"You're taking the flame thing, there?" she asked.
"Flame thing? FLAME THING?! It's called a backpacking stove," I replied. "And, yeah, I'm taking it."
Ginny laughed. "That's no stove. And, anyway, I've seen you with a stove. What are you taking it for?"
This time it was my turn to laugh. "No need to make fun of me. All I'll be using it for is heating water."
"Well," I explained, "after riding all day in summer's heat and humidity you're usually pretty grungy. Now, imagine you're camped at a primitive campsite - no shower and no way to clean up. With my stove here I just heat up a bit of water, add it to the cold water I already have, and use my little fold-up basin to clean up in. Just like at hunt camp. Simple."
Ginny nodded slowly, obviously not convinced that that sounded anything like fun at all.
Camping has a romantic sort of aura to it. It conjures up images of far-away places. Of campfires and self-reliance and adventure. And like pulling a much-loved rifle from the gun cabinet before a deer hunt, the paraphernalia of camping is similarly evocative. Tents and camp stoves and sleeping bags trigger an emotional response, a stirring of the juices. Mix them with motorcycles and you have, for me at least, as powerful an anticipatory feeling as it gets.
I've spent the last week getting ready for this little trip. Five or six days away, with just a rough idea to head down the Blue Ridge Parkway into western North Carolina. A working trip, since I need to get some photographs.
The challenge is putting together a kit which is not overly cumbersome or that adds too much weight. Especially given the great roads I expect to be on, it would be a shame to diminish the handling of my motorcycle. With that as my mantra, I work hard to pare things down to only the basic stuff I truly expect to need.
I'm gone at 6:30 am. It's just light. Even in the early morning one can tell that it will be hot. The air has a liquid feel to it, the haze and humidity a physical presence. But right now it's simply gorgeous. The world is just awakening, with tired drivers heading groggily north and east toward work. There is a feeling of great fortune to be heading the other way, on a motorcycle, to be gone for at least a little while. "Head out on the highway, looking for adventure..."
I arrive at Price eleven hours later. Plenty of time to set up camp and get some supper before needing to be up at Raven Rock, seven miles away, for the sunset. So that's what I do. While pitching my tent a fiftyish fellow on a bicycle rides by my campsite. "That's definitely the way to do it," he says, nodding towards my BMW. We talk for awhile. He seems genuinely interested in starting to ride, so I tell him about the Suzuki SV650 I used to have. He seems quite serious, asking good questions and obviously making a mental note of what I tell him.
He leaves after a few minutes and I quickly finish setting up camp. Then I climb back on the bike and relaxedly ride back out to the campground entrance, where I register my site, pay the fee, and talk to an older couple there doing the same thing. I've always found a motorcycle to be a good icebreaker and conversation starter. Most folks seem genuinely interested, especially if you're traveling alone. And it seems that most men have had some experience with motorcycles, of some sort, at one point or another in their life.
Supper will be a 4-piece wing dinner from the KFC in the little town down off the mountain. Stowing that in one of my saddlebags, next to the bottle of beer and packet of peanuts, I head back up to the Parkway. In just a couple of minutes I'm back at Raven Rock. I probably have a good hour before the sun sets. A trio of teenage girls are parked across the way, sitting on a blanket, having their own picnic. Chatting away happily, as girls are wont to do.