Get Lost in Giles County

Thinking that my (increasingly) obsolete TomTom nicknamed "Gertrude" would have "The Cascades" stored in its memory bank, I didn't look up directions. It did. Sort of.

With three hours until sunset, there was just enough time to figure out where I was going, hike up to the falls, take some pictures, and head back. Wrong.

An hour later, likely distracted by the impressive foliage of Jefferson National Forest and an authoritative English accent, I blindly followed that deceitful Brit, Gertrude, off of 460 and onto a two-lane road winding its way up and into the forest.

Fifteen miles of asphalt leaves plenty of time to encounter a sign, another five miles of gravel does not.

Not near the Cascades.

Second attempt. Thinking back to the night before, I figured we had until 7:30 before it got dark. The sun's trajectory behind the mountains went unnoticed as we entered the park.

I frequently paused along the trail, recognizing my simultaneous desires to linger and return somewhere I'd only just arrived.

A lone fly fisherman stood along the far bank of the stream. Pulling line from the reel, he slowly drew the tip of the rod upwards. With a quick snap of his wrist, the tip shot downward, sending a loop of line rolling across the surface of the deep pool. The fly whipped around, briefly fluttering skyward before delicately landing.

Further upstream, a father waved as he watched his son skip stones.

Around the falls rose steep walls and our voices.

Taking our shoes off, we gingerly stepped into the cool water towards the center of the stream bed.

Setting up against the eastern wall, my tripod and I struggled to find steady footing in the stream, each with only one foot on dry ground. Perched only a foot above the water, I anxiously watched my camera, clicking the remote while the other hand remained open, ready to catch the tripod should it be swept downstream.

One minute and five frames later, I grabbed the whole setup and stood safely back on dry stone, unenthused with my results and the water level.

The fading light ushered us to put our shoes back on.

I paused briefly after crossing a bridge, remembering that I'd wanted to climb down to some fallen trees while hiking in. Resolving to just come back someday when we weren't rushed by the sun, I wearily continued onward.

"You don't know when you'll be back."

I turned around and climbed down from the trail in response to the frank words.

The following five minutes were expensive.

... and worth it.

It was dark at 7:15. Our eyes adjusted, reducing our surroundings to desaturated shades of grey. Just one mile down either trail separated us from the car. The lower trail, continuing just over a bridge, was essentially unnavigable in the dark and the easy upper trail was nowhere to be found. Oops.

Get outside. Get lost. It's good for you.

Back to the Other Quarry

Delaying dinner, I finally returned to the other quarry a few weeks ago.

The early October air was still warm, enticing me to make a jump I was ill-prepared for.

Fading.

I'll jump in the spring, when the water is warmer and I can pick apart shadows from boulders.

A Guardian in Brown County

Sometimes, there are no words to accompany what you find along a quiet country road.

Locked In.

A few years ago, my friend Adam and I snuck in on a warm summer afternoon, cigars in hand, and climbed to the top of the stadium.

As the sun set, we enjoyed our Romeo y Julietta No. 2's.

I haven't been back in the stadium since then, a game last fall, aside.

Just over a month ago, I returned, keeping an eye out for security guards and whoever else I might run into as I unlatched a gate.

While Adam and I hopped a railing to get out that one evening, this time I found myself locked in. Gates were shut by an invisible crew while I was hiking to the top.

Locked in.

After walking through the entire stadium looking for an easy exit, I finally climbed onto the wall of a cement ramp leading to the upper levels.

Sitting on the ledge, I realized fifteen feet separated my camera, and feet, from the unforgiving asphalt.

I tightened the straps on my backpack.

Sometimes all you need to get out is to just jump.

Bits from North Carolina

My final days of summer in North Carolina.

Seen through my back window at a gas station. He waited patiently in the truck bed for his owner.

I like this font. Goldsboro.

Safe distance.

The start to good Carolina BBQ at Wilbur's.

I'm working on getting caught up with pictures, but lately my attention and energy has been elsewhere.

The Johnson Farm

Southern Pines, NC

moo.