Celebrating Parkway Memories

It’s just a trickle really. But it free falls for about 15 feet in a delicate and inviting stream. I’m lucky to notice it actually, high as it is on the road cut. I just happened to pull off the road to adjust the load on my rack and I glanced up at the sound of falling water. Jim rides up and with a nod I indicate the little cascade. We drop the bikes and clamber up the steep bank, pulling shirts off as we go. Ahhh, does it ever feel good to get the road dirt off after five days without a  bath.

The two of us are on a two-week bicycle trip, the goal of which is to pedal the entire 469 miles of the Blue Ridge Parkway. We’ll also ride through the two national parks on each end: The Great Smokey Mountains and Shenandoah. We started in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, and even in 1979 it was a thriving tourist trap. The first day took us from the town into the heart of the Smokies, but this was preceded by an overnight Trailways bus journey, followed by reassembling the bikes and packing our gear onto them. The remainder of the day was spent riding uphill, all uphill. By the end of the day, when we pulled off into the woods at our spontaneously-chosen “unofficial” campsite, our leg muscles were tight as could be. High atop Clingman’s Dome our first day had ended, and spirits were high. The cheese noodles and sardines we ate for dinner that night tasted uncommonly good, and our after-dinner entertainment consisted of writing a few lines in our journals before passing out in our sleeping bags.

Sitting in the sun after our invigorating showers our conversation turns again to a recurring theme, besides girls of course. That is, how incredibly beautiful is this mountain country we’re riding through. It’s late May and the wild flowers are in full bloom, the foliage is a luxuriant green, and the freshets and streams flow merrily. The nights in these lofty mountains of North Carolina and Virginia are still chilly, but the sunny days are soft and warm.

Fixing another flat tire is a good excuse to sprawl out in the soft grass for a while. Fiddling with the bikes we don’t mind; it’s all part of the adventure, but sometimes it’s nice to be the one loitering as the other mends the tube. Some of the bike maintenance requires both of our efforts, as in figuring out how to improvise some broken component of which we have no spare. I recall carving from the top of a toothpaste tube some missing bike part.

As we ride along we discuss this amazing ribbon of asphalt snaking its way through the heart of these Blue Ridge Mountains, over and around, atop the highest ridges. The vision, the work required to make such a thing reality is almost incomprehensible. The Parkway is the result of inspiration which came to fruition during the Great Depression of the 1930’s. The project put people back to work and brought money into the impoverished Appalachians. The country was on the move; families were taking automobile trips like never before, and the Parkway would become one of America’s most-cherished roadways. Obstacles in building the road were great, including engineering challenges, recalcitrant land owners, and the sheer enormity of the task. Except for a small portion covered by the Linn Cove Viaduct and completed in 1987, the Parkway was ready for use in 1935.

We ride our trusty mechanical steeds over high passes and through shady glades, by small mountain lakes and by log cabin homesteads. We ride through beauty, we ride through history. We pedal to elevations as high as 6,000 ft. at Richlands Balsam in North Carolina, down to just 600 ft. at the James River crossing in Virginia. The Parkway does not for easy bicycling make, and on such a trip as ours one spends most of the time riding up the long grades, The descents are a joy, but the time that such glides occupy is nothing compared to the hours spent grinding up a six or eight-mile grade. However, a natural rhythm always sets in on these ascents and it’s not at all unpleasant when one gets accustomed to it.

We awake at dawn and quietly pack our gear in a matter of minutes. The early morning air is crisp; the bird’s song enchanting. It’s going to be another great day, sure enough, and we pedal out onto the asphalt of the Parkway with light hearts. The miles we ride in the early morning light always seem effortless, and we’ll ride for an hour or two before we eat breakfast. That meal consists of whatever is in the larder –how about sardines- and it grows sparse before we reach another resupply point, a grocery store not far off a parkway crossroads. Last night the family at the adjacent campsite –we stayed in a real campground- brought us plateloads of spaghetti which we enthusiastically accepted. Such generosity is especially appreciated in light of the fact that as college students our wallets are thin. Come to think of it, much about this bike ride is a leap of faith, but we find that the Lord always seems to provide. Put another way, God looks after children and fools. So we are well covered.

“AAAggghh!!.” We’re hurriedly pushing our bikes through the waist-high growth, our destination being the old rickety barn across the field. The gear lashed to the bicycles makes them unwieldy, and it feels like we’re moving in slow motion. The rain is pelting us hard now. Jim yells out some wisecrack, but it’s drowned out by the clap of a nearby bolt of lightning. Reaching the protection of the barn we lean our bikes and watch the awesome spectacle of an Appalachian thunderstorm through the big open door. The storm passes but so does our desire to press onward on this day. We make acquaintance with the owners of our refuge, and we’re pleased when Mr. Johnson insists that we stay for the night. The womb-like feel of this old chestnut log barn is good, its hay dry and soft as a cool drizzle settles over the farm for the night. Before dark, as we write in our journals, Mr and Mrs. Johnson pay us a visit. They’re laden with food –how did they know?- and want to talk. The couple’s three children are grown and gone and Jim and I gratefully accept the gentle warmth and affection generously conveyed by the old folks. I realize that our trip will be over soon, but memories of times like this evening with the Johnsons will last a lifetime.

It’s 2010 and the Blue Ridge Parkway is celebrating its 75th anniversary. The parkway has come to be much more than just a road through the mountains. It’s not much of a stretch to think of the parkway as representative of much that’s great about America: vision, persistence, our culture, history, and natural beauty.

And a fine place to make memories.