little fold up chair on sale, an extension cord and a small bedside lamp. One of the Floridians had a TV and had mentioned something about the possibility of rain the next day. I was going to be prepared. Then I made a wonderful discovery. There is this pillow thing. It’s plastic, hunter orange on one side and camo on the other. What it does is pick up your body heat and feed it back to you. I squeezed her into the sleeping bag and made love to her for the next three nights. I have no idea how it works, no chemicals or anything, but I’ve kept her around ever since.

Back at the camp, I strolled over to my adopted Lone Star buddies, and they fed me a young heart attack of fried steak and potatoes, and we spent half the night telling tall tales while listening to Texas blues loud enough to make the neighbors want to pack up and leave. The walk back to my tent was memorable because the moon had one of those halo things going on. It was a good time, but we didn’t get liquored up, more’s the pity.

Friday I packed to leave. Tiger talks about how to do that on a motorcycle, so all the heavy stuff was down low, but what with all my new toys, I was piled so high, you couldn’t even see me from behind.

On the way home, I thought how nice it was to get off by myself like that, and stopped for breakfast at the Waffle House in McMinnville. Those gum-smackin’ waitresses are a trip, and they seem to like ugly old bikers.

Author's Note

True story from 2002...

Reviews

[UncleFossil]

This range is few and far between on the network; 2002 had me at 26 years old pending on the timeline when this was written or when set. Not a shabby work though I suggest get a cover avatar with it to give it that timeline because a buddy who was from Glendale Heights, Illinois lives in the Dallas-Fort Worth metro area. Creative Writing teacher okay seeing this I wouldn't be surprised you taught those how to carry this range though it's a bit taboo in Roy Peter Clark frowning upon it because I got noticed for The Cabbie Homicide though works on Writing.com are similar range.

[Vol]

UFossil,
Holy Samolis! 2002 was YESTERDAY! but the difference between 26 and 48 is all the difference in the world!!! I HATE reminders such as this! In 2002 was 53 feeling all old and tired and stuff... little did I know! And aside from a new accumulation of aches and pains, don't feel all that different... (wait a minute, i forgot to take my meds this morning) Okay, I'm back. Could you explain how your define "range" as used in your review?
Thanks,
Vol

[UncleFossil]

Word-count range is something getting works submitted for anthology type publications or magazine -- example submitting for Taj Mahal Review, this is a literary tome showcase from India.