Recap: Home in the Alabama pines, history on the way
Musicians inspiring this adventure, whether or not their words are referenced: Jason Isbell and The 400 Unit, Counting Crows, Brenda Kahn, Ryan Adams & The Cardinals, Pixies, The Cure, Jeff Buckley, Sarah McLachlan, The Beatles, Death Cab for Cutie, Love And Rockets, Led Zeppelin, The Doobie Brothers, Brewer & Shipley, Oh Wonder, Dido, The Grateful Dead, Nine Inch Nails.
HERE’S THE COMPLETE PLAYLIST - one instance of a click to play i can recommend - listen along the way!
Near, but not on the route; a fortunate view on the drive.
If i’m not free, i’m not me, and this is someone else’s life.
“If a (person) has not discovered something that (they) will die for, in a sense (they are) not fit to live” - MLK
This concept has charged me for many years; i believe he spoke with inspiration, and this is a statement of the remembered - i may not be remembered, and have peace with that, yet i will live and die being myself: free.
This trip, my third late winter escape on Alabama segments of the Eastern Divide Trail, published by bikepacking.com, i had planned well, and ultimately modified. Despite the mild winter, this was highly anticipated - and i am not here to report disappointment.
“Somebody take me home, through those Alabama pines”
A long drive on Friday brought me back upon Flagg Mtn, the southernmost 1000’+ mountain in the Appalachian mountain range, with a cabin to rest for the night, admittedly a relief to not have to do a full set up…unpack, re-pack. It’s 60° and the settling sun leaves time for a little hike up to the fire tower, let me loosen up from 11 or so hours in the car before I lay down easy for my rest.
“It’s been a long December, and there’s reason to believe maybe this year will be better than the last”.
Though a gray haze stood in for sunrise, the redbuds and daffodils make a better promise than the cool wind atop this mountain. Driving down the highway yesterday, an array of bright colors crowding the tips of the trees and vibrant green fields made spring’s presence clear. After setting out on my journey, it occurs to me that when the forecast is cloudy and somewhere from 60° to 80°, that’s subtle advice to bring a rain jacket; yet while rolling along these ridges wrapped in a wet blanket of mist, i know conditions such as this will give way. I’m glad to get down off the muddy logging roads, and just roll through the rain washing in earnest, it passes before long, and the sun peeks out to remind me it will be the humidity that keeps me wet rather than rain. Being waved down by an ORV driver, who turned out to have some relations and riding experience in Ohio, i paused rolling along the sandy gravel, and we talked about my trip and he touted the gravel and MTB trails of Alabama; no convincing needed on my account. Along these roads (gravel, tarmac, gated or public), East of Interstate 65, are signs indicating an array of hunting clubs, some just simple abbreviations, some a bit more divine (PNHC, God’s country HC, ESHC…), and a patchwork of lush, green, longleaf pine checked with the knocked down, torn up and burnt out.
Through the rain and sun i made my planned campsite by early afternoon, tired, and starting to notice the sun’s rays had more effect than I thought (though I have sunblock, i kept thinking it’s not that sunny), but with 4 hours more daylight I just wasn’t done moving; so another 15k to town for a grand Mexican dinner won me over. In this land of many tree farms, i passed a gate, found space and set up camp; the moon smiles upon me tonight after i settle in. So i begin to attempt rest, having found my place ahead of sunset on the edge of a few years old planting of pine. Unless my body or other occurrences change my mind, i think I’ll roll into Selma tomorrow, scrapping my plan for 45 miles today and 40 tomorrow, while leaving 20 for the roll into Selma Monday morning; if i proceed, i suppose i’ll try the camp along the Alabama River south of Selma.
Sleeping, yes, somewhat until about midnight; that was a couple of hours ago. Since then my brain has been calculating all the sounds, their distance and relevance; ear plugs only increase the level of the game. A steady hum of the wood factory i’m far too near, and the irregularly consistent beeping of equipment backing, exploring ORV’s hopefully not here, dogs barking, rumble and hum of the highway, the peepers and insects I appreciate, now, beyond 02:00 and the trains also are enroute.
“I don’t sleep, only dream, caffeine hole burning through my spleen, and baby I’m thinking about you”.
Camping and being where i’m probably not to be, coupled with man’s white noise, makes a recipe for another night wanting of sleep. If a tree falls in the woods and no one is there to hear it…yes, i do. Sometime well before sunrise, howling and yipping was added to the cacophony; coyotes, maybe? In this crazed tug of war between my body and the varied levels of consciousness, there is a jerk of my body into my mind’s experience, while the ruling of my physical senses otherwise snaps me back to this waking reality; both ways are exhausting. At some point, the factory is either silent or subdued by the highway; and ultimately, the beautiful multitude of bird songs and the lowing of cattle (or maybe they’re mourning a successful visit by coyotes). A soft blue sky with drifting white clouds expands overhead, and finally the sun cracks between the old pines marking the tree farm border; i can officially acknowledge i’m awake. Yes, i caress and cover yesterday’s red skin with sunblock before riding today; and no, the factory is not idle - no rest for the sabbath (be it black or blue).
Sunday morning, Southwest of Maplesville and i’m back in the forest proper again, feeling at home; we just are - to worship is to mistake importance or hierarchy.
“There ain’t nothing but the truth up on Magnolia Mountain”
There is no greater peace, yet there is other peace.
“just sitting there square, baking in the sun”
As expected, I passed today’s planned camp just after noon, way too early to stop; it’s a legitimate campsite with plenty of dry ground, but the fact that it was encompassed by a brimming creek with a pleasant little waterfall and a rain-runoff brook did not create a desire to stay - not the test of my bug spray i was looking to perform. The last 20 miles or so into Selma was more than I wanted, of sun, not water; thankfully mostly downhill, but i was empty of water for the last 15 miles and didn’t feel like stopping to filter.
Selma is very run down, not just the massive devastation from a recent tornado, i didn’t expect the bridge to be impressive other than the memory; yet i did enjoy a milkshake and nachos from the Candy Lady to refresh and bolster me for the ride to camp, after a contemplative walk across the bridge, the flat roll down to Six Mile Creek Park was the longest 7 miles i can remember. Now i’m camped overlooking the Alabama River, the only hangup being that the park/campground is not open for the season yet; but it’s still a more secure feeling than last night’s stealth site. With a beautiful sunset across the water, i set up, settle in, warm up dinner, and make several applications of bug spray before retreating into my tent to eat and stretch with some Irish Whiskey; hoping to have more peace than last night. As night falls, some battle rages between, i don’t know what animals, making a crazy chattering gobble shriek followed by silence, except the creaking, chirping insects, then big splashes from the West Bank, distant barking and yeowling occasionally from both sides; hope would grant me sleep tonight. Aside from the beauty of the moon, i should note there are lightning bugs blinking.
“If only tonight we could sleep”
I applied sunblock several times today, but the red has taken hold, though I’d be dangerously cooked without it today; and eaten alive tonight, save the bug spray. Now some deep crowing call, like an exaggerating owl, is it a turkey?
“I’ll never make it out to join the witch’s rave”
“Winter’s end, promises of a long lost friend, speaks to me of comfort.”
I’ll call it good that there was plenty of sleep, yet dreaming too much as usual; the pre-dawn songs were composed of more bird types than previous days.
“Good day sunshine”
Monday morning I had plenty of time to meander back up into Selma, respect the Civil Rights Memorial Park at the South entrance to the bridge (which is unfortunately named for the powers that have been, and remain, rather than the purposes of humanity - let not the irony be lost about a bridge being named for the divisive), meet a friend, walk the bridge again, meet a man of history (whom i hope represents the future) - he keeps post at the Podium Area, just north of the bridge, sharing historical context and experience; then i rolled up through the tornado devastated town to where i would rent a car and drive North, near my adventure’s origin - an hour and a half drive to cover the distance of two days’ riding. Enroute to completing this journey on the bike, i stopped at Flagg Mtn to unload unnecessary weight from my bike, about 40 lbs of gear, drove the 21 miles to Sylacauga, i would then ride in reverse, back to Flagg Mtn from the car drop. After a few miles of unsettling, but respectful traffic, i’m again rolling through these old stands of pine; it’s a magnificent ending before ascending the mountain once more. Prescient, perhaps that before enjoying that roll through tall pines, the song in my head, which is now returned, is “last“, as in: “this is not meant to last”; back to my face into the wind and sun, as i squeak along (i have no positive review to offer of the chain lube i’ve been trying this year). Not that the landscape became unpleasant, just natural growth as it will, rather than the towering, cultivated rows of pine. In a repeat of last year, my final ascent became a race with the receding sun up the mountain to catch the reflection on the tower, and this year, even enjoy the sunset from the top of the beautifully restored tower.
As always, there are so many more moments to share, the people are as significant as the trees in my journey; i’ll at least note the old man i met when i drove in at Flagg Mtn, talking of who lives where and what is the history of the land and folk (i admit to hoping he would provide a ride back from Sylacaugua to Flagg, saving me the final 21 miles on the bike; though i ended with truly enjoying those miles). The hiker i met ascending the tower, who paused to try to steer me to hike some other nearby areas. There was monk, who was hiking the Pinhoti trail, he had just made the Southern terminus and was headed North again, back to Georgia. Once i had driven a ways North and stopped for dinner at one of the many Mexican restaurants just South of Birmingham, i met Marco, the German who, along with his Mexican girlfriend, worked as servers; we enjoyed the connection with language and location that are, admittedly, more remote from me than i would wish - oh, how i love life having lived a while in Deutschland - so far away, yet so dear to my heart.
“How the end, always is”
It’s like a book elegantly bound, but in a language you can’t read, just yet “
There were no thoughts, until a moment of northbound comfort, having reached a hotel and the luxuries of a shower and bed, that occurred to me, I’d be home again.
That’s a long full stop. Judge if you will, i’m just all i am; and you may well be all you are too.
“Just one more, and I’ll walk away…to inspire in me, the desire in me, to never go home”
“And this is for when you’re feeling happy again… feeling sad…when the minutes drag”
Bis zum nächsten Mal.
Overview of gear distribution: tent split between the fork bags, sleeping pad hung from the handlebars, phone & snacks in handlebar feed bag, food and self-defense in the two top-tube flip-top bags, tentpoles strapped under the top-tube, wood-stove, flask & food in down-tube bag, tool kit, cords and first-aid kit in a cage box under the downtube, clothes, food, battery pack & extra straps in tail-bag, hatchet, sandals, water filter bottle, bike cover/lock & sleeping quilt/pillow in dry-sack on rear rack. The custom rear rack is another story i’d love to tell, the invention of my necessity and the workmanship of a super-crafty friend; perfection doesn’t prevent improvement, and a revision is brewing.
