Into the Mountains, Part I

Once again, ladies and gentlemen, we find our hapless heroine in an improbable and unintentional scenario resembling the start of a horror movie.  Read on to learn more of her foibles, mishaps, and misadventures. 

            I have no clue where I am.

            I can barely see, even though I’m wearing my glasses.

            My heart is hammering in my chest from that last turn I took way too fast.

            The pavement rises up before me, cuts sharply left, then seemingly before I’ve even completed that turn, it cuts right.  The night is black—trees looming overhead blot out any star- or moonlight that might otherwise reveal our path.  No street lights illumine this two-lane road, so I can only make out what the headlights show me, which means my range of sight is about 20 yards.  That seems on par with how often the road curves, though, so any attempts of further discerning would likely prove futile. 

My navigator is currently handicapped, so if anything were to happen, well . . . I’d rather not dwell on it.  The crippled leading the (semi-) blind down a dark, windy backwoods road—somewhat poetic, if you think about it.  (Just don’t think about it too hard.) 

Curving, unlit, two-lane backcountry roads are not uncommon in Missouri.

            That’s just the problem, though.

            I’m not in Missouri.

            I’m in fucking West Virginia.


            The fact that neither of us got much sleep last night isn’t helping us any.  I put it at three hours—tops.  Probably closer to just one though.  It was a nice enough campground:  flat, grassy; we rolled in around 10:30 after having dinner and a few beers in New Albany, Indiana.  Then a short drive to Louisville, Kentucky, where we set up camp quickly—pitching a tent in the dark is no great challenge for us—and in bed by 11:30. 

The night was noisy—frogs, insects, and other nocturnal creatures were very chattery, so I put my ear plugs in (to no avail, obviously).  Around 1:30, dazed and half-asleep, I registered a new noise among the croaks and chirps.  I tried to distinguish it for a few moments before remembering my ear plugs, then popped one out just in time to hear Ally cry out, “Noo. . . .” sounding pained and distressed. 

            Ally had surgery to repair her ACL and meniscus about four weeks ago.  Did she somehow manage to wrench her injured knee in her sleep?

            I waited to see if she’d say anything else. 

She didn’t.

            I lay still to listen for sounds of movement from her tent. 

Nothing.

            I supposed she must’ve been talking in her sleep, so I replaced my ear plug, rolled over, and tried to sleep, though I couldn’t help the scenarios that played through my head of what may have happened to my friend.   

            This morning while boiling water for coffee (lots of coffee), Ally exclaimed, “Man!  I had some crazy dreams last night.  I dreamed that an ocelot came in my tent and tried to steal my stuff!  I think I was talking in my sleep telling it to go away.”

            “I heard you; you sounded really upset.  I thought you’d hurt yourself.” 

            “No, I didn’t hurt myself, but I sure didn’t get much sleep after that,” she yawns. 

Ally will be 42 in a few months, but she doesn’t look a day over 25.  She has flawless skin, and she never wears makeup.  Her hair is shaved into a Mohawk and dyed blonde right now, with little bits of pink and blue splashed on.  She is—mostly—covered in tattoos.  She’s a work in progress, but she’s been working at it for well over two decades.  The person responsible for most of her tattoos is also the person responsible for us meeting.

Ally and I met through a mutual ex boyfriend.  She’s one of those people who I knew of long before she had a clue that I even existed.  We’d run into each other at a few bars, but no one ever introduced us, and Ally’s practiced air of obliviousness is no act.  A few years after she and Logan broke up, he and I started dating, and one night I drunkenly confessed my admiration for his former sweetheart.  She’s so pretty . . . she’s such a badass . . . I’d seen her at several Zombie Squad events; she’s that perfect combination of sexy and strong—the beautiful duality of combat boots with a mini skirt—with absolutely no fear of hanging out topless in public. 

            Well, Logan must’ve spilled the beans to her, because at a party one night she approached me and made a show of formally introducing herself; I felt like such a dupe. 

            A little while later I became more active in Zombie Squad, and she emailed the group about a two-day float trip she was planning.  Thinking this was a sanctified ZS event, I hastily signed up.  I showed up the day of to find . . . zero other ZS members, but instead several of Ally’s coworkers from the outdoor supply store where she works. 

            I felt foolish once again, but over the course of that weekend Ally and I became more than just two people who hang out at shows; we became real friends, and my admiration for her has never waned.             

            We have a few things to see in Louisville before we leave, so we head into town and get . . . coffee, you guessed it.  Then we hit up a little oddities shop called Why Louisville where I acquire some bourbon-smoked paprika, a beer coozie shaped like overalls, and a t-shirt that honors the Butchertown neighborhood in Louisville. 

(I need all these things.)



            Next a costume shop with a giant bat hanging outside, and finally:  Jerry’s Junk. 

 

 

 

            Now, we were warned about Jerry’s Junk.  Jerry loves his junk—he wants to talk to you about it all day long—but it’s not for sale, so don’t ask him to price it or part with it.  But what we didn’t know—indeed, what we couldn’t know—was the error in that advice.  Because, you see, Jerry is getting on in years; and, well, he doesn’t really have anyone to look after his junk when he’s gone.  His wife left him, you see—gave him the old “it’s me or the junk” ultimatum; and she made good on her promise.  And his kids, well . . . they don’t share Jerry’s appreciation for his junk. 

 

 

(Jerry put all those decorative touches into the sidewalk himself.)

            So Jerry showed us all around; he has quite the collection of classic cars—all of which run, all of which are for sale.  Then, he took us to another house (yes another junk house) a few doors down—completely full—save for a walking path large enough for an average human to traipse.  And then—and then!—Jerry gave us some junk.  He gave Ally a record (her boyfriend still listens to 45s in his machine shop), and we both got these rubber horse heads that they used to make children’s toys out of.  You know, the ones on a stick that you would “gallop” around on? 

 

(The KKK uniform was given to him “by a nice young black gal. And it’s on a black mannequin.” Welcome to The South, ya’ll.)

 

            We could’ve listened to Jerry all day, but unfortunately we had to hit the road.  Before we left, though, Jerry gave us some sound advice:  “If a frog had wings, it wouldn’t bump its ass every time it jumped!” 

            Too true, Jerry.  Too true, indeed. 

            We hit the road for a while until we find Simpsonville, Kentucky:  home of the World’s Largest Roll of Sausage!  (Note:  not a real sausage.)

 

            Finally, we cross over the West Virginia state line and head directly for Lesage.  We are on a mission.  A mission for hot dogs.  But not just any hot dogs.  Hillbilly Hot Dogs.

           

            Oh yes.  We got the weenies. 

 

            This girls’ road trip is turning into a real sausage fest. 

 

 

 

 

            All right.  Now that we’re happily stuffed full of wieners, we’ve got to bust ass to the center of the state to find our campground.  The sun’s already starting to set and we still have hours to drive. 

Ally plugs the address into the GPS, hits “play” on our audio book of Glory Road, and I gun it. 

Into the mountains we go! 

. . . Which brings us back to where we started, but . . . how did we get here?

Well . . . I followed the GPS. . . .

And then Ally said, “Hey there’s a brown sign, it must be for the campground,” so I turned. . . .

And turned. . . .

And past some houses the road forked off into two gravel roads that appeared to lead to . . . more houses, only spread out on a hillside.  I stop the car.  No signs of a campground.  No signs for a campground.  The GPS is shouting instructions at me unnaturally loud.  I look at my phone. 

No service.

“Ally . . . does your phone have service?”

“No . . . this doesn’t seem right; I’m getting us back to the road.” 

She reaches for the GPS, and as soon as she touches it, the screen goes black.

To be continued. . . .