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Travelogue
- 04/05/04
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I said goodbye to Beaufort and set
sail for the Outer Banks. I say "set sail" because I had to drive my RV onto
one ferry to get to those sandbank islands and onto another to traverse them. Until a few
decades ago, the Outer Banks were very remote, reachable only by boat. Then a bridge
was built from the mainland near the northern end of the chain, more bridges were erected to connect one
island to the next, and the National Park Service laid claim to most of the land.
The southern, most remote island of the group, Ocracoke, was too far
to connect by bridge. Today, state-run car ferries carry tourists and
commuters to and from that outpost making it an easy and
popular tourist destination.
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All of this was done in the name of progress. However,
that's usually a double-edged sword. There are still villages on each of the Outer Banks islands, but from what I saw they have
entirely lost their former primitive individualism and renegade charm,
having been invaded and conquered by modern-day
merchants and developers. Each village now looks pretty much like the
other, and like most other small tourist towns on the Carolina coast. The
buildings are generally recent vintage, their siding painted gray to imitate
weathered timber without really being messy. It's a sterile, neo-rustic look with
little character and no authenticity. This ubiquitous
blandness seems to prevail throughout much of the coastal southeast states
these days.
Thankfully, the National Park Service protects most of
the Outer Banks, allowing development only in the established villages
sprinkled along the narrow islands. There is still plenty of natural,
unspoiled terrain to see and appreciate.
I camped that night at the end of a little-used dirt
road. I had intended to
be a nice guy and pay to stay in the National State Park campground
because I know how fussy Park rangers can be about doing
otherwise on their turf. However, when I got there I found the campground was
not yet open for the season. Well, what was I to do, go back to the
nearest town and pay to stay in a commercial campground? I don't think so.
Instead, I followed my natural nose for roads less traveled. This time it led me down a one-lane sand track I noticed sneaking off the main
road not far from the campground. It wound through scrub growth
and stunted dunes for maybe a half-mile before coming to an abrupt end at a tiny clearing on the
shores of Ocracoke Sound, away from the thunderous pounding of
the ocean-side surf. There was just enough space to maneuver my 24' van into a comfortable position for the night, bow facing
back the way I had come, still leaving room for a car to turn around should one come along. None did, and I spend my
very first
out-in-the-boondocks
evening in this RV without incident. It seemed a good portent of things to
come.
The next morning I made an abbreviated tour of the Outer
Banks, stopping at a few interesting sites while lamenting the total absence
of the eccentric character and characters that once made the place architecturally
and anthropologically unique. Still, the long stretches of National Park land allow ample
access to the hundred-odd miles of wide and (this time of year) virtually
empty beaches that are the real magic of the place, featuring an
in-your-face encounter with the Atlantic Ocean.
Click photos to enlarge
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I left the Outer Banks by midday and swept across NC to Ashville in the
Blue Ridge Mountains. There I found a friendly ranger lady in the National Forest office
who suggested several scenic routes I might take through the
mountains. I hoped to spend a few days in the woods, maybe more. I
also discovered a cozy cafe in Ashville, a free wi-fi hotspot. So
I was able to send and receive email before heading for the hills. |
The Blue Ridge Parkway is one of America's gems, a
well-maintained two-lane road that winds through pretty rolling
mountains. However, I think I might have enjoyed it a bit later in the season.
As it was, an hour down the road I suddenly found myself in the maws of a
blinding snow blizzard. The pavement disappeared beneath a white blanket, making it
very hard to follow. I slowed
down to a crawl, but even so the RV went into a skid on a tight, downhill
curve. To my right the mountainside dropped off
steeply, no telling how far to the bottom. To my left was a solid wall of
trees broken only by the occasional rocky outcrop. For a moment I
thought I was headed for one or both, then the van glided to a graceful
halt near the shoulder. I sat for a moment until my breathing steadied,
then carefully turned around and crept back the way I'd come, out
of the mountains and the snow, and got myself onto the interstate highway
westbound. So much for the scenic route so early in the season.
Running Down the Latitude
Before the advent of the chronometer seagoing navigators
were not able to calculate longitude, how far east or west they were. They could, however, determine their
latitude at sea, the distance north
or south of the equator, and they generally knew the latitude
of their next port of call. So they could find the harbor of, say, New
Amsterdam simply by sailing to the latitude of that city anywhere in
the Atlantic Ocean and then setting a course due west until they reached
the coast. Viola! There would be New Amsterdam. This form of
navigating was, and still is, called running down the latitude.
I spent the next several days "running down I-40" westward
from North Carolina. It happened to
approximate the latitude of the spring season that week. At least, it did when I
set out upon it.
Normally, whether I'm
cruising in an RV or a boat, I prefer to
visit places off the beaten track, and so I tend to avoid driving on
interstate highways. Interstates afford virtually
no contact with the land through which they pass and have about as much
character as cardboard. Instead I stick to secondary roads and local routes
to see what life is like in the countryside. However, when it comes to driving a vehicle
long distance in a relatively short time, you just can't beat the great
American interstate highway system.
I passed without incident through Tennessee, Arkansas, Oklahoma and the Texas Panhandle.
About the
time I crossed into eastern New Mexico I came down
with an intestinal bug and spent a whole afternoon and night in bed
in some generic rest area, shivering with chills and scurrying to the
toilet every 15 minutes. I didn't eat for 36 hours. The following morning
I awoke to a snow blizzard. Someone said it was the first snowfall in this part of New Mexico this year.
Was I bringing this stuff with me?
I-40 became
dangerous. Cars were pulling (or skidding) off onto the shoulder. I even saw an 18-wheeler
speeding westward on the eastbound side of the highway. I guessed
he had accidentally entered via an exit ramp where the signs were covered
with snow. I never learned whether he collided with any oncoming vehicles,
but I'll bet he scared the hell out of a few drivers.
Several stressful hours later I left I-40 and got onto a secondary
highway north towards Santa Fe. Within minutes, it seemed, I drove out of that snow blizzard altogether,
across
open range that soon showed no signs of it having snowed at all, as if the
blizzard had been restricted to the Interstate. By mid-day I was rolling
into sunny Santa Fe.
Next Entry: 04/12/04
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