WORLDFIRE - Chapter 15
Winds of Change in Coal Country
“When the winds of change blow, some people build walls and others build windmills.” Chinese proverb
From Steubenville, I crossed the Ohio River into a narrow sliver of West Virginia. Kicking in the electric-assist motor to give me a fighting chance with the parade of speeding cars and trucks, I negotiated the bridge without incident only to then have to shoot across a dangerously busy on-ramp to get back onto the shoulder of the highway. Not long after that, I heard police sirens behind me. But instead of passing, two squad cars with flashing lights pulled up behind me. The sight produced a sinking feeling in my gut. The first officer to approach curtly told me that bikes were not allowed on the shoulder of Highway 22. I told him this was news to me and explained that I had avoided Interstate 70 for that very reason. The relaxed demeanor of the second officer, however, was more encouraging. Walking up with a smile on his face, he asked if I wanted to know why I had been pulled over. I said, “Yes.” He told me they had received a call that a “kid on a go-cart was riding down the highway.” In response to this, I quipped, “That’s not too far from the truth,” which gave us all a good laugh. When the senior officer heard my story, and that I was trying to make the 40 or so miles to Pittsburgh before dark, he graciously gave me the green light to continue riding on the shoulder of the highway. Grateful for this professional courtesy, I continued on my way.
About 20 miles outside of Pittsburgh, I got pulled over again. This officer also told me that bikes were not allowed on the side of the highway and that I would have to get off at the next exit and pedal the winding, mountain roads into the city. With my legs and my battery almost drained, this was the last thing I wanted to hear so close to my destination. Pleading my case, I told him I had permission to be there, but he seemed unmoved and asked for my driver’s license. Just when it looked like I might not make it by nightfall after all, the officer came back, handed me my license, and confirmed my clearance to use the highway the rest of the way into Pittsburgh. Now twice relieved, I thanked him and picked up the pace, lest I get pulled over again.
But my troubles weren’t over yet. A few miles later, some rumble strips caused my phone to shake loose from its roof mount. Fortunately, the phone was attached to a solar charger by a long cord, but it took an unlucky bounce and fell through one of the vent holes in the floor. I listened to it sickeningly drag along the pavement until I could pull to a stop. Fearing the worst, I slowly reeled in the cord, fishing the phone up through the hole. It was still in one piece, but the glass was badly chipped on two corners, including the one that housed the camera lens. Amazingly, though, everything still worked. Three close calls in three hours.
As I neared the city, I received even more than the usual number of honks and friendly waves from passersby. Maybe it had to do with the yellow and black trim Steelers colors of the trike. Happy to have arrived, with two more states behind me, I rolled up to the first budget motel I encountered on the outskirts of the city, before rolling down a steep hill in search of dinner. A life-long Steelers fan, I was familiar with the city and its culinary delights, so I was happy to find a restaurant close by that made a sandwich that’s almost as popular in Pittsburgh as chili is in Cincinnati, a Pittsburgh sandwich I washed down with a couple of Iron City beers. My thirst quenched and appetite sated, I pedaled, snail-like, back up the steep hill under the watchful eye of red-tailed hawk #21 to the motel. It had been a challenging day, with my legs feeling every one of its 65 miles. But it was Friday night, and I was looking forward to a weekend off exploring the Steel City.
As the fields of wind farms I would soon encounter in coal country would attest, wind power is making a stand in Pennsylvania, but most of the state remains in thrall to oil, gas, and coal development. This is evidenced most starkly through the methane gas fracking boom of the Marcellus Shale formation underlying much of the Keystone State. But not in Pittsburgh, which days before my arrival became the first city in America to ban methane fracking. The Steel City is too busy making the transition from Rust Belt to Green Belt to be wallowing in the past.
Pittsburgh has not always gotten the respect it is due. A cradle of the Industrial Revolution, most of the nation’s steel was once produced in this proud city, inspiring the name the Pittsburgh Steelers. The flip side of the coin is the city also used to be one of the most polluted in the nation, better known for its soot-streaked buildings and contaminated rivers than for its football team. But like its hardy residents, the Steel City has evolved with the times to reshape itself into one of America’s greenest burgs. It might surprise you to learn that Pittsburgh is part of a blossoming movement of U.S. municipalities that recognize the legal rights of nature and empowers citizens to enforce those rights. Arguing that residents’ legal rights to clean air, water, and soil were being threatened by fracking, Pittsburgh outlawed the practice in 2010 by asserting the rights of nature. Their local ordinance states: “Natural communities and ecosystems, including, but not limited to, wetlands, streams, rivers, aquifers, and other water systems, possess inalienable and fundamental rights to exist and flourish within the City of Pittsburgh. Residents of the City shall possess legal standing to enforce those rights on behalf of those natural communities and ecosystems.” The exciting rights of nature movement is an outgrowth of a famous 1972 dissent, written by Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas, in which he passionately argued that nature threatened with destruction deserves legal standing. The concept has since taken root in dozens of U.S. cities and towns and in numerous countries around the world. Sadly, not all of the movement is forward. My post-fire hometown of Nederland, CO recently repealed its Rights of Nature resolutions in the hopes of building a new reservoir and dam.
Happy to be back in the Steel City, I spent a leisurely Saturday exploring the city by trike, meeting up at the end of the day with David Hughes, head of Citizen Power, a local advocacy group dedicated to promoting renewable energy and energy efficiency. Prior to my arrival, Harvey Wasserman had reached out to David, who graciously opened up his home to me during my stay. We took the opportunity to brief each other on our respective projects and work.
With the Steelers playing at home the following day, I decided to head into the city to soak up the atmosphere of the game. Pedaling down to the stadium on a sunny Sunday afternoon, I crossed the Allegheny River on one of Pittsburgh’s 446 bridges, joined by earth-friendly bike taxis weaving effortlessly in and out of traffic doing a brisk business transporting fans to the stadium. I couldn’t help but notice how the passengers in the bike taxis looked happy and relaxed in stark contrast to the scowling faces of passengers in conventional taxis stuck in traffic. Next to Heinz Field, at the confluence of Pittsburgh’s three rivers, is a long dock where boats congregate for floating tailgate parties. I spent a fun afternoon there boatgating with fellow Steelers fans before later heading up the steep hills to David’s place to pack up.
Penetrating the Pittsburgh media market the next morning would prove tougher than breaking through the Steelers’ defensive line. I didn’t get a nibble from any of the major media outlets. I did get a call back, however, from a newspaper in nearby McKeesport, which was on my route. So I made tracks for The Daily News, where I reported to the reporter: “What I've been finding is almost every American that I've spoken to about this goal agrees with it and wants to see us embrace it.” After the interview, I fueled up with a late breakfast at a local diner before navigating the town’s multi-use sidewalk to the first of more than 300 miles of blissfully car-free bike trails I was hoping to pedal the rest of the way to Washington, DC. The first section, the Great Allegheny Passage (GAP) trail, runs 150 miles over abandoned rail lines resurfaced with chat (soft crushed limestone) and ends in Cumberland, MD, where the Chesapeake & Ohio (C&O) Canal Towpath begins. The second section, the rutted, dirt C&O trail, runs the final 184 miles to DC. Sitting in my trike on the threshold of the final leg of the journey, I was excited for the adventure to begin.
Armed with a trail map and a supply of freeze-dried meals I had procured in Pittsburgh, I said goodbye to civilization and entered cycling nirvana. The early miles of the wooded, riverside trail revealed evidence of generations of coal mining. One particularly stark specimen was Red Waterfall, where water issued forth from the side of a mountain stained red from acid mine drainage. Its impact revealed itself moments later when I crossed a stagnant rust red creek showing no signs of life. It might as well have been effluent from a polluting chemical plant. I wondered how many such dead streams flowed through Pennsylvania’s coal country.
Down the trail, past the town of Van Meter, I had been told to look for a trailside memorial in the shape of a large chunk of coal commemorating the 1907 Darr Mine disaster. It was one of several mining tragedies that had struck that December, marking the deadliest month in the history of U.S. coal mining. The cause of the underground explosion is debated, but here is what the United Press Dispatch reported the day after the disaster: “Superintendent Black, who was in charge of the mine, recently resigned, as did David Wingrove, former fire boss, on account of the gaseous nature of the mine. It is said they notified the officials the mine was unsafe for the men to work in.” The tragic end result is that 239 brave men and boys were killed in the explosion (only one miner survived), a blast that reportedly shook the Youghiogheny River Valley so hard the impact could be felt for miles around. When I arrived at the memorial, the sky was a fitting overcast and grey. Behind the memorial was a lightly trodden path leading up through the woods I had been told would take me to the mouth of the mine. In a light drizzle, I trudged up the path to the entrance (since sealed), where I said a prayer for the victims of one of the worst disasters in U.S. history. Then I quietly retraced my steps back down the leaf-strewn trail as a cold rain fell down from the sky.
Of course, there is much more to the region’s coal mining history than tragedies. Like how Pennsylvania coal was instrumental in producing the coke (in brick ovens that are still in evidence along the trail) burned to make the steel in Pittsburgh’s famed steel mills. And how that steel laid the foundation for America’s Industrial Revolution. And how that Industrial Revolution created an American lifestyle that became the envy of the world. Many of the conveniences we take for granted today were forged with the blood, sweat, and tears of Pennsylvania’s coal miners and steel workers. I share this because Appalachia’s proud heritage demands respect. Few people have toiled harder, or worked under more perilous conditions, than America’s coal miners to keep the lights on for the rest of us. Most people would agree that fossil fuels have contributed greatly to humanity’s advancement since the advent of the Industrial Revolution. Coal, oil, and gas have raised our living standards in countless ways and I am grateful for the benefits they have provided. But in the 21st century, we know the continued use of these dinosaur fuels is putting America, and the world, in grave danger. Industries that once helped build civilization up are now tearing civilization down. Times change and so must we.
As far back as 2014, a Washington Post/ABC News poll found that 70 percent of Americans surveyed support federal limits on carbon emissions. What’s more, the numbers held up in nearly 20 coal states. As reported in the Washington Post: “Americans living in coal-heavy states are supportive of limiting greenhouse gas emissions in the poll, even as their states will be forced to make bigger adjustments... Among those in states where a majority of electricity is produced by burning coal, 69 percent say the government should place limits on greenhouse gas emissions.” Having pedaled through nearly half of those coal states myself, and having spoken with their residents, this finding didn’t surprise me.
It is time to turn the page on the age of coal, but not at the expense of a single coal miner. I believe our nation’s coal miners–all 43,582 of them–have earned guaranteed retraining and reemployment in the green energy sector at comparable pay, if not guaranteed pensions for life. Fairness demands federal transition support for every coal worker displaced by the green industrial revolution. It is the least we can do for them after all they have done for us. A 2016 Michigan Technological University study estimated it could cost as little as $180 million to retrain all of America’s coal workers for reemployment in the solar sector. Even if it costs more to make miners whole, it is a cost I think most fair-minded Americans would willingly pay with their tax dollars. Justice demands that fossil fuel workers not take the fall for doing what the rest of us have been asking them to do for ages.
It’s not like there aren’t plenty of green collar jobs to be had. By 2013, the number of U.S. solar industry workers had officially passed the number of coal workers. By 2016, the solar industry had overtaken the entire fossil fuel industry, with the U.S. Department of Energy reporting the solar industry employed more Americans in the electric power generation sector than the oil, gas, and coal industries combined. And this is without even considering the impressive growth in wind energy, energy efficiency, and electric vehicle-related jobs.
Even in the Keystone State, renewable energy employs more Pennsylvanians than coal, oil, and gas, with jobs lost in the transition more than made up for by the number of new jobs created. For those wanting to stay in the industry they know, tens of thousands of dislocated oil and gas workers could be gainfully employed nationwide locating, plugging, and monitoring the millions of abandoned oil and gas wells that are currently making people sick and leaking dangerous methane. Pennsylvania has more of these abandoned wells than any state in the Union. There are also a great many jobs to be created for displaced coal workers doing the critical restoration work of reclaiming abandoned coal mines. In fact, there is so much work to be done in this arena, some like public policy expert Megan Milliken Biven are suggesting federalizing this workforce through the creation of a U.S. Abandoned Well Administration. Thanks to Congress dedicating $16 billion to the 2021 Bipartisan Infrastructure Law for cleaning up legacy pollution, some of this vital work is now underway.
Another promising vision to ensure a just energy transition is a federal bill called “The Clean Energy Worker Just Transition Act.” Originally introduced in 2015 by U.S. Senators Bernie Sanders (I-VT), Jeff Merkley (D-OR) and Edward Markey (D-MA), the legislation would provide support to unemployed coal workers and expand to other energy sectors over time. The bill provides unemployment insurance, health care, and pensions for up to three years and job training and living expenses for up to four years. The $41 billion program would be paid for by closing the tax loophole many corporations sneakily use to dodge paying their fair share of taxes by moving their headquarters overseas.
But any transition help currently being provided is a drop in the bucket compared to what fossil fuel-dependent communities need. One entity doing some of this critical economic revitalization work is the Appalachian Regional Commission (ARC), a 13-state economic development partnership between federal, state, and local governments. ARC’s stated mission is “to innovate, partner, and invest to build community capacity and strengthen economic growth in Appalachia.” Here’s how they do it: “Each year ARC provides funding for several hundred investments in the Appalachian Region, in areas such as business development, education and job training, telecommunications, infrastructure, community development, housing, and transportation. These projects create thousands of new jobs; improve local water and sewer systems; increase school readiness; expand access to health care; assist local communities with strategic planning; and provide technical and managerial assistance to emerging businesses.” Since the agency covers all or parts of 13 states, it seems to me ARC should be expanded to fund several thousand investments a year, given that there are thousands of distressed communities in Appalachia that need help. No one should be left behind in the green energy transition.
As I continued down the wooded Appalachian trail, the shift in scenery from roads and skyscrapers to trail and open sky had me feeling euphoric. After about 33 miles, I came upon a beautiful campsite nestled in the quiet woods featuring an irresistible open-faced half cabin overlooking the Youghiogheny River. The cabin even had a fireplace. It was much earlier in the day than I usually stopped, but the set-up was just too perfect to pass up. So I pulled up to my home for the night and got busy gathering kindling for what would be my first campfire of the expedition. With the unexpected gift of time on my hands, I decided to film a show-and-tell video of the rocket trike for my YouTube channel. Then I settled into my log cabin and blogged for the rest of the afternoon about something that had been weighing on my heart.
It was the 47th anniversary of JFK’s assassination, one of the darkest chapters in our nation’s history, a chapter that would also violently rob us of Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr. As fate would have it, I had recently visited Dealey Plaza with a friend, where I walked up to the grassy knoll, stood behind the infamous picket fence and gazed over at the white “X” on the street marking where the president had been shot. Like most Americans, I don’t buy the lone gunman theory. Even the 1976-1979 U.S. House of Representatives Select Committee on Assassinations concluded that President Kennedy was “probably assassinated as a result of a conspiracy.” It makes one wonder if we will ever know what really happened on that dark day in Dallas. But this much I do know: you cannot kill a dream.
On September 12, 1962, in front of a crowd of 35,000 people at the Rice University football stadium in Houston, Texas, President Kennedy famously announced: “We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard, because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our energies and skills, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone, and one which we intend to win.” JFK may not have lived to see his soaring dream fulfilled, but his prophetic vision of landing a man on the Moon before the end of the decade was a real mission accomplished. The key to its success was the urgent timeline attached to it. As Kennedy demonstrated, achieving greatness requires a president with a vision great enough to inspire the American people and Congress. When it comes to the climate crisis, it also requires the courage of one’s convictions to stand up to the forces of greed that are profiting from the suicidal status quo. It is easy to bow to the power of the fossil fuel barons. It is hard to issue the challenge of renewing America with renewable energy on a Project Apollo-like timescale. What is easy is pretending that baby steps will get us where we need to go in time. What is hard is acknowledging they won’t and committing to taking the giant leaps that will.
As darkness fell, the air took on an evening chill. I lit a fire in the fireplace, by body warmed by its friendly glow, before boiling some water for an early freeze-dried Thanksgiving dinner of turkey, mashed potatoes, and stuffing. I was in my natural element in my little half-cabin and sat up late enjoying the crackling fire, with the quiet of the woods broken only by the haunting hoot of an owl and the occasional shriek of train wheels rolling down the steel tracks across the river.
Awakening the next morning to a light rain, I took my time packing up, in no hurry to leave my rustic shelter. Once packed, I snapped on the ragtop rain cover to keep dry and headed up the damp, leaf-strewn trail nestled into my cozy capsule, my senses invigorated by the Fall wet leaf smell. The further upstream I rode, the cleaner the river became and the prettier everything got. In one of Pennsylvania’s great success stories, river otters, which are highly sensitive to pollution, had been successfully reintroduced to the Youghiogheny River basin in recent decades. I was not lucky enough to see one of the playful critters, but I did pull over to videotape a beautiful tributary of crystal clear water flowing like blood through the veins of the Earth, before enjoying rocketing across a series of wooden bridges.
The soft limestone substrate of the trail, softened even further by the rain, slowed my progress and I only managed 42 miles on the day, which I ended around sunset in the tiny Pennsylvania town of Ohiopyle. Approaching the town from a long wooden bridge perched high above the Youghiogheny, I watched some kayakers in wet suits pulling their boats out of the frigid water far below. I thought I was tough peddling in shorts and sandals so late in the season until I saw them. No doubt on account of the lateness of the season, I had only encountered one other cyclist all day. I was enjoying having the GAP trail to myself, but I was also feeling a growing sense of urgency to make it to DC before the weather turned cold for good. Also weighing on my mind was my having been told by more than one person that the three-wheeled trike might not survive the final 184-mile stretch of the C&O Canal Towpath, given that much of it was deeply rutted single-track. I could only hope their concerns were unfounded.
Pedaling down Ohiopyle’s Main Street, I happened upon one of the town’s 59 residents, Kevin Ravenscroft, who kindly offered to let me pitch my tent in his back yard and later invited me inside for some homemade vegetable soup, cold beer, and good conversation, topped off with some homemade cherry pie for dessert. In the morning, I rolled down to the local cafe for breakfast before crossing the main drag to take in the stunningly beautiful Ohiopyle Falls, which in the Native tongue means “white, frothy water.” Between the picturesque waterfall and the popular section of whitewater that makes a big horseshoe bend around the town, I can see why so many tourists and kayakers gravitate to this tiny hamlet.
I spent the rest of the day pedaling past the free-flowing whitewater of the Youghiogheny, then next to one of its equally attractive tributaries, the Casselman River. Nearing the town of Garrett, Pennsylvania, I spotted through the trees a large wind turbine on the horizon. As I got closer, I saw more turbines and went in search of the wind farm. The backcountry road leading there was so steep I actually had to push the heavily loaded trike partway up one of the hills, but I was determined to find it. At last nearing my destination, I was graced by Hawk #22 alighting on a branch above me. A good guess on a side road landed me smack in the middle of 30 megawatts of wind energy projects, including Pennsylvania’s first commercial wind farm, the Green Mountain Wind Energy Center, perched atop a reclaimed coal mine. A beautiful sight to behold, I lingered there for a while. I saw a dozen or more wind turbines a few ridges away, and what I guessed to be the same regal-looking red-tailed hawk flying close to me again as if in greeting.
For the second day in a row, I encountered only one other cyclist on the trail, and that was only during the final mile just outside of Meyersdale, where I called it a day an hour before sunset with 49 more miles in my rearview mirror. With the temperature in the low 40s, I was comfortable enough in the enclosed trike as long as my legs were moving, but when I stepped out, soaked in sweat, the cold slammed me hard. With my core temperature dropping as fast as the ambient temperature, it was fortunate there was no local campground to be found or I would have ended up camping in the cold and probably sick. Instead, I lucked into an affordable room in town, where I revived myself with a healing hot shower. With the next day’s weather forecast calling for rain and cold, my plan was to hole up in Meyersdale for Thanksgiving, thankful to have a roof over my head. Before retiring, I poked my head out the door to see if the rain was still falling. The cold rain had turned to sleet.
The streets were deserted when I emerged from my room on Thanksgiving Day. With everything coated with a transparent layer of ice, Meyersdale felt like a ghost town as I trudged up the hill in a light drizzle to check on trail conditions. I found the trail puddled and sloppy, but my bigger concern was whether the ice storm might prompt an early winter shutdown of the Big Savage Tunnel, which would force a difficult detour on busy roads, something I desperately wanted to avoid. I knew I was pushing my luck, given that it closed every winter right about at this time.
Because Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, I wasn’t happy about spending it alone, but instead of feeling sorry for myself, I dedicated the day to feeling gratitude for the many blessings in my life. On this day, they included the thoughtfulness of a young man who ran the motel with his grandmother for granting me the use his girlfriend’s internet connection to work on my website. I was also grateful to find a convenience store open where a traveler could rustle up a little hot grub. A couple of burrito wraps and a steaming mug of mocha made for a workable Thanksgiving meal.
An overnight forecast of snow dimmed, but did not extinguish, my hopes of making it through the tunnel and over the Eastern Continental Divide the following day. Relieved that the predicted snow hadn’t materialized, I emerged to a clear sky and well-drained trail and pedaled without difficulty nine miles up to the Eastern Continental Divide, separating the Gulf of Mexico and Chesapeake Bay watersheds. As I passed through the short tunnel under the divide, I reflected back on my earlier decision to come this way–instead of through Kentucky and West Virginia–with immense satisfaction. I could not have chosen a more adventurous and enjoyable way to cross the Appalachians.
A couple of miles later, I was relieved to find the doors of the Big Savage Tunnel still open, but the lights were off, so I didn’t know for how long. Built for a narrow-gauge railroad in 1911, today the tunnel is used for hikers and cyclists who need to get under Big Savage Mountain. Approaching it reminded me a little of the fabled Mines of Moria from “The Lord of the Rings,” but if the stories are true, the mountain’s history is even spookier. According to local legend, a team of surveyors got stranded near Big Savage Mountain during the winter of 1736. Starving and desperate for food, they nearly resorted to cannibalism. As the story goes, John Savage was the sickest of the group and either volunteered to be eaten or was voted the weakest by the rest of his crew. Either way, things were not looking good for him. Fortunately, a supply team showed up with food and John did not get eaten. The mountain and tunnel were named after him in honor of his near-death experience.
For fun, I rode through the darkened 3,300-foot-long tunnel with my lights off to get the full spooky effect. The only light I could see was at the other end of the tunnel, which started out as a tiny white dot and slowly grew larger as I grew closer. When I finally emerged, I noticed the huge metal doors were partly shut. I was just happy to have made it through.
A mile or two after navigating the tunnel, I crossed the Mason-Dixon Line into Maryland. From there, it was all downhill to Cumberland, Maryland. For the first time during the entire journey, I was able to rocket downhill for miles at a time without pedaling. I savored every exhilarating minute of the descent. En route to Cumberland, I met a guide for the Adventure Cycling Association, Larry Brock, who rode with me for a few miles. After so many days pedaling solo, I was happy for the company. Along the way, we passed through the 900 foot-long Brush Tunnel, but not before checking for trains (the tunnel is still used by a steam engine that makes regular tourist runs). A little further down the mountain, Larry turned me onto the Cumberland Bone Cave, an ancient hole in the mountain with fossilized bones dating back more than 200,000 years. A locked gate prevents you from entering the cave, but the skeletons of a Pleistocene-era cave bear and saber-toothed cat recovered there by a Smithsonian Institution excavation team are on permanent display at the Smithsonian Museum in DC.
The GAP trail ended in Cumberland, 40 miles from where I had started the day. After parting ways with Larry, I rolled over to the Cumberland Times-News for an interview with one of their reporters, and that is when things started to get weird. As the reporter and I stood on the sidewalk, a car accident unfolded right in front of us on the street. We watched the front bumper of the rear car disintegrate upon impact, sending little pieces of plastic flying through the air. Fortunately, no one appeared to be hurt. Then something to my left caught my eye and I turned to see a heavyset man try to jump onto a moving train backing up into Cumberland’s train station. I watched helplessly as he almost fell under its heavy metal wheels. Two incidents in less than two minutes was two too many for me. So instead of pedaling into the street like the reporter requested for the photo shoot, I walked the trike down the sidewalk to a quiet alley so he could take his pictures there. It turns out that wasn’t safe either. No sooner did I hop into the trike than a car comes barreling straight toward me from the far end of the alley. I remember the reporter yelling “slow down!” to the driver, who slammed on the brakes way too close for comfort. The driver, a panicked-looking young woman talking on her phone, jumped out of the car and ran past me toward the scene of the car accident as if I wasn’t even there. Now spooked by incident number three in Cumberland, I was really hoping the trike would be able to negotiate the car-free C&O.
But the weirdness wasn’t done with me yet. Ready to call it a day, I rolled down the street to a remote YMCA where you can camp on the grounds for $10 a night. After pitching my tent, securing the trike, and draping my blue tarp over it, I headed inside to unwind in the sauna before walking down the road to a local bar for some dinner, where one of the locals treated me to a couple of beers as we mused about the possibilities of a green energy moon shot. As I returned in the dark down the spooky, deserted road to my campsite, one last, unsettling surprise laid in wait for me. Approaching from a distance, I realized something wasn’t right. When I saw what it was, my heart sank into the pit of my stomach.
My tent was gone! Also missing was the bright blue tarp sheltering my trike. For a few fleeting seconds, images of a long, cold night, followed by a 184-mile walk down the C&O trail to Washington, DC, swam through my head. Then I spotted the trike with the tarp lying next to it on the ground. Relieved to see it and my gear still there, I told myself there had to be a logical explanation for the missing tent. It was then that I spotted the tent, about 40 feet across the lawn, sitting upright as if it belonged there. It was weird. I distinctly remember partially staking it down before leaving for the bar. It would have taken a really strong wind to shake it loose from its moorings. The thing is, I don’t remember it being particularly windy that night.
It was nothing I could put my finger on, but something about that field where I was camping just felt achingly, hauntingly desolate, as if maybe something bad had happened there in the past. Spooked by the day’s troubling events, I opened my pocketknife and slipped it under my pillow before zipping the tent door shut. That night, I hardly slept a wink. You can imagine my relief when dawn delivered the comforting sounds of human voices and car doors slamming as locals headed in for their early morning workouts at the Y.
As the sun’s rays rose over the Appalachians, so did my spirits. Emerging from my tent, I wasted no time packing up and departing. A new day with new adventures awaited me on a new trail. I was eager to get started.
NOTE: The written form of WORLDFIRE is the authoritative version. Any inadvertent errors in transcribing the recordings are mine and mine alone.