Too Cold to Camp

Some lessons come frozen solid — and others come from a woman who refuses Venmo.

“Taking a shower and sleeping in a warm bed and eating real food is utter bullshit. BULLSHIT!”

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DAY 6

It was 37 degrees when I woke up. The app said it got down to 34 overnight. My sleeping bag was worth every cent. I wore every piece of clothing I had. I was semi-warm in the bag. But getting out of the bag this morning was not something I’d wish on my worst enemy. It was like shifting directly into zed. I run very hot, so the cold doesn’t bother me all that much, within reason. The thing that’s bad about camping in this sort of weather is the condensation. The air outside is so cold, and your breath warms up the inside of the tent, and water collects on the rainfly, and sometimes on the tent itself. I did get a few drops on my bag, and it tends to collect a bit under the sleeping pad as well. What I can tell you is that when you’re in a down bag, the down under you is obviously compressed, so it does nothing, and if you don’t have a good sleeping pad, the earth will just suck the warmth directly out of your body. You can feel it happening. In the same way, if you pull the bag too tightly around you, wherever that down is compressed will feel like an ice bag. It’s rough going. I think about pioneers traveling west or mountain climbers in the 30’s and wonder how any of them survived.

I packed up everything but the tent, left that to dry a bit, which it won’t, and went up to the little office at the campground to get some much-needed coffee. The owner of the campground, whom I’ve met before, said, “You out in that tent?” shaking his head, probably thinking about what a bummer it would have been if he had to call the coroner’s defrost unit this morning. Another guy came in who was camping in a trailer and said, “Was that you in that tent? I was wondering if you’d make it.” I’m starting to wonder if tent camping in the 30s is not a normal thing. I did think about sleeping in the bathhouse.

There was ice on the bike cover that crackled as I took it off. I packed up and set out. As you might imagine, it was cold. I gassed up in Telico Plains and headed down the Cherahola Skyway for a few miles, and then headed south on the dirt into the Nantahala National Forest. It went on forever, and it was gorgeous. The light, the leaves - amazing. And it got remote as hell, deep into the Upper Bald River Wilderness. I didn’t see a soul.

I eventually crossed the Skyway, and then I was on old familiar roads I’ve done several times before on the Smokey Mountain 500 (the creator of that route, Andy, hangs out here now and then…) or just riding around this area in the past. Then I went through a little area called Snow Bird and up Little Snow Bird Road. I ran into a bunch of hunters with dogs in their pickups - so I slowed down to avoid having a head-on with one of them. Not sure what they were hunting.

And then I hit Porterfield Gap, and this road is in the pantheon of all motorcycle roads. The road sign said “Private” - but I didn’t believe it, and I was right not to. This road was everything you want. Rocky, steep, slippery at times, and all around action-packed. And talk about remote. I climbed and climbed and climbed and then set across the ridge of this mountain. Again, the sun, the leaves, the sky, and the long-distance views of the mountains beyond Andrews, North Carolina, were just breathtaking. No scares or mishaps, just the best of what this type of motorcycling has to offer. I stopped at the top and launched the drone, and the footage is out of control. (I don’t pull stills from the drone for Substack because it’s too much of a hassle.) After hours of this, I finally descended into Andrews and gassed up. This is now my favorite road of all time. Porterfield Gap.

The ride through Cowee and Whittier took me onto dirt and country lanes and was beautiful. The sun was warming things up, too. Then I got to Maggie Valley. I don’t like Maggie Valley much. It’s touristy in the lamest way, and even though there’s stuff there, there’s nowhere much to eat, nothing much of interest. I couldn’t even find a coffee shop to stop in for some wifi. Jen had texted that I’d blocked Thanksgiving at the studio on the wrong day - and I needed to fix that. I can’t wait until we’re retired and can travel without thinking about dumb things like this that have to be dealt with. If I knew when the hell Thanksgiving was, this wouldn’t have been an issue. Thanks a lot, Thanksgiving.

I stopped in a parking lot to try to make a plan for the night. I hate finding a place to sleep more than anything. When Johnny Pow and I were hanging out, he told me I should skip Harmon Den and Hot Springs and head straight to the stuff that will be new to me - past Erwin, TN. I decided to ride to a road in Harman Den that I thought allowed dispersed camping. Thirty minutes down the road, when I stopped for gas, I changed my mind. Every campground I looked at was closed because of the god damned government shutdown. I wasted lots of time looking. Finally, I found a private campground between Max Patch and Hot Springs. I called and left a message, and I headed that way.

An hour later, I pulled into the campground, and there was no one there. I drove back out, and next to the driveway was an old Triangle gas station, pumps long gone, and who knows what’s up inside. I’d been by here before and have always wondered what it was all about. A woman was walking out, and I asked if she knew anything about the campground. She said that she owned it. I told her I wanted a tent site. She was Asian, I’m not sure from where, and her English was a thousand times better than my any Asian language, but we definitely had a slight communication problem. I’m not going to write in her dialect because I don’t want to get cancelled, but I’ll hint, and you do the rest with the voice you read in in your head. She said something like, “No tent.” I was confused, I said, “Yes… tent!” “No, too cold,” she said. Ahhh - she’s mothering me. I like it. By the way, I know you’re reading her lines in a totally inappropriate voice like Mickey Rooney in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Cut that out. You’re going to get yourself cancelled.

“It’s okay, I cashed in our IRAs to buy my sleeping bag. It’s very warm.” She was not convinced. “Fire?” “Yes, I’d love to make a fire. Do you sell wood?” She nodded yes and led me inside the old Triangle gas station. Like I said, I’ve been by this place many times and always wondered what the hell it was. And now, my dreams were coming true. It was filled with dusty merchandise that would be right at home in 1937. The merchandise may have been from 1937, for all I know. She brought me to a back shelf where there was one bundle of wood - likely from 1937. I grabbed it, and the twine fell apart, and the logs went everywhere. “Sorry,” I said as I picked it up. Then I asked her if I could pay her for the site and the wood, “Do you take Venmo? Or a card? Or I even have checks.” “No - I am a small business. Only cash.” I reached down my riding pants into my pants pants hoping she wouldn’t think I was doing anything that should raise an alarm. My wallet felt thin as it always does, and I already knew what was coming. No cash. “No cash.” “So sorry, goodbye now,” I repeated the words credit card, check, and Venmo, but I might as well have been reciting Shakespeare backwards. I didn’t blame her - I didn’t smell like a good credit risk. I sure wish we had started with this conversation, but at least I got to see what was in the old Triangle gas station on the way to Max Patch. So much for mothering.

She was right, though. It’s too cold to camp. I could, but I shouldn’t. Okay, there’s a weird motel in Hot Springs. I’ve tried to stay there before with no luck, but I’ll go try again. That would be good - I could walk across the street to the cool tavern, have a beer, and get some stuff done. Hot Springs was 10 miles away, which in these parts means a 25-minute drive.

I pulled into the motel, and it was the same as last time. A weird note on the wall with a number to call - but there is no cell service, which makes this reservation system a bit clunky. I drove down the street, noticing that the two or three restaurants in town were closed for the winter, and still I had no cell service.

Okay. Okay. And then Johnny Pow’s voice entered my mind like Obi-Wan Kanobi to say, “You should go home and start fresh, my son.” I always know Johnny Pow is right the same way I always know my wife is right. And in both cases, I always ignore them until I’ve wasted time doing my own thing, until finally coming to the conclusion that they were right in the first place. I reasoned that I felt that going home would ruin the flow and disrupt my adventure. And it’s going to. Taking a shower and sleeping in a warm bed, and eating real food, is utter bullshit. BULLSHIT! But I’m out of ideas, it’s cold as hell, and screw it. I headed for Asheville. And then.

Oh jeez. What have I done now? I mean, of course, I was speeding a little. Also, my taillight is acting wonky. And I robbed that Triangle gas station using a loose piece of firewood as a weapon. Could that be it?

Nope. The cop was nice and said, “I can’t see your license plate.” Huh? I walked around to the back of the bike, and yup. It was covered in mud. Like, all the way covered - you couldn’t see it at all. I wiped it off for him and gave him a look to mean, “There it is, sir! Can I go now?!” He asked for my license and took it to his car. He sat there for a long time. Cops holding my ID and looking up my record makes me nervous. Not that there’s anything in my past to worry about, ahem. But he sat there for a long time, and I wondered what he was learning. Then another cop car pulled up behind the first one, lights flashing away. The new cop got out and leaned in to talk to the first cop. Oh shit, why does he need backup?! What did I do? It doesn’t matter how innocent you are when the blue lights are flashing, your heart sinks, and you start wondering what crimes you’ve committed, and you start to remember committing crimes you never committed. I totally shouldn’t have robbed that Triangle gas station. If only she’d taken Venmo!

Turns out, the second cop was just stopping to say hi. The first copy gave me back my license and said, “Looks like you’ve been through it - no ticket. Just keep that thing clean.” For some reason, I said, “You too.” But he walked away like he hadn’t heard it. I got on my bike and rode.

Then this happened.

Twenty minutes of bumper-to-bumper traffic on I20. I knew I shouldn’t go back to civilization. Jen and I ordered takeout, I drank a couple of beers that should have been drunk in Hot Springs, and I got into my warm, massive bed without any thoughts of the physics of cold. I’ll get back out there tomorrow, first thing. Nighty night.

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I want to thank MotoCampNerd.com for sponsoring this trip. If you’re looking for gear, get it from these good folks.

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