with cream cheese and downed high test strong enough to hold the spoon upright.
Satiated, Bird scouted locales for his first morning nap. I filled a thermos with the remaining coffee, then made sandwiches and snugged them into my pack, all the while marveling at the presence of salami and cheese in the fridge. I had zero recall of buying either.
As I prepped, opposing feelings vied inside me. It was Saturday. Duke was playing Carolina in the NCAA final four, and I wanted to stay home, order pizza, and watch the game. I wanted to determine the identity of ME229-13.
Back in my room, I checked the weather forecast on my mobile. Charlotte was looking at sunny skies and a max of forty-five degrees. An icon indicated two missed calls. I clicked over.
Ryan had phoned but left no message. The familiar nagging guilt knocked softly. I refused it entry.
Hazel Strike had phoned. She asked that I call her back.
Knowing it would be colder at higher elevations, I dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved tee, wool socks, and field boots. Grabbing an extra sweater, I jammed the phone into my pocket and clumped downstairs. A moment gathering outerwear and my backpack, then I set off. It was 6:45 A.M.
I drove I-85 south to Gastonia, then 321 north to Hickory and onto I-40 west. The skyscrapers of the city, then the cookie cutter homes and strip malls of the burbs, slid by in the darkness around me. I paid no attention. My thoughts were on Mama. And Ramsey. And a place high in the mountains I’d never seen.
By the time I reached Morganton, the world beyond my windshield was a Monet canvas of muted ambers and greens. Utility poles, trees, and fence posts threw long fun-house shadows across the road and the fields stretching from each shoulder.
I rode north on 181 to Jonas Ridge, then cut left and looped back southwest on NC 183. Winding through the Pisgah National Forest for the second time in a week, I passed only four other vehicles. I counted.
Eventually I spotted a sign pointing the way to Wiseman’s View. I turned onto Route 1238, a forest service access road, gravel and barely wide enough for one car. I was just a few miles from the tiny community of Linville Falls.
After four miles of sharp turns and steep changes in gradient, which I can’t say I enjoyed, a second sign appeared among the foliage. I turned in to a paved parking area, wondering how many automotive parts and dental restorations had rattled loose.
Surprisingly, several cars were present—a red Camry, a pickup with a crack running the windshield in the shape of Cape Cod, a silver Audi A3, a black SUV. The sheriff’s department logo on the SUV told me Ramsey and Gunner had already arrived. I got out and looked around. Neither deputy nor dog was in sight.
The air was brittle with early morning chill. Not the damp Quebec cold that seizes your breath and numbs your face in seconds. But cold enough. And a biting breeze was swirling through the mountains around me.
I slipped into my jacket, then tucked the sweater, cap, and gloves into my pack. After taking my kit from the trunk, I stood a moment to listen.
And heard a symphony of tiny noises. The tic-tic-tic of my car’s cooling engine. The steady in and out of my own breathing. The scratch of branches overhead.
I glanced up. The wind was playing hell with a thrush working hard at construction.
Wishing the bird luck, I crossed to an opening in the trees beyond the SUV. It led to a walkway, narrow and, for the moment, paved with crumbling asphalt. The terrain plunged steeply beyond a rusty guardrail contouring its right side. Within yards, the trail cut left, hugging the mountain, and out of sight.
I pride myself on being unflappable. Mostly it’s true. But, full disclosure, one thing flaps me: unprotected heights. It’s not the fall I fear, it’s the hard landing.
Heart beating a little too fast, I adjusted the pack’s shoulder straps, tightened my grip on the kit, and stepped onto the trailhead. The mixed
Satiated, Bird scouted locales for his first morning nap. I filled a thermos with the remaining coffee, then made sandwiches and snugged them into my pack, all the while marveling at the presence of salami and cheese in the fridge. I had zero recall of buying either.
As I prepped, opposing feelings vied inside me. It was Saturday. Duke was playing Carolina in the NCAA final four, and I wanted to stay home, order pizza, and watch the game. I wanted to determine the identity of ME229-13.
Back in my room, I checked the weather forecast on my mobile. Charlotte was looking at sunny skies and a max of forty-five degrees. An icon indicated two missed calls. I clicked over.
Ryan had phoned but left no message. The familiar nagging guilt knocked softly. I refused it entry.
Hazel Strike had phoned. She asked that I call her back.
Knowing it would be colder at higher elevations, I dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved tee, wool socks, and field boots. Grabbing an extra sweater, I jammed the phone into my pocket and clumped downstairs. A moment gathering outerwear and my backpack, then I set off. It was 6:45 A.M.
I drove I-85 south to Gastonia, then 321 north to Hickory and onto I-40 west. The skyscrapers of the city, then the cookie cutter homes and strip malls of the burbs, slid by in the darkness around me. I paid no attention. My thoughts were on Mama. And Ramsey. And a place high in the mountains I’d never seen.
By the time I reached Morganton, the world beyond my windshield was a Monet canvas of muted ambers and greens. Utility poles, trees, and fence posts threw long fun-house shadows across the road and the fields stretching from each shoulder.
I rode north on 181 to Jonas Ridge, then cut left and looped back southwest on NC 183. Winding through the Pisgah National Forest for the second time in a week, I passed only four other vehicles. I counted.
Eventually I spotted a sign pointing the way to Wiseman’s View. I turned onto Route 1238, a forest service access road, gravel and barely wide enough for one car. I was just a few miles from the tiny community of Linville Falls.
After four miles of sharp turns and steep changes in gradient, which I can’t say I enjoyed, a second sign appeared among the foliage. I turned in to a paved parking area, wondering how many automotive parts and dental restorations had rattled loose.
Surprisingly, several cars were present—a red Camry, a pickup with a crack running the windshield in the shape of Cape Cod, a silver Audi A3, a black SUV. The sheriff’s department logo on the SUV told me Ramsey and Gunner had already arrived. I got out and looked around. Neither deputy nor dog was in sight.
The air was brittle with early morning chill. Not the damp Quebec cold that seizes your breath and numbs your face in seconds. But cold enough. And a biting breeze was swirling through the mountains around me.
I slipped into my jacket, then tucked the sweater, cap, and gloves into my pack. After taking my kit from the trunk, I stood a moment to listen.
And heard a symphony of tiny noises. The tic-tic-tic of my car’s cooling engine. The steady in and out of my own breathing. The scratch of branches overhead.
I glanced up. The wind was playing hell with a thrush working hard at construction.
Wishing the bird luck, I crossed to an opening in the trees beyond the SUV. It led to a walkway, narrow and, for the moment, paved with crumbling asphalt. The terrain plunged steeply beyond a rusty guardrail contouring its right side. Within yards, the trail cut left, hugging the mountain, and out of sight.
I pride myself on being unflappable. Mostly it’s true. But, full disclosure, one thing flaps me: unprotected heights. It’s not the fall I fear, it’s the hard landing.
Heart beating a little too fast, I adjusted the pack’s shoulder straps, tightened my grip on the kit, and stepped onto the trailhead. The mixed
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