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The Face in the Mirror The following essay originally appeared in The Sun as part of their Reader's Write series. Every month they ask readers to submit essays responding to a short prompt. The prompt for this issue was "Walking Home," a theme I couldn't pass up!  The guard at the park entrance regarded my driver�s license with skepticism. �This doesn�t look like you,� he said. He was right. My weight had nearly doubled in the nine years since the photo had been taken. Most mornings I barely recognized my own face in the mirror. I drove past the frowning guard and parked at the First Landing Monument. This was the spot where, 402 years ago, Captain Christopher Newport and John Smith first came ashore. This had been the launching point of the great exploration of America. It seemed a perfect place to begin my own adventure. Heaving a 35-pound rucksack onto my back, I shifted it into a comfortable position and set out on my walk. The pack contained �road food,� water, clothes, medical supplies, and various other necessities. Over the next few months, the load on my back would seem lighter as muscles in my legs grew toned and my gut shed more pounds than the pack weighed. But this day, it felt as if I�d strapped a tractor�s engine to my back. I�d once been a lean paratrooper in the 82nd Airborne Division, but when I left the army for the corporate world, I also left behind the ritual of early morning exercise. My hours became filled with television, computer games, and fast food, and my weight crept up to 400 pounds. Then I decided to do something about it: I would walk it off. That first day, I barely had the energy to lace up my sneakers, sweating and wheezing from the effort. I walked less than a quarter-mile down the road and came back a shambling wreck. The second time was even harder. But I stuck with the regimen, and, by degrees, the walks became easier. The mileage increased, the pounds came off, and I dreamed of other places I visit by foot. The dreams grew larger and coalesced into a goal that was grander than anything I�d attempted before: I would walk across Virginia! The first leg of my journey took me south along the Virginia Beach shore to the vacationland strip of boardwalk. Bikinied waifs and wiry boys with surfboards under their arms gave wide berth to the sweaty man with a pack on his back. When I reached 31st Street, a band was playing beach music on an outdoor stage so I flopped down on the lawn and watched couples shagging on the sidewalk. I basked in the celebration of life, feeling, for the first time in a long while, as if I was part of life. I�ve marched many miles since then and have many more to go. I walked the length and breadth of Hampton Roads and trekked up the Middle Peninsula to Virginia�s Northern Neck. I traveled by foot from the blue collar neighborhoods in Newport News to the cobbled streets of Colonial Williamsburg. I hiked the Colonial Parkway under starry skies and on the shoulders of busy thoroughfares beneath the midday sun. I walked in the rain and in the boiling heat. I walked until my thighs chafed and my heels grew wet from broken blisters. I walked until I found myself again. I walked until I recognized the face in the mirror. Windsor Chair on a Walkabout My recent walks have taken me south from Smithfield through Isle of Wight, Windsor, and Walters. It wasn't until I'd returned home and wrote the names of the towns on my map page that the name struck me: Windsor. That got me thinking about the Windsor chair I'd built in January and how I'd carted it around to my former office, to friend's houses, and even to an Advisory Council meeting. The next step seemed obvious: today I would continue my walk south and bring my chair along with me. That way I could stop at the "Welcome to Windsor" sign, plop down in my Windsor, and pose for a picture. Silly, I know, but hey, this is me we're talking about. As I drove through Smithfield, I remembered the gaffe I'd made when I first started to walk this southern leg of my journey. My original trek through Smithfield had taken me through town on Business 258 up to Bacon's Castle. However, when I added on this southern leg, I mistakenly began at the main artery of Route 258. Oops. That created a half-mile gap in my walking route that I needed to stitch up. Long as I was here, I figured I might as well knock it out now. I parked the car in the center of town and strolled a circular path along Main Street from the business route to the through-traffic route, snapping pictures of the Victorian houses and statues seated on park benches. I stopped in the Smithfield Visitors Bureau and browsed through their pamphlets and picked up a few postcards. My favorite was one that featured a montage of various local sites, including an interior shot of a Colonial era home. Standing by the fireplace was, of course, a pair of Windsor chairs.
But before going on a walk through the park, I wrote out my postcards and walked over to the post office. There was only one person in line in front of me, and though I was an hour away from home and only knew 4 or 5 people who lived in this area, I felt certain she was one of them. Her posture, her distinctive red curls�it just had to be her! Sidling over, I placed my head on her shoulder and said, "Hello, Wendy." Luckily for me, I was right, and instead of being sprayed with mace I mailed my cards and stopped in a local cafe with Wendy to catch up. The waitress tried to seat us at a round table that was about the size of a dinner plate, but seeing as there was only one other occupied table in the place, I plopped down at a larger table with room to sprawl. "We'll just sit here, if that's all right," I said. The waitress screwed up her face and left the menus sitting on the tiny table. "That�s for six." "Yeah," I said, "but no one else is coming in." The look she shot my way said "Bah, humbug," but her lips stayed shut as she stomped back to the counter. Wendy grabbed the menus from the other table and said, "Aren't you just Mr. Charming this morning." Though the service was gruff, I'm pleased to say my cranberry orange muffin was delicious. And bumping into Wendy and the nice woman at the Tourism Center more than made up for the sour disposition of one person...particularly since the crabbiness probably came from my unintended slight. But, you know what they say: When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. And when life gives you crabs, go to the clinic. Wendy wasn't feeling crabby at all and she agreed to tour the park with me so I had some company on my impromptu hike. At the entrance to Windsor Castle Park, I posed in my chair by a brass placard boasting the park's name and Wendy took my picture. Someone from the power company was working on a nearby junction box and she shook her head, chuckling and saying something under her breath. I'm sure it was something like, "Wish I had a chair as great as that one." The park itself was not completely finished and we encountered workers who were busy hammering planks on one of the piers to get it ready for the dedication ceremony in May. But the walking trail was open and we hiked the circular path, crossing long bridges over water and cinder paths that wound through forest and grassy marshland. "It's so quiet and peaceful out here," Wendy said. "Can you imagine living out here back in the Colonial days. No one else around. Sounds perfect." True, it was very zen. The only thing spoiling the peaceful setting was the occasional wise crack from you-know-who. What can I say? I can't help myself. Afterwards, I dropped Wendy off at her car and continued to the town of Windsor, where I got out of the car with my chair and posed for another picture. Then I continued on to Walters, where my last walk left off, and hiked toward Franklin until I was close enough to see the giant paper mill belching white smoke into the sky. At that point, I felt something tugging inside me, some yearning desire that caused me to turn around and head back to the car. A voice in my head was calling out: "Bill, come back to me." It was, of course, my chair. My beautiful, beautiful chair.   If you really love your Windsor chair, you should take it on a road trip! Hooray for Hump Day Today's hike took Dawn and me from Franklin down to the North Carolina border. After several close encounters with dogs on this quiet stretch of road, I actually remembered this time to bring along my mace canister. I even remembered to bring my camera. Yay for ginkgo! What I didn't remember to bring was my flashlight. Guess that ginkgo stuff only works if you take it. Unfortunately, we would be needing the flashlight today as we got off to a late start. Dawn estimated she'd be done with work between 12:30 and 1 p.m., but she actually finished a little after 2. While I waited in her office, I messed with some of the stuff on a co-worker's desk, adding entries to his "frequently called numbers" list (such as The Queen of England, Bertha's Massage Parlor, and Pizza Hut) and attaching a photocopy of my face to his wall along with stern warning that he was being watched. Idle hands. When we finally got hiking, we noticed the first signs of spring we'd seen on the roadside: daffodils in bloom. Dawn bent over to sniff them and I held back the urge to boot her down into the ditch. Hard to resist a target like that. Later I would actually shove her off the road and she would thank me, making me wonder if she could've gotten away with booting her this time as well. Probably not.
As darkness fell and Dawn chided me for forgetting the flashlight (though I was wearing my reflective vest), we stayed as far out on the edge of the tiny shoulder as we could. Even so, the wakes of the passing vehicles washed over us and reminded us that traffic was uncomfortably close. One truck strayed our way and I reached behind me and shoved Dawn off the side before following her into the ditch. After regaining her composure, she thanked me for battering her like that and I made that mental note I mentioned earlier. Not all the traffic was frightful. One man pulled his car over to the side and asked if we needed a ride. "That's all right," I explained. "We're walking across the state and have to make it to the Carolina border." The man's shocked face showed his surprise and I realized that I made it sound like we were finishing up a walk we'd done straight through. I didn't disabuse him of the notion. We made the border a short while later and jumped about and high-fived each other. Then we sang a horrible rendition of James Taylor's Carolina In My Mind, for which I am glad no one else was present to hear. Driving back across the border, a billboard with spotlights splashed across it directed us down a side street to the Dockside Restaurant. Naturally, I followed. Several more signs along the way let us know we "were almost there" and directed us further down the twists and turns that took us to the quaint restaurant. At least, I think it was quaint. Hard to tell, really, when the place is closed. Back at the main road, we double-checked the billboard and grumbled at the "Now Open" wording. But, this trifle could not dampen my spirits. Not only had we crossed another state border, the 8 miles we hiked to get there put me over the hump. My total distance for my planned route across the state varies somewhat as I add new destinations, but it currently sits at 1306 miles. Today's walk put my completed miles at 656, or slightly more than halfway there. You know what that means...time to celebrate. Maybe not at the Dockside Restaurant, but time to celebrate nonetheless. Join in if you want. Go on, celebrate! Give Me Liberty or Give Me Brits US 460 changes its name many times, reflecting a little bit of the personality of each city and region of Virginia through which it winds. In Portsmouth, it is called Military Highway; in Bedford, it is Blue Ridge Avenue; and in Lynchburg, US 460 becomes Jerry Falwell Highway. This prominent televangelist became famous for many radical stands on moral issues; but in Lynchburg, his legacy lives on in the form of this highway and in the prominent position the school he founded�Liberty University�has gained in the community. First time visitors are immediately made aware of Liberty U's presence. On the mountainside overlooking Lynchburg, a dark topiary forming the letters "LU" stands out in a giant circle of green grass. On my first trek through the area, I'd noticed this large logo and made a mental note to reroute my path through campus. Today I'd be pulling that Post-it off my brain and following its instructions.
Adirondack chairs were lined up near the Learning Center's entrance and as I approached, gawking with a sort of befuddled look on my face, a student rose from one of them to see if I needed any assistance. He didn't realize the dazed expression was my natural state. That was one of the great things I'd noticed. In addition to gorgeous architecture, another omnipresent feature to the LU campus was an overt friendliness in everyone present. People passing by would smile at me, say hello, and ask if I was having a nice day. When I stopped in the bookstore to browse the shelves, three different people asked if I needed help�and only two of them worked there. Unfortunately, my stay in Friendlyville was short lived. I exited campus directly onto the Jerry Falwell Highway and began the hike down 460. I walked 8 miles that first day (4 miles out and 4 miles back), stayed overnight, then completed another 10-� the next morning, leaving me 10 miles short of Bedford. The whole time, I was trying to figure out how to get a highway named after me, you know, something along the lines of "Incredible Shrinking Thoroughfare," "Super Walker Highway," or simply "Gee Your Bill Smells Terrific Avenue." And for those of you dying to tell me how several streets are already named after me�such as Little Schmuck Road in Evansville, IN; Hardup Road in Albany, GA; and Farfrompoopen Road in Story, AK�keep it to yourself!
On my hike across the state, I'd rarely encountered anyone else walking who hadn't been forced into the situation by a DUI or some other unfortunate incident...obviously not the case with this cheery couple. When I pulled over to chat with them, I discovered Richard Ambrose and Sally Gould were two young Brits who were walking across the country. You heard me: Walking. Across. The Country. This was actually Richard's second cross-country hike. "I walked across Spain a couple of years ago," he said. "I already knew what it was like to walk across a country, so I wanted to see what it would be like to walk across a continent." Yikes. I told them what I was doing and we made promises to connect up on a later leg before they got out of the state. There wasn't much I could offer them on advice and they seemed to be stocked up on necessities like water and safety gear, but I wanted to give them something for the road. So I rooted through my cooler and came up with a couple of PB&J's. "Thank you," Richard said, quizzical but gracious nonetheless. "I've never had a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich before." "Well, your American experience can't be complete without it!" After saying goodbye and watching them march off, there seemed to be a lot more room in the car, what with my ego having deflated to the size of a chick pea. Dreams of the Bill Glose Super Highway were now replaced with thoughts of a dusty country lane named in my honor: Runner Up Road. Oh, well. Take what you can get. Richard and Sally's walk originated a couple of weeks ago in Jamestown and they plan to end up in San Francisco in another 6-or-7 months. You can follow their adventure online at Richard's blog: Walk Over States. Not only is his adventure grand and his viewpoint interesting, he is quite the humorous writer. Definitely worth reading. Death of an Industrial Town
But the money is going away. Earlier this year, International Paper announced that they would be shutting down the century old mill, laying off thousands of workers and causing economic turmoil to local establishments whose business was catering to the factory. So, as I walked through Franklin today, I was prepared to face the downcast and dour residents of an industrial town going through its death throes. Appropriately, the sky was bleak and gray, and as I hiked through town I passed plenty of For Sale signs staked in front yards (some of them posted by "Spartan Real Estate"...I kid you not). What I didn't expect was to walk through Gangsterville. The south side of Franklin was full of tired buildings with slouching roofs and boarded-up windows. Young punks loitered on street corners and stared at me suspiciously as I came trekking through. One of them waved to his friends farther down the street and called out, "Five-Oh" as I passed, which thrilled me to no end. When I neared another group of three wannabe thugs, they split up and each headed in different directions. Unfortunately, one of them came directly toward me and had a scowl on his face. He mumbled something I couldn't make out and I kept hiking ahead. Then he said, rather forcefully and with a wave of some hand sign in front of his chest, "Yo!" Not wanting to "dis" him, but also not wanting to stop, I said, "Hey," nodded, and kept moving forward. I guess that was the correct thing to do because he called out behind me, "Yeah, that's right." How about that? I had a cheering section. School was letting out at that time and as I sped through town I came up behind a group of four sauntering high-school girls. A car slowed and a guy leaned out the window to call out to them. As one, they hoisted their middle fingers and berated him in a fashion that could make a sailor blush. As I neared this charming foursome, I stepped down from the sidewalk onto the street to pass. That's when one of them looked back and first noticed me and made me feel welcome by elbowing her partners and eloquently stating, "What the *&^%$#@ is this?"
Across from the mill, I stopped in at Joe's Pizza & Pasta Palace, which has been in business at this location since 1978. Joe was actually there and I spoke with him about the impact of the mill's closing. "40-50% of my business is down," he said. "Usually, the place would be 3/4 full." Looking around, I notice that, other than mine, only two other are tables occupied. "A lot of people are moving out," Joe continued. "It's a sad story because it's such a small town and it's always relied on this one major business. Many of the paper mill workers, they're second- or third-generation. A lot of the people who are leaving stop in and say, 'We're going to miss your food. We're going to miss you.' I try to think positive. When one door closes, another opens, right?" There are plenty of rumors about the mill or portions of the land it occupies being sold to some other corporation, and as I'm talking with Joe, a woman overhears us and asks with a little desperation in her voice, "You got any news about the mill being sold?" I shook my head and returned to my table. The waiter was kind enough to fill a bag of ice for me, and as I ate my delicious and enormous Stromboli, I cooled my foot on the bag. My foot had been in stabbing pain for the last couple of miles and I still had another three to hike. For some reason, the pain felt appropriate, given the circumstances of the region. Sympathetic pain, kind of like a husband's pangs when his wife goes into labor. I wish I could have told that desperate woman that, yes, I had news of a new corporation coming to town with jobs aplenty. But sometimes sympathy is all you can offer. St. Patty on a Hike I was going up to Charlottesville today, and since it was St. Patrick's day I wanted to accomplish a couple of things in addition to my planned walk. First, I wanted to celebrate my heritage. My mother's side of the family came over from Ireland and I felt the need to do something particularly Irish (i.e., drink a beer...or two...or...). I was going to a college town, so I knew that first goal wouldn't be hard to achieve. My second goal was to embarrass my nephew, Mike, a senior at UVA. Oh, I'm sorry, a "fourth-year." That goal actually turned out to be harder than I imagined. He's suffered through 20 years of embarrassing family incidents and is seldom affected anymore by my antics.
After yesterday's painful 10-� miles, I was planning to only do 8 today. Of course, they were mountain miles, so each one was equal to 1-� flatland miles, so my plan to take it easy might backfire. Mike drove southwest to a tiny burg called North Garden, whose population of cows seemed to outnumber human inhabitants. When Mike dropped me off, he paused on the shoulder as I began hiking in the wrong direction. I couldn't tell if he was wondering how I could've gotten lost already or if he was merely debating with himself whether he should inform me. Whichever it was, he held his tongue while I touched the sign announcing the limits of North Garden and turned around to hike back in the proper direction. "Ah," he said, then peeled off to leave me alone in the bucolic quietude of North Garden. It was a perfect day for hiking. The temperature hovered in the upper 60's and a light breeze riffled through the trees, making their naked branches dance as if the green leaves buried within were trying to force their way out. Soon enough they would burst forth and I was looking forward to the upcoming country hikes where I would experience the blooming of Virginia.
After a while I reached Route 29 and turned northward toward the plant nursery that had been my previous walking waypoint on this route back in November. The shoulders were wide and soft and I noticed the dirt had been dimpled with the distinctive U of horseshoes. When I arrived at the nursery and asked if I could refill my water bottle, one of the "nurses" directed me to a hand-cranked water pump beside the building. Today, everything seemed to be from times gone by. I didn't have time to wander the rows of flowers and bushes, for just as I capped off my water Mike rolled into the parking lot. We drove to campus�I'm sorry, "the grounds." After a quick shower, I stashed my car in the garage beneath the University Bookstore and my taste buds started salivating. The last time I'd been on campus�I mean, "grounds"�Mike had told me about a UVA tradition: eating a cyclops burger at the Castle, a restaurant on the ground floor of Bonnycastle Dorm. Of course, this "tradition" usually occurs after a long night of 12-ounce curls and hugging porcelain, but I was willing to forgo that portion of tradition and just revel in the decadence of a burger topped with a fried egg slathered in mustard, ketchup, onions, and whatever else your inebriated mind dreams up to pile on. Mike and I both ordered the cyclops burger and, unfortunately, it did not live up to its billing. To be honest, the burger was kind of bland, like some sort of low-cal cardboard-tasting patty. And this is coming from someone who had just hiked 8 mountain miles and was hungry enough to eat some of the road kill he'd passed. Pity. Mike had a dance lesson that night, so we parted ways. While he went off to educate himself, I searched for a place to kill brain cells. And I didn't have to go far. Just down the road from Mike's apartment stood Durty Nelly's Pub and Wayside Deli. I can't speak for the deli, which occupied a separate building on one side of the parking lot, but the pub itself was a dim-lighted dive with a handful of bikers loitering out front and a half-dozen hard drinkers slouched over the scarred bar. In other words, it was just what I was looking for. In honor of St. Patrick, a musician played live music in one corner of the bar. He alternated between electric guitar and keyboard while mumbling lyrics into a headset microphone. Occasionally, his throaty whine would strike the appropriate key for a sad country ballad, but that would usually be while he was singing some rock song that called for power and verve. Most of the patrons merely ignored him, though one portly fellow came over to him with a request. He suffled over, keys rattling on his belt loop as he weaved and held one hand out for balance. "Hey," he said. "Hey, can you play anything in the key of FHA?" "What's that?" Marblemouth asked. "Federal Housing Authority. Make it real slow and sad in honor of all those who are losing their homes." Hmm. Not quite the celebration I was hoping to find. I finished my Killian's Irish Red and decided to head back to Mike's. Mike was still at his dance lesson and his roommates were entertaining girls in the living room. Not quite the scene for a 43-year-old to hang around, so I made my way back to Mike's room, cleared the pile of laundry off his bed, and crashed for the night beneath a poster of tight-bodied underwear models who looked like they were 12-years-old. Instead of filling me with a sense of lust, they made me feel old and tired. I turned out the light and imagined what it would be like to be young again while in the next room those who were made the most of it, embracing life and each other. And, I'm guessing, an occasional shot of Jagermeister. Taking a Rock for a Walk I only met one of my two goals yesterday (having an Irish beer). For the second goal (embarrassing my nephew), I would have to wait until this morning. But I wouldn't have to wait long. I woke early and made my way to the living room where Mike was sleeping on the couch. Hearing that I was up, Mike unwedged his 6'-2" frame from the 5' couch and mumbled something about going to his room to finally get some sleep. I tried to get some ice from the freezer for my foot, but when I opened the door everything was crammed in so tightly that I had to unpack half the contents to remove anything that wasn't on the outer layer. It struck me funny and, being the dweeb that I am, I decided to take a picture. As I stood there waiting for the camera's flash to pop, one of his roommate's girlfriends came out of a room dressed in running clothes. She paused when she saw me taking a picture of their kitchen, shook her head, and went on her run. Goal Number 2 achieved.   No worries about taking a break today. An 11-mile hike in the mountains lay in my imminent future. But first, I popped in for a power breakfast at Revolutionary Soup. Rev. Soup has two locations, and I visited their little basement bistro on 14th Street. It was eclectic to say the least. Mediterranean posters were mixed in with black-and-white art prints on the walls, latin music played over the speaker, and a wide variety of wines peeking their noses out from racks competed for face time with a dozen-or-so foreign beers and local micro-brews cooling their tops in the fridge. A sign on the front counter said that patrons can taste soups before ordering...any or all of them. Wow. A dangerous offer to make in a college town. I could just imagine a long line of frat boys each sampling a spoonful of everything and emptying the store without ever placing an order. I figured a hearty order of soup would be just the right way to kick off my walk...and I'm sure it would have, but when I saw the menu, the strawberry French toast sandwich was calling out to me and it wouldn't shut up until I ordered one and stuffed it down my pie hole. Oh, well, I figured, I'll be walking it off soon enough.
Posted signs warned of falling rocks, and sure enough I passed by several spots where rocks had spilled out onto the road. I stopped once to clear some of them away and found one shaped like the hump of a camel's back with a nice smooth side that would make it stand up well on my desk at home. This, I figured, would make a nice memento. I brought the rock along, feeling pretty jazzed about my keepsake. But jazziness gave way to weariness. I wasn't counting on how much heavier that rock would become as the miles wore on. It only weighed 5 pounds, but it felt like 50 by the time I reached the end. Coming off the mountain, I took a break at the Lydia Mountain Country Store and met the very friendly Karen Ford who manages the place. A transplant to Lydia Mountain, Karen quickly made herself known around these parts as the shopkeeper who hugs everybody. I, of course, asked for, and received, a hug. When Karen heard how I was exploring Virginia and searching for interesting sights and goings on, she said, "Darn, you just missed the Mennonite car wash." The Mennonites from Mission Home not only regularly supply her store with home-baked, preservative free goodies, but they also do various activities to raise money for their charity. Including a car wash in the store's parking lot. Darn was right; I really would have loved to have been there for that. Maybe another time. For now, I satisfied myself with a bag of Mennonite "Monster Cookies" (oatmeal raisin mixed with peanut butter) and hit the road again. Whether it was an actual mistake or a subconscious attempt to ease my burden, I left my rock sitting on the store's railing. But I remembered it before I got too far and turned around for it. Stupid subconscious backfiring on me again. About 8 miles into my walk, I stopped in at a roadside convenience store to fill up on Gatorade. I grabbed a cold quart from the cooler and made my way to the counter. The cashier, noticing my rock, said, "Gonna hafta pay with somethin else." I dug out my wallet and scanned the "impulse buys" on the counter. I've become inured to the trashy tabloid magazines and candy bars stocked by the register at my local grocery store, but these guys played to different impulses. Lined up by the register were three pint-sized bottles of hooch. I momentarily thought how unwise it would be to drink any of it in my dehydrated state, but then I thought it might make for a nice celebration when I got to the end. So, I grabbed a flask's worth of "Johnny Bootlegger Alcatraz Sour Apple" and told the cashier to ring it up as well.
She was doing a couple of miles on her lunch break. But when I mentioned my 11 miles and how it fit in to my longer trek across the state, she came over toward me. We stepped across the grassy patch that separated the two roads and met at a barbwire fence that ran down its middle. "Cathy Kloetzli," she said, holding out her hand. Cathy, it turned out, was quite the walker herself. Her mother is a cancer survivor and twice Cathy has done 60-mile cancer walks to raise money to help find a cure. We chatted for a while, but I could only put off hefting my rock for so long and she eventually had to get back to work. When Mike picked me up in Stanardsville, he had a friend in the car with him. I offered to treat them to dinner, but first we had to make a pit stop at a grocery store. Mike and his friend needed to buy some necessary school supplies (i.e., beer). Though it had been a toasty day and I was wearing just shorts and a tee shirt, reminders of the recent nasty storms were all about. Since February's snowfall had been too great for trucks to merely scrape off to the roadside, they had dumped the salt-and-soot-caked slush at various collection points throughout Charlottesville. One of these black mountains stood in the parking lot as high as the neighboring buildings. I thought of how cold and white and wet February had been and how crisp and green today had been. Today's hike had tied up my route from Shenandoah National Park all the way to Charlottesville and beyond. The next time I came up to this area, I'd be marching through the park itself and basking in the wonder of spring. A smile broke across my face...and it had nothing to with my rock, lovely as it was. NOTE: Man's best friend is, of course, the dog, followed closely by wine, women, and song, though not necessarily in that order. Women move up and down the scale depending on what mood they're in and whether or not the men rating them have done all their chores and not stuck their feet in their mouths. From the vantage point of the doghouse, women can seem to only be something like man's tenth best friend, but sitting down to a home-cooked meal or watching your honey enter the bedroom in something new from the Victoria's Secret catalogue, she can even unseat the dog from his lofty throne. Sorry, Rex. Hiking Through Roanoke Founded in 1852, Roanoke was first called Big Lick because of a large outcropping of salt that attracted deer and other wildlife. Thirty years later they gave the town the more dignified name of Roanoke, and, if the current trend of explanatory titling holds true, don't be surprised if the city changes its name again in the near future, something along the lines of "Hey-we're-important-too-burg" or "Why-don't-more-people-know-about-us-ville." Although Roanoke has plenty to see and do, anyone who doesn't live in the western part of the state seldom hears anything about it or any of the other interesting towns in the Roanoke Valley. Sad, because Roanoke is the region's cultural hub, featuring a bevy of museums, theaters, sporting venues, and parks. Roanoke has been nicknamed "Festival City" due to a downtown Event Zone that hosts events throughout the year. One of the largest and most important occurs in the third week of July, when more than one-hundred thousand amateur athletes come to the annual Commonwealth Games, an Olympic-style amateur sports festival with more than 60 individual & team sports open to Virginia residents of all ages and skill levels.
To punish myself, I hiked 23 miles from Blue Ridge through Roanoke and Salem to the tiny town of Glenvar. At one point I'd been hiking for a long stretch of highway without passing any businesses. I was keeping an eye out for them because I needed to use a restroom. Finally, when I was reaching emergency alert levels, I came upon a massage center whose sign read "Lighten Your Burdens." I don't think my "burden" was exactly what they had in mind, but they received me graciously nonetheless.
On the other side of Roanoke, I strolled through the quaint city of Salem. No, this wasn't where the famous witch trials were held. Salem grew into being as a settlement on the Great Wilderness Road as young men heeded the call to "Go West." These days it's known more for an array of boutique shops and for being the host city of Division-III University National Championships in football, basketball, and volleyball. As I detoured through Salem's Lake Spring Park, geese and ducks paddled through the lake toward me hoping I might have some bread crumbs for them. Alas, all I had was a packet of trail mix. There was a wide concrete lip around the pond, so I figured, what the heck, and poured out a little pile of raisins and nuts. The biggest goose feasted while keeping the other fowl at bay. "Hey," I said to him, "play nice." A passing elderly gentleman commented, "Talk to them long enough and you'll swear they're talking back to you." I chatted with him a bit then we went our separate ways, circling the pond in different directions. I passed by a cute sign posted along the walk reading "3 to 12 year olds only allowed to fish. No adults." As I got to the opposite side, a small Vee of geese arrowed toward the pond, the leader honking his head off. I honked back at them and they veered aside to splash down a safe distance from the weirdo. At this time, I was near the gent again so I tugged his elbow and said, "You were right. They're talking to me." After I made it to my destination (Glenvar), I took a taxi back to my hotel, where I changed out of my road filth, washed up and headed back to visit Sherry for my first-ever professional massage. Let me just say: Wow! I finally understood what all the hoopla was about. What a wonderful, relaxing experience. Sherry put on a CD of background nature sounds, placed a perfumed sachet near my face, and went to work on my knotted legs. My foot still hurt when the session was over, but the rest of my body was relaxed and ready to take on the world. If only Sherry had worked on the Hokies before their game, they might have performed better. Hmm, maybe that means the loss wasn't my fault after all; it was Sherry's fault!. Ahh, not only were my muscles relaxed, but my psyche had been healed as well. Best money I've spent in a long while. Lighten Your Burdens therapeutic massage services is located at 126 Blue Ridge Blvd. in Roanoke. For appointments, call (540) 353-1463. Or just show up and tell Sherry that Bill sent you. But be prepared to duck. Donut Disappointments The past two nights I stayed at a Days Inn in Roanoke. Inexpensive, yes, but cheap would be a better word. Their "Continental Breakfast" consisted of a glass case boasting a handful of English muffins, which I briefly thought about eating. But when I reached in for one I pulled out what felt like a stone. Seriously. Knocking it against my table, I thought I might chip the Formica. There was no way I was going to bit into it and break a tooth. Uh uh. Even if the continent being served was Antarctica, I expected a little more. Two other guys were in the "breakfast nook" with me and I light-heartedly said, "Quite the spread, huh?" "Oh yeah," one of them replied, "they went all out." Then he pulled the filter from the empty coffee maker and shook his head while he searched for coffee grounds. "Guess this is my job." To be truthful, and to give the Days Inn their props, there was a little more continent in their breakfast. They also provided, evenly spaced on a tray, six Little Debbie miniature powdered donuts. I wished I had remembered to bring my camera to prove I wasn't making it up, because the image was gone in a snap as each of us snarfed down two apiece. This was to be my first donut disappointment on this road trip, but not my last. Later that day, when scouting my route, I came across my first ever Krispy Kreme store. Where I live, Dunkin Donuts reigns supreme and Krispy Kremes are afterthoughts boxed and sold in grocery stores or individually in 7-Eleven display cases, cold and congealed into crackly coated sugar bombs. Disgusting. But Dawn tells me it's different when you buy them at the actual Krispy Kreme stores. She's been raving about these places for years�well, she's been "raving" for years, but regarding KK, her rants take on particular zeal. As she puts it, a neon sign lights up in their window signaling "Hot and Now" each time a fresh batch comes out of the oven and is ready for consumption. When the sign is lit, the aroma wafts through the air and influences all around. Muggers intent on nabbing grandma's purse instead help her across the street. Passing drivers prone to road rage brake to allow others passage. Politicians, imbued with a moment of clarity, promise to stop wallowing in the pork barrel and actually think of "the People" for once. If one of these stores stood on every street corner, world peace could not be far behind.
Today I was on a quest. This would be the day I broke the donut jinx. Today I would feast on what I remembered as the world's finest: Carol Lee Donuts. Located in Blacksburg, Carol Lee had satisfied many a late night craving when I was a student at Virginia Tech. (Other cravings were satisfied by Karin and Tanya and Kathy, but we won't get into that here). My starting point was 14 miles away from Donut Nirvana at a Christiansburg Holiday Inn Express, which, let me just mention now, had palatial yet inexpensive rooms, courteous service, and a generous continental breakfast. A great change from the past two days. Sated and well rested, I took off on my long hike, ready to brave the elements. The weatherman said it was going to rain furiously from 11 a.m. until the late afternoon, but I was not to be deterred. Not when the finish line held such delicious promise. Trying to beat the rain, I hiked at a fairly fast pace and was starting to flag as I passed 10 miles. But then I entered Blacksburg proper and was rejuvenated as I saw a site that brought a smile to my face. Norfolk has their Mermaids, Gloucester has their honeycombs, and Blacksburg has their Hokie Birds. The colorful statues were displayed in front of many establishments, and as I passed each one I regretted not having my camera. I'd left it behind because of the rain, which hadn't fallen yet.
I felt like I was reliving that old Heinz Ketchup ad, "Anticipation" ringing over and over in my ears. As I crested each hill on Main Street, I kept expecting Carol Lee to appear. It was driving me crazy. I'd already imagined a thousand times telling the person behind the counter, "I just walked 14 miles for one of these donuts!" I couldn't wait to actually say it out loud. Finally, I arrived. I saw the building when I was just a block away. A wide smile broke out on my face and the pain in my foot was temporarily forgotten. I would soon sink my teeth into one of humanity's greatest achievements! But wait, what was this? Hanging over the entryway there was a sign that read "Sold Out." Nooooo! This had to be a joke, I thought. I went inside and, sure enough, all the racks were empty. The student behind the counter told me there'd been a run on donuts that day. "We had leftovers yesterday, but we sold more than twice as many today." Deflated, I stepped outside to call a taxi. As I parked myself on one of the picnic-style tables out front, I saw a woman look up at the sign, shake her head, and walk in to check for herself just as I had. Then a tall guy, maybe 6'-3", approached with his head lowered. He noticed the sign just before bumping his head against it and made an "Aw shucks" expression before turning to go back to his Jeep. "Hey," I called to him. "You willing to give me a ride to Christiansburg for 10 bucks?" He thought about it for a second then said, "Hop in. I'll take you for free." Obviously, he was a Hokie. Andrew Eberly turned out to be a recent graduate waiting for his fiancee to graduate this semester. He'd spent a good chunk of last summer hiking 600 miles of the Appalachian Trail, and we chatted about long walks on the drive back to my hotel. I noticed his gas gauge was hovering near E, so I offered to buy him a tank of gas. "That's all right," he said. "I loaned it to my roommate and he promised to fill it up, so I'm keeping it near empty until he does." But I insisted and filled up the Jeep. I felt ripped off on my fruitless (and doughless) donut hunt and his generosity saved the day. You may not always be able to count on donuts, but you can always count on a Hokie. International Relations by the Roadside Haphazard as this four-day stretch of walks has seemed, there has actually been some method to my madness. I've been wending my way westward to link up with Richard Ambrose, the British chap I met outside of Appomattox who is walking across America with his girlfriend, Sally Gould. Sally was attending a wedding in Africa this week so Richard and I made plans to hike a leg together. Today would be my last chance as this leg from Abingdon to Bristol would be his last hike in Virginia. From here on out, he'll be passing through the lesser states. Richard and Sally's path follows the main routes of settlement by Europeans across America, beginning in Virginia at Jamestown and then exiting the Commonwealth via The Wilderness Road through the Cumberland Gap. Eventually, 7 months down the line, they plan to emerge from the desert on the Gold Rush Route to wind up in San Francisco where he will proudly pose for a photo with a Dip Dog bumper sticker...and then head home. Roughly 3,100 miles on foot. Makes my 1,400-mile trek puny by comparison. To be frank, I'd been a little nervous about our walk together...and not just because his goal was much grander than mine; he was younger and in better shape, and I was kind of worried about being able to keep up. Yesterday, I called Dawn Kingston, someone else in better shape than I who had smoked me on two previous walks (Nov 10 & Dec 9, 2009), and chatted about the impending hike for The Yank and the Brit, peppering my talk with my version of English lingo ("Jolly good, old boy. Pip, pip, cheerio and all that, my good chap.") in my best English accent...which is to say, something that sounded like a strange melange of Cockney, Irish, and bleating goat. "Please, Bill," she said, "try not to create an international incident." "No worries, Guv. He seems a good bloke." Her groan spoke volumes. I was certain she thought I'd say something about not being able to understand the foreign language he was speaking or make some other embarrassing faux pas. Which, when I started to think of it, was a pretty good guess. So, to be on the safe side, I shelved my variation on the chicken crossing the road joke (Why did the Yank cross the state? To escort the Brit out of it!). As Mark Twain said: It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt. Richard and I stayed in different Abingdon hotels, with mine being about 2 miles closer to Bristol. Additionally, he would be tacking on an additional 2 miles when we parted ways in Bristol, since I would be halting at the state line and he would be continuing into Tennessee. At least, that's the reason he gave. Really though, I think he just wanted to show off. The forecast called for 60 degree weather and I was planning to wear shorts today. But when I started packing my overnight things into the car, I noticed the windows were rimed with frost. Going back to the Weather Channel, I saw that the current temperature was 28 degrees. Sweatpants and a jacket it was. When I finally met up with Richard on the roadside, he was hiking along at a good clip using trekking poles. At the end of a long day, the poles helped relieve some of the strain on his knees and feet. Plus, he said, "There have been a couple of times when I�ve waved them in the air at a dog to convince him to go away." We headed off for Bristol, a little more than 13 miles down the road, and each chattered on about our walking experiences. Once again, my mileage paled in comparison. In 2003, Richard hiked across northern Spain along a medieval pilgrimage road that�s existed for about 1000 years, winding up in this place called Santiago de Compostela. "Every year," he said, "tens of thousands of Europeans do this walk. You can start more-or-less wherever you like, but a lot of people start just along the French-Spanish border and then they take about 500 miles to get to Santiago de Compostela. And It was a terrific experience; I met lovely people and proved to myself that I can walk across an entire country. Saw some beautiful sights and it made a terrific impact on my life. So I�ve always had in the back of my mind the desire to do something like that again." During that walk, Richard averaged 15 miles a day, a pace he is trying to duplicate on his walk in America. His plan is to take a day off every week and cover approximately 100 miles on the 6 days he does walk. So far, so good. "We're a little bit slower than that," he said, "but that�s not that surprising with it being our first month of walking. [Also] there�s a bit more to see in the eastern US than there will be in the west, so we found ourselves stopping in pretty towns and we stayed with some family friends in Lynchburg for a couple of days...When you add it all up, we�re maybe a few days behind schedule but generally on track. But I think we�re going to make it all up. There will be days in Nebraska where we just step out of the motel, walk 25 miles down an arrow-straight road and step into the next motel."
Needless to say, one of the world-famous bumper stickers was in Richard's pack and he'd promised to send the proprietor a photo of him and Sally in front of the San Francisco's Golden Gate Bridge. A little further on, we came across two teenage girls holding up signs on the side of the road. They were facing the other direction, but, after seeing this same display thousands of times before, I knew immediately the sign would be a promotion for a car wash raising money for cheerleaders, or band, or girl scouts, or some other activity that desperately needed (or at least wanted) my money. "Hold on a minute," Richard said, "I�m going to see what this is all about." He crossed to the grassy median and seemed slightly surprised at the cardboard signs announcing Car Wash. "Oh, I thought you might be protesting the war or some other noble cause." From what I recall of my high school days being a high school boy, little could be more noble than a cheerleader car wash. But, to each his own.
Occasionally we'd see a pear tree or dogwood bursting with white or pink blossoms, but most of the trees we saw were stark, and plenty of those chopped back further to make space for power lines. Green-filled branches were still weeks away. Pity, too, because it left Richard with the wrong impression. "Because I walked there in March," he said, "Virginia is always going to live in my mind as a place where the trees have no leaves." About 10 miles into our hike, we reached the built-up outskirts of Bristol. We stopped at a Comfort Inn and didn't see anyone at the reception desk. There was, however, a uniformed woman curled up on the couch watching some show on TV. She looked briefly at us without making a move to get up. "You checking in?" "No," I replied, "I�m actually staying at another Comfort Inn in Abingdon. We�re just passing through on a walk to the Tennessee border." She gave me a sour look as if I'd just said something offensive. "You crazy or something?" Then she flopped her head back down and went back to watching her show. After a 10-minute respite in the lobby where we refilled water bottles and munched on baby carrots, it was time to get back out on the road. The weather had finally warmed up to the predicted mid-60's, and we stripped off our jackets and stowed them in our rucksacks. Our stride was strong as we marched the final 3-� miles. The state border was just over the horizon and we were eager to reach it. Bristol, Virginia is an odd city, a twin of Bristol, Tennessee, with which it shares a hospital, newspaper, post office, and various other municipal buildings and functions. Some functions, such as the police force, are maintained individually due to state laws, but anything that can be operated jointly is. Most residents think of the two cities as one. Just one simple fact keeps them from merging�the border between the states runs right through the center of town.   What we did see was the arched sign over State Street that announced the state border and that Bristol was a good place to live. Of course, at 50-feet tall the sign was impossible to miss. Traffic, used to gawking interlopers, weaved around us as we took turns posing under the sign for pictures. We continued into the heart of town, passing numerous historical markers announcing that This was the birthplace of country music. And, if you didn't stop to read the markers, you still might figure it out when you saw gigantic guitars planted at intersections and murals of famous country singers painted on buildings. We wandered down State Street, bobbing from one side to the other to check out art deco marquees or other storefronts that interested us, each time passing from one state to another. Bars and restaurants on the Virginia side were all smoke free, due to a resolution passed earlier in the year. But Tennessee establishments were free to choose, and patrons in several of them could be seen merrily puffing away. We stopped at one such place, the State Line Bar and Grille, dropping our packs on the sidewalk and taking a seat at one of the outdoor tables. I noticed a man dressed in frayed jeans and a paint-flecked work shirt who seemed to be having difficultly standing upright. Naturally, I started up a conversation with him. He was amiable enough, though, as expected, a bit odd. He told us how rich he was and that he "dressed all ratty like this so nobody knows who I am." He was in the midst of regaling us about various multi-million-dollar projects that his company, whose name he couldn't quite remember at the moment, had somehow facilitated, when the waiter came out to take our order. He took everything in at a glance, gave a wry grin, and said, "You have to watch out for him; he loves to tell a story." Our meal was fantastic, far better than I'd expected at a place with "bar and grille" in the name. We dined slowly, reflected on our day, and watched ESPN highlights from the NCAA tournament on their wall-sized projection TV. Richard still looked fairly well put together�just another day at the office�but I was disheveled. Sans boonie hat, my hair resembled a bird's nest and my shirt caked with so many salt rings that it looked like an intentional pattern of dancing marshmallows. Even so, when it was time for Richard to heave to and push off once more, he allowed me to march along with him for another mile-and-a-half to the "Welcome to Bristol" sign, where the road he was following forked into Tennessee. At that point we finally said our goodbyes. For this bloke, Bristol was the end of the line. I'd done 15 miles and was going to catch a taxi back to Abingdon. For Richard though, crossing the state line at Bristol merely meant he'd completed his trek across Virginia. An amazing accomplishment for most, but just the start of his even longer journey across the country. You can read about Richard's take on our day together, as well as his musings on the rest of his and Sally's adventures, on his blog: The Walk Over States. His viewpoint of America is always interesting and often humorous, and the blog is definitely worth reading.  A parting of the ways Lingering (and Feasting) Out West Today's forecast originally called for thunderstorms all day, so I hadn't planned to stick around to get in another walk. But I just felt too wiped out yesterday to drive six hours just to get back home. Instead, I figured I'd stick around one more day in Abingdon and find something interesting to do. I wound up going to a show at the Barter Theatre, so named because during the Depression actors would barter their services for food, and visiting another couple of fantastic restaurants. To read about my fantastic night out on the town and subsequent gastronomical adventures, swing by the Virginia Living blog. To be safe, take a couple of Tums first. The Virginia Living blog also includes a variety of other interesting stories about lifestyle, food, and entertainment from across the Commonwealth. If you're ever itching to discover something new about Virginia, that would be the place to scratch.  The Rest of the Story... The March 28 entry I mention above received some serious editing from Virginia Living. That�s understandable. Virginia Living has to take certain facts into consideration that I don�t (material that duplicates or even contradicts something that appears elsewhere in one of their issues, material that may be too racy or otherwise unsuitable for their readership, etc.). However, since this piece was cut to less than one-half its original length, I thought I�d post the original material here. Please don't misunderstand me; I'm not upset about this. Editors are paid to edit stories so they fit the vision of their publications, and Virginia Living's editors are some of the best at their jobs. I am thrilled to be included in their pages and on their site. In fact, if you enjoy reading the original version of this story, I still suggest you check out the Virginia Living version, which includes a 7-picture slideshow of some of the things I saw during this "Movable Feast." So, without further ado, here is the original, unedited story... Late last month (Note: No, you didn't just time warp; I actually wrote this entry in mid-April and it appeared in the Virginia Living blog on May 11), I walked across my third state border after hiking 15 miles from Abingdon to Bristol in the company of a British chap named Richard who is walking across America. And I thought my goal of walking across Virginia was grand. Well, he put me in my place. But I had the last laugh. I would get to dine in various Virginia restaurants over the next few months while his fare would be relegated to whatever was being served in the lesser states. Take that! Three or four miles into our walk, we stopped at a tiny, pink building on the side of the road called Hi-Lo Burgers and Shakes (17111 Lee Highway) and ordered up a couple of foot-longs. Okay, so not all Virginia pit stops qualify as �fine dining�; but this one certainly qualified as �tasty.� Richard also got an Oreo shake, once again showing me up, then we retired to a picnic table at the edge of their parking lot to devour our chili-slathered dogs. And let me just say, wow, Hi-Lo really makes a delicious dog. Perhaps it was only because I was so hungry from walking, but I can't recall eating a tastier one. We continued our hike down to Bristol and, after posing for the requisite photos at the state line, retired to the State Line Bar and Grille, where I feasted on flounder and mixed vegetables. I hate to say it since the restaurant was on the wrong side of the street (i.e., the Tennessee side), but the meal was scrumptious. We said our goodbyes and Richard continued his trek into the hinterlands while I called a taxi and returned to Abingdon. It was time for my movable feast to continue. I discovered, tucked in behind a drive-thru donut stand on Main Street, a squat, wooden building that boasted fine, casual dining: The Peppermill. Sounded like a great place to end my day. It was. Ink spots marred the Peppermill�s stone floors, but the interior was otherwise subdued and serene. Large original art hung on the walls, jazzy riffs played over the speakers, and each candlelit table had plenty of space from its neighbors. Everything on the menu sounded tasty, but I settled on grilled chicken pasta, which was served in a light but spicy cream sauce that included black beans, corn, mushrooms, and tomatoes. Delicious, yes, but before I feasted on that, I had to make my way through warm and wonderful honey wheat bread, a cup of potato chowder that threatened to wrest the crown from Alison's, and an appetizer of Cajun fried crawfish tail with a Creole remoulade. My mouth is watering again just recounting each of these sensational dishes. I�d originally planned to return home this night, but I just felt too wiped out from the walk to drive six hours just to get back to Hampton Roads. Instead, I figured I'd stick around one more day and find something interesting to do. Abingdon is home to the Barter Theatre, so named because during the Depression actors would barter their services for food. Four out of five Depression-era theatre goers paid their way with vegetables, dairy products and livestock, and actors were sometimes distracted by the occasional squealing pig or clucking hen. From such inauspicious beginnings, the Barter grew into one of the most famous off-Broadway stages, giving starts to such luminaries as Gregory Peck, Ernest Borgnine, Patricia Neal, and Ned Beatty. These days, the theater's schedule is chock full. They put on so many performances throughout the year to continued demand that they added a second theater across the street: The Barter II. While the original is a grand, columned affair that was originally constructed in 1831 as a church, the Barter II is housed in a coffee shop on top of a hill and features an intimate (i.e., tiny) stage. 
Click on photos to enlarge Finally paying, I entered and took a seat that was within spitting distance of the stage (and, no, I didn't check the distance that way). Soft jazz played over the speakers while we waited for the lights to go down. At that point, a loudspeaker voice gave the typical announcements (no food and drink, turn off your cell phones, etc.) then ended with a quip that set an appropriately light mood for the night: "In the words of our founder, Robert Porterfield, 'If you like us, talk about us. If you don't, keep your mouth shut!'" Well, no worries here. The show was wonderful and I found it endearing that actors, whom they called �collaborators,� helped to move scenery around the tiny set and worked it in as part of the play. And during intermission I popped into the lobby for one of their specialty Friazo gourmet ice creams. My moans of delight while eating my �double fudge frenzy� were reminiscent of Meg Ryan�s infamous scene in When Harry Met Sally. The next morning I went for a short walk (i.e., 6 miles) through town, ambling through the historic downtown area, where the courthouse featured a Tiffany window commemorating local boys who gave their lives in World War I, and every other building, it seemed, bore a brass placard boasting its pedigree. In addition to being a cultural center for the region, Abingdon is a notable waypoint for hikers. It contains one of the trailheads for the Creeper Trail, a 35-mile long former rail bed that has been converted into a biking and hiking trail. Displayed beside the trailhead is the old steam locomotive that used to "creep along the trail," thus giving it its name. Many local businesses cater to hiker's needs, from bike shops that offer rentals for riding the trail to hotels that include extra ice machines on each floor along with coin-operated washers and dryers. I stopped in at one such establishment, The Trail Caf�, which sat just a block away from the trailhead. The umbrella rack by the door had a bouquet of walking sticks poking out of it and the bags of trail mix in racks by the door were homemade. The atmosphere was boisterous, with groups of hikers either celebrating completion of the nearby trail or fueling up before hiking it. For some reason (I wonder why), the latter groups were more spirited, ribbing each other about which of them wouldn't be up to the task and would wind up flopping in the dirt like a gutted fish. It was truly a wonderful place. The chef jumped back and forth between dishes cooking on various stovetops, but when a lull came over the place he came over to chat and I discovered he was also the owner, Frank Brennan. "My passion is baking," Frank said, listing the plethora of mouth-watering varieties he stocks, from red velvet cakes to cheesecakes of every kind. "I used to bake full cheesecakes, but I don't use any preservatives in them and they don't keep." Now, everything is individually sized and sitting on plates in the glass-fronted fridge by the door. How any hungry hiker can resist them and actually make it to a table to order is beyond me. Though the cafe was only a third full that morning, large groups regularly stop in the cafe before hitting the trail together. The ones that call first are Frank's favorites. "I fear the day I see a big tour bus pull into the parking lot," he said. "I only seat 36, so it would be a challenge. But we're up to it." He swept a hand indicating the counter seats and the picnic tables outside, then added with a sly grin, "We could probably handle 50 in the summertime." It kind of reminded me of my days in the Army when Drill Sergeants at various camps would always ask the question, "How many men can you fit on a Deuce-and-a-half*?" The answer: "One more." (*NOTE: A Deuce-and-a-half is a standard military truck that can carry a two-and-a-half-ton payload.) Seeing as I was still in the middle of my walk through town I didn't stop to eat; but that didn't mean I stopped thinking about food. Everywhere I'd dined the past two days had served excellent fare, with every meal outdoing the one before. My first meal had been two nights before, when I'd first arrived, and plopped down at a roadside diner called Alison�s Restaurant. My meal consisted of Thai chicken, mixed grilled veggies, and �world famous� potato soup. The chicken and veggies were standard fare for most restaurants, which is to say good but not great. The potato soup was very good. I don�t know if I�d go as far as labeling it �world famous,� but �this-region-of-Virginia-famous,� sure! Then, of course, I followed that with the Hi-Lo dog, the delicious flounder at the State Line Bar and Grille, and there the decadently sumptuous meal at the Peppermill. I was hopeful that my last meal in Abingdon would be the pi�ce de r�sistance, but it's no wonder that I held reservations (well, without actually having any physical reservations; to dine, that is). The bar, it seemed, had just been set too high. Even so, as I hiked back to my hotel, I stopped at each restaurant to read menus posted in their windows. When I came upon Withers Hardware Restaurant and saw that they served a dish called Salmon Rockefeller, my fears were allayed. My jaw might have actually fallen agape. Needless to say, there was no doubt where I'd be eating lunch. I hurried back to the hotel, cleaned up, stuffed my belongings into my carryall, and returned to Wither's just as they were opening their doors. I was not disappointed. Salmon Rockefeller was a dinner item, but the kind lunch chef acquiesced to my wild-eyed demand and made a special order for me. While she cooked it up, I wandered the ornate and eclectic interior, admiring Christmas lights and old metal gas signs juxtaposed with oak paneling and brass rails. For a little over a hundred years, this spot had been home to an actual hardware store. Then in 1993 it was converted into a restaurant. No wonder the decor couldn't make up its mind. When lunch arrived I could barely contain myself. The pan-seared salmon was tender and smothered in saut�ed spinach, mushrooms and caramelized onions, complemented by side servings of saut�ed vegetables and jasmine rice. Yum. So, yes, Withers was up to the challenge, providing the proverbial cherry to top my cake. Unfortunately, my two days in Abingdon ended too soon, but I left feeling sated and uplifted. The town will forever hold a dear place in my heart and in my head. And, of course, in my stomach. Light Lungs and Northern Necks The last walk I did in the Northern Neck was in December of last year. I'd pretty much completed all the walks I intended to do up there except for one segment that I saved to complete later with Linda Walsh once the weather improved. Well, the weather doesn't get much nicer than it was today (upper 60's with a light breeze), so I got together with Linda and we knocked this last domino down. We waited for warmer weather because Linda has COPD (Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease) and it's difficult for her to breathe when the air gets too cold or too hot, and breathing is kind of important when you're out walking. She battles her condition with vigorous activity and is one of the fittest sufferers of this condition you will ever meet. Consequently, she is often asked to partake in clinical trials for new medicine. I only bring this up because she was currently in the midst of one of these clinical trials, and she believed she was part of the "control group," meaning she was receiving nothing but a placebo. Manageable when you're sitting in a recliner at home doing nothing more strenuous than poking a remote control and shuffling to the microwave to heat up some Hot Pockets. But in Linda's case, we were going out on a 5-mile hike over undulating terrain and the only medical help she had was an emergency rescue inhaler. Even so, we set off from Wicomico Church at a pretty decent pace. Nothing earth shattering, but not a mere stroll either. Everything was fine until we hit our first long hill and Linda felt like something large (a barbell, an elephant, me!) had just plopped down on her chest. We slowed a little but kept on chugging and picked up the pace again after we crested and gravity was on our side again.
When we arrived in Kilmarnock, the walk was over but the babysitting wasn't. Linda parked by one of the galleries and we got out of her car to check it out. A passerby stopped and asked me, "What unit were you in?" I was surprised that he could tell I used to be in the military, but when I answered "82nd Airborne" he was the one who seemed surprised. Then I got it. Linda's husband Bill was a Marine and her car has USMC license plates on it. "Oh," I said. "I'm not the Jarhead. Her husband is."
"You know," Linda said, "you can always tell someone's a Marine as soon as you start talking to them." Then, after a slight pause, she added, "Because he'll find some way to bring it up." After lunch, I parked my car 6 miles down the road to the tiny town of Brook Vale and Linda drove me back to Kilmarnock so I could get in a second walk. On our earlier walk, the wind had been at our backs for the whole 5-mile trip to Kilmarnock. But this time, the wind was in my face for the whole journey. Guess misleading the old Marine like that gave me some bad Karma. That's OK. I can take it. I was in the real military. Not like the frou-frou Gyrines or tin can Navy. I mean, it's not like Karma can get me here at...ZAP! |
Park bench statues on Main Street reflect Smithfield's cozy ambiance
Another state can no longer claim to be Bill-free
Gonna learn me good at the Demoss Learning Center
The British are coming, the British are coming...
Still churning out the stink...for a few more weeks
Don't believe everything you read
Kermit says, "It's not easy being green"
A North Garden resident wanders over to say hi
Decadent start to the morning
Man's fifth best friend*
The Zaid Mart guy gives me the evil eye for cursing the Hokies
Sherry says, "Take your beating like a man!"
Hot and Now? Bah Humbug!
Hokie Birds always bring a smile
Hi-Lo: a delicious place to pit stop
Trees doff their hats for progress
Bill tries his hand at