Warning Signs

These next few blog entries will hopefully be shrapnel-writings—quick recaps from Blackstone, Virginia, to Carrboro, North Carolina:

Events from Sunday, October 12, 2008:

After breaking down the tent and passing Skip on the road to Wellville, I drove to the nearest and only place to find coffee in southern Virginia on a Sunday: McDonald’s. After fueling, I followed the directions to meet up with Skip, on his first dirt road of the trip, along a train track. It was a beautiful morning, warm, and the rays were just coming up over the trees, so I drove ahead to set up the camera and shoot some b-roll. The dirt roads didn’t bother me a whole lot; they reminded me of the logging roads in Nova Scotia Rough-Stuff Wilson and I joyrided on in our summer of misadventure up in the eastern province.

Shortly thereafter, Skip and I came to a series of crossroads, all of which were unmarked. I checked my map and saw that we had entered into Fort Pickett. We checked the navigation on his phone and backtracked a little, but we found the “road” easily enough. I drove on ahead—we were only supposed to be on it for a mile, so if it wasn’t the road I could easily turn around and let Skip know. Little did I know, nothing about the next hours were going to be easy.

The dirt road quickly degraded into #57 stone, manufactured crushed granite I was familiar with from my days as a geologist. 57 stone is great for military vehicles, like tanks, but do not bode so well for Volkswagon Golfs. I got about halfway down the hill, listening to the grinding and crunching of my car and the stone clanging around underneath, before I stopped and pulled over. I hopped out of the car and continued walking down the path to see if I could get a better idea of the terrain ahead on foot. I rounded a bend and saw a creek, about 8-10 inches deep and 20 feet wide. On the other side of this creek, there was a steep incline, laid down with #2 stone, a grade larger and rougher than 57. I waited for Skip to catch up with me, and then filmed him fording the creek, barefoot. I walked with him the rest of the mile up hill, to see if the road improved, and it did. I decided I would go back and force Bluto (Mr. Blutarsky, my car) quickly through the river and up the embankment up to where the grade of stone got smaller and smaller, until it finally became a dirt road again.

I hoofed back to the car, got in, rubbed the dashboard, said a little prayer, and apologized to Bluto. I waded down into the creek, but coming up on the other side my car began dislodging the stone and I felt my front end dropping. I quickly put it in reverse and stopped, right in the middle of the creek. For about three seconds I panicked with the thought of getting stuck there, in the water, in the middle of nowhere. I took a deep breath and gunned it forward; the discordant grinding worsened underneath—this wasn’t going to happen. I shifted quickly into reverse—thankfully Golfs are front wheel drive—and was able to make it up to the side of the creek I had been on before; I was going to have to find another way around.

I made it back to the crossroads and starting driving down a road, the wheel in one hand and a compass in the other. I was watching the road, watching the compass, when I came up to a “Do Not Enter” sign that someone had spray-painted over with black paint the phrases, “KILL,” and “GO BACK.” Of course, I grabbed the video camera and rolled tape. While I was doing this, a pickup truck drove up with two men inside. The driver asked me what I was doing, and I told him I was trying to make it to Route 40. He told me to keep on driving but get off of the property quickly, because the Marines were having a drill weekend. That was all the motivation I needed. I kept driving and, sure enough, before I got to Route 40, I passed an encampment of a squadron of Marines, hummers, huge-barreled launchers aimed at the sky… I knew that they wouldn’t have let me filmed but, looking back, instead of continuing to drive, I should have parked the car and hopped out, raked the muck a little. But, with all of the mishaps with the car, and the sign, my adrenaline was racing, and my flight response was dictating my actions. I have no doubt there would have been a better story in the middle of that camp.