6: Panhandling

I took last Friday off in preparation for a long 3-4 weeks at work. It's the end of a quarter in The Company's world - a period of chaos and urgency that appears four times per year and unfailingly brings stress. Added to that is the absence of my boss for 3 weeks, leaving me as stunt-double during this time. Good times. I decided to get a ride in that day. I couldn't really run away while things are so busy, so I tried to get my running-away done in advance and hoped it would keep me going until my time was once again returned to me.

We've lived in Maryland for 2 1/2 years and have yet to see most of it. This is funny because the entire state of Md. is no bigger than the greater metropolitan area of Chicago. This is evidence of my previous statements regarding success and sacrifice - the better you are, the further you progress, the higher the demands on you become. I was combing the interwebs for places to explore, and came across the Green Ridge National Forest website. Just East of Cumberland, in the Maryland "panhandle" is the forest. The site boasted an 18 mile off-road vehicle trail on the mountain. This was hard to resist for me, as I have owned the DRZ -a dirtbike at heart- but have yet to dirty it up. Plus the location is only 90 miles from home, so it seemed convenient for a day or overnight trip.

I prepared better than I had on previous weekends. This time I strapped a sleeping bag to the seat. Cumbersome, but no matter. I didn't wish to repeat the cold night in Shenandoah. I left early on Friday, traveling against rush-hour traffic away from DC. Wide open expressways all the way. I hate interstates, but limited time means direct travel. I flew North on I-270 to I70 West. Nothing to see on an interstate. I left 7o at I-68 West, and was greeted by surprising views in Western Maryland. 68 was deserted, and I was able to enjoy the mountain scenery with little fear of a nutty trucker or behind-schedule commuter running me into a ditch.





After a fuel stop and a quick supply pick-up (a little axe that would come in handy later), I arrived at Green Ridge. The young girl in the ranger station took my $10 and gave me a map to the site I had selected for the night. (I wasn't positive that I would be camping out, rain possible in the forecast, or the place could really suck). She told me the site was a 20 minute drive (ride) West to another highway exit and South on a dirt and gravel road to the off-road trail, then around the trail to my site which was on the opposite side of the mountain. This was good news. It meant that the park wasn't a giant forest with a small, structured campground. Each site was 1/2 mile to a mile apart. No screaming kids, no drunken campers, no anyone! I hopped back on the highway and exited at 15 Mile Creek Road as directed by my map, my route nicely marked with a pink highlighter by the young lady.

The road became the flat dirt/gravel one that I had heard of, and I followed the switchbacks up the hills. Here, the DRZ seemed perfectly at home. The street tires broke loose occasionally, but nothing shocking. It made for a great spin up the mountain for a few miles. I don't go off-road much, so it felt like a new experience. I was able to test the limits of the tires (and my skill) in the dirt.



The hill rose higher until I found signs leading to the off-road trail. I followed said signs, noting that I had yet to see anyone else on the mountain. This was shaping up to be a good day.



I reached the off-road trail and had to stand on the rear brake when I saw what was ahead of me. The road had disintegrated into a rutted, rocky track going further up hill. I glanced at my street tires with worry, not sure if my little Motard was properly outfitted for the task. I did, in fact, need it to get home. If I bent up a rim or ripped a tire, I would be stranded pretty good up there. After a few minutes of concern, the old "Oh-What-The-Hell" instinct that I have relied on my entire life kicked in and up the gnarly trail was I.



I didn't stop for any photos as I was trying to concentrate on navigating ridges and ruts without laying the Suzuki down. It was more of a workout than I had expected. The man-handling and maneuvering of the 300 pound bike plus my pack and gear was much more physical than anticipated. I reached a little stick signifying my campsite after about 2 miles, and pulled off the trail with a sense of great accomplishment. The DRZ made it up, regardless of tire, and quite nicely.

My site was reward enough for the task. A large, heavily treed area on a cliff overlooking the valley in which the Potomac snaked through below. I killed the motor and took off my helmet, and heard nothing. No voices. No traffic. Wind, a bird or two. Cicadas? Someone had been on this site recently. The fire ring was used lately, and there was even some chainsaw-cut wood laying around. Good for me. I set up camp (After deciding that I was staying. The site was too nice to leave) and took a quick look around the area.





I was even able to ride the bike around the site a little. No one around for miles, and enough room in my spot to ride.





After exploring on foot for a bit, and gathering wood from around the forest (it was everywhere, a huge contrast to my last outing in which the public campground had been scoured of fallen wood), I remembered that I hadn't really eaten today. Home base secured, I jumped back on the bike and descended the nasty trail (lots of brakework going down hill - great practice) and returned to the highway. I traveled West to Cumberland, the first real town available, about 25 miles away. I ate a cheeseburger in a small bar-and-grill, and drank about a gallon of iced tea. While doing so, I checked the Blackberry radar for rain. The display showed nothing but green (and even yellow) right over my head. Not so good. I thought of that trail, and how tough it would be to ascend if it was raining and muddy, given my road tires. I shot out of Cumberland and headed back to the mountain, reaching it without as much as a few drops on my face-shield. Back up the gravel road, back around the rutty trail. I was getting good at this.

I reached my site, changed out of my riding gear, and immediately set to work on a fire. If it was going to rain, I wanted something to dry off with. I stacked sticks and kindling, wadded some paper, and as soon as I struck my first match, the sky opened up. Rain undid every effort I put into making flame. I kept at it, but the weather had quite a few steps on me now. After exhausting a book of matches on wet sticks, I looked to the only assistant I had available - the bike. I had stuffed some napkins in my pocket at lunch (Always do. Always.) and they were still nice and dry. I rolled a couple into ropes and dipped them into the fuel tank of the DRZ, soaking them in gasoline. I rung them over my fire pile and stuffed them under my sticks. One match later and poof...instant fire. And too hot for the rain to knock down immediately. I went to work with the firewood -staging and drying, placing and arranging. I worked for over an hour, shielding with my raincoat when the rain was particularly heavy. In the end, I had a fire that defied Mother Nature's will. So big and hot that the rain turned and went another direction. Right about the time that I was through and ready to rest, the rain tapered off and then stopped altogether. (This did nothing to diminish my sense of satisfaction in creating the fire under such crappy circumstances). I strung out some shock cord between trees and hung my wet gear to dry in the heat of the fire. I was a true caveman. Master of my environment (gasoline notwithstanding).





Sitting in the silence after the rain, I was able to look out over the valley and follow the river by the water vapor rising from the tracts between the trees. I walked and dried, gathered more sticks, chopped logs, and enjoyed the fact that for the entire time I was on the mountain, I saw nobody. The sun set in the haze. I watched bats flicker over my fire, snatching up the creatures that were drawn to the only light on the hill.





Exhausted from the day, I turned in at 9. I would get up early and make my way home in time to go to The Company picnic in Fairfax VA the next day. The sleeping bag made the night much more enjoyable. And, the minute I was zippered into the tent, the rain came again, and it came down hard. I fell asleep to the racket of the rain on my tent.

In the morning, I emerged from my tent to find the weather had become beautiful. The sun was rising without clouds obscuring it, the air cool but promising to warm up later. I packed all of my wet gear and "uncamped". Bike reloaded and warmed up, I set off to leave the mountain. Unfortunately, the rain that I thought would keep me from getting up the hill also made getting down a real bitch. The rutted trail was now not only rutty but slick. My tires had no chance in these conditions. This, coupled with the fact that I am an absolute novice off-road, made for a long, spooky trip down. There were a couple of very hairy moments - one being my rear tire slipping into a 12 inch ditch while trying to traverse it, throwing the Motard onto it's side to the point where my bar-end grazed the trail. How I caught it, I don't know. Disaster averted.

Traveling back East on the interstate at that early hour proved to be mighty cold. I had all of the clothes I had available on, but the morning chill still got through. I stopped for fuel at a remote gas station/convenience store/liquor store/diner. I also decided to eat breakfast here. I needed coffee in a bad way anyhow. Breakfast was fantastic, cooked right in front of me by an old lady with a cast-iron skillet. Behind me were all manner of trucker and hunter in all manner of camouflage cap, drinking coffee and making plans to shoot things in the very hills I had just left. Good time to go home.



I will return to Green Ridge, even without the bike. It's a great place to think and unwind, a great way to spend $10. I was able to get a real break before making a plan for the difficult month ahead. Whatever successes I have in the coming weeks will be the direct result of this trip.