The morning light filtered through the thin fabric of his tent and he rose to consciousness slowly, trying to remember where he was. It wasn’t the single bed in his cramped apartment. That he knew for sure. The mattress was too hard, the air too chilly.
Camping, he remembered, groaning as his eyes adjusted to the dimness of his tent. He was in a state park known for its bike trails, and his intent was to spend all of Saturday and most of Sunday biking before heading back to the city and his boring IT job.
He had arrived at the campground with his bike in tow, just as the sun was beginning to set so he really hadn’t had a chance to look around, get a grasp on the terrain. His time had been spent setting up his tent, making sure his bike was locked to the rack on the back of his sedan. What was it his father called it? His Oldsmobuick? A line from some Chevy Chase movie that was before his time. He shook his head. Honda, the new Oldsmobuick.
He sat up, blinking the sleep from his eyes. He needed to get a start on the day if he wanted to finish more than one trail. There were numerous challenging bike trails within the park he had camped in, and he wanted to explore as many of them as possible.
Now, definitely more awake, he unzipped his sleeping bag, slipping into his bike shorts, sleeveless top, and a pile pullover to ward off the early morning chill.
Then, pulling the zipper to open his tent, he stepped outside to get ready for the day. He deliberated which was most important, and then opted for putting the coffee water on to boil before making a run to the bathhouse. The water was getting close to boiling when he returned, so he quickly readied the French press before retrieving a couple of hard-boiled eggs from his food pack.
Taking a deep breath, he surveyed the sky. It looked like it was going to be a glorious early autumn day—cloudless with temperatures predicted to be in the upper 60s. He heard the water bubbling and lifted the pot to pour it into the carafe, then, as he waited the four minutes for it to brew, he peeled an egg and studied a trail map. Which trail did he want to bike first?
This one looks intriguing, he thought, biting into the egg, if for no other reason than the name—Lost Limbo Loop Trail. Someone had fun with that. It was an unusual name for a bike trail. The common denominator was usually something like Lakeshore or name-of-park or something natural that involved pines or oaks or even more boring, the trails named after the colors that outlined them on the trail map.
He always preferred the trails with off-the-beaten-track names like Turkey Run or Ghost House Trail. Something that made you wonder why they were named that, but those trails were rare.
Well, Lost Limbo Loop first, he decided. It was an intermediate trail and only twenty-five miles long. That would definitely warm him up and only take a portion of his day.
The alarm on his iPhone chimed, and he pressed down on the grounds. He could already taste that first cup.
It wasn’t until he was packing up that he noticed that the campground was eerily silent. He was rarely the first person up. The ubiquitous AARP folks who frequented these campgrounds were usually awake before even the sun could drag open a sleepy lid. But, while he could see RV upon RV parked all around him (he was the exception in a tent), not a soul was in sight. Odd, but he didn’t guess it really mattered.
He intended to have this site one more night so he left his tent up, but packed everything else away in his car. Even his sleeping bag.
Yes, I’m that paranoid, he thought, glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone had noticed. He hated to admit it but he was doing a bit of glamping. It was just that he liked having the ability to re-charge his phone, computer, what-have-you, and even read by lamp instead of lantern when he returned to camp in the evening.
Hydration pack settled firmly on his back and stocked with his emergency first-aid kit, some protein bars, and a few other things to munch on, he climbed on his bike and wheeled out of the campground.
His map informed him that he should turn left out of the campground, bike to the bottom of the hill, and Lost Limbo Loop Bike Trail would be on his left. There was a small parking area there, but no cars in it. There were no notices on the signboard, either, so he took off down the wide trail that appeared to remain flat until it curved out of sight a hundred yards or so ahead.
About halfway to the curve, the end of the loop entered the trail to the right. Good, he thought as he passed it, I won’t have to do much backtracking.
When he reached the curve, the trail began a gentle ascent through the pine, oak, and ash forest, climbing to the top of the first ridge on the bike path. At the top, the descent seemed steep for an intermediate trail. Shaking his head in wonder, he made his way to the valley at the bottom, splashing through a shallow stream before beginning to ascend once again.
For the next five miles or so, the trail continued its pattern of climbing and descending. Settling into the ride, he began to enjoy the brilliant gold and red leaves of the oaks and ashes against the azure blue sky, the burble of the streams he crossed, and the purples, golds, and burgundies of the fall flowers that bloomed alongside the trail.
About 13 miles along Lost Limbo Loop Trail, the sequence of ups and downs came to end when he reached a footbridge over a wide stream. Crossing the bridge, he began a steep ascent up what he took to be a cliffside. He was more than half way up when he was confronted by a nearly vertical stretch of slick rock. Dismounting his trail bike, he surveyed it with dismay.
Denial washed over him, stomach plummeting to his feet. This is supposed to be an intermediate trail, he thought, not even an expert could ride up that. He stared at the cliff face for another minute before deciding that if he were careful, he could portage his bike up the rock.
Damn, he thought, dismounting, this was supposed to be my warm up ride. I can’t believe they didn’t say something in the trail info about this.
He decided to take a snack break. Removing his pack, he fished for the trail mix. He needed some nuts and chocolate before he began the climb.
Feeling recharged, he hoisted the bike on his shoulder, and began the climb. Taking it slowly, he was able to get to a more discernible path within a quarter of an hour. Shaking his head, he mounted his bike again. He had hoped to do two trails that day. The portage had really slowed him down.
He continued along the trail, which still climbed steeply, until he reached the top of the bluff. Here, the trail flattened out for a moment, and he breathed a sigh of relief until he rounded the next curve. He braked sharply, his bike stuttering to a halt, nearly propelling him over the handle bars. A path of destruction lay in front of him—pine trees, like giant Pick-up Sticks, were scattered across the trail ahead of him along with the large limbs of oak and ash trees, and a ton of leaf detritus. Clearly a tornado had laid waste to the area, but why hadn’t a note been left on the signboard at the beginning of the trail?
Anger surged through him like an electric shock, accelerating his heart rate, raising the pressure in his head, flushing his skin a deep red. Was he even in the right park? Was he looking at the wrong map? No, he knew that wasn’t possible, but it was all so confusing. First the cliff, now this.
“Damn it!” he shouted, kicking at the nearest limb, and was rewarded with a deep scratch near his ankle by a needle sharp branch he hadn’t noticed. He bellowed in pain and frustration as he pulled his pack from his back.
Retrieving his first-aid kit, he pulled out some antiseptic and a bandage. He used some of his water and a bandana to wipe away the blood before applying the disinfectant.
“Great,” he groused to a nearby squirrel that looked ready to flee at a moment’s notice, “now I’m going to have to ride with a throbbing ankle.” He looked at his map. Did he need to return to the road or was there a way around this mess? It looked as if he could backtrack about five miles and pick up the Big Ridge Trail, another intermediate bike path that would actually take him back to the campground 20 miles later. That could work, he thought, but it would mean carrying his bike down that cliff side again, which didn’t make him particularly happy.
About an hour later, he was on the Big Ridge Trail and making his way toward the campground where he was thoroughly tempted to call it a day and try again first thing in the morning.
Via responses about end user discussion buy cheap viagra boards related to hair loss it is evident that Propecia really does work for many people guys. There are a number of options available to people from all over the worldBuy in bulkYou do not need to keep on purchasing kamagra oral jelly each usa generic viagra cute-n-tiny.com time you need to use it. In such an event, link from website A to website B using a cheap online levitra text that comprises of keywords pertaining to website A will increase the authenticity of website A in the eyes of Google search bots. By way of example, if dealing with the crowds at the free cialis local mall on a Sunday afternoon makes you have a panic or anxiety attack, then go to the local mall throughout the week in the Philadelphia Inquirer. He was probably less than five miles from camp when he rounded a bend and once again skidded his bike to a halt. In the middle of the trail, about twenty yards away, three bear cubs wrestled with each other.
And where there are bear cubs, he thought, heart accelerating, there was bound to be a mother bear nearby. He glanced over his shoulder, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw the trail was empty. Dismounting, he began to retreat backwards down the trail until he was out of sight of the bears.
He was so close to the campsite! The thought of turning around and going back the way he’d ridden was more than he could bear. The unintended pun made him smile for a moment before he remembered his situation.
Bargaining wasn’t really an option, but he tried anyway, praying to God or whoever was in charge to make the bears disappear. Surely the bears wouldn’t remain on the trail forever, he concluded. What if he cycled back a half-mile or so and took a 15-minute break? That might work—give the cubs and their mother plenty of time to return to the woods.
Riding until he found a comfortable spot to rest, he leaned his bike against a tree and removed his pack. A nearby blow down provided a seat, and he pulled out a protein bar and his phone, hoping to waste a little time checking out his Facebook and Instagram accounts.
Dismayed to see “No Service” in the upper left corner of his iPhone, he restrained an urge to throw it against the nearest tree. This just wasn’t his day. Had he ever had a ride so fraught with problems? He turned to look at the tires on his bike. No, they looked fine. For a moment he had been positive they would be flat.
He replayed the day in his head—delay after delay. His phone said it was now 13:06; an Army brat, his father had insisted he learn 24-hour time as a child and now he was more comfortable with it than the double 12-hour system. He should be well into his second ride of the day right now. Once again, he tried bargaining with whatever force controlled the universe. If you just let me get back to camp, he thought, looking back down the trail, I promise I’ll call it a day. Maybe he would even pack up his car and head back to the city.
“I’ll even go see Mom,” he told the air. He’d been neglectful of his widowed mother during the past few months. He loved her, it was just that he was so tired of listening to her run through her complaints and she had a lot of them. But he supposed she was entitled—they had lost his father to an aneurysm when he was still in his early 50s. He kept trying to get her to be more social; instead she sat in her two-bedroom townhouse and watched television and ate too much.
He checked his phone again. Only ten minutes had passed. He needed to give it at least five more although another ten was probably better.
Finally, after a good twenty minutes had ticked by since he’d first seen the bears, he returned to his bike and started down the trail again. When he reached the spot where he’d first spotted the cubs, they were nowhere to be seen and he sped up so he could pass through that area as quickly as possible.
It wasn’t long before he was a more than a mile past that section of trail and within a few miles of the campground. He breathed a deep sigh of relief as he began to ascend what was probably the final ridge before the camping area.
The ascent up the hill was made even more difficult by the deeply eroded trail, which in some places narrowed to barely a foot wide. In other places it looked as if a mudslide had nearly wiped the path from existence. He was thankful when he finally reached the summit and spent the next few minutes biking along the top of the ridge enjoying the dappled light beneath the canopy of oaks and other hardwoods.
The trail down the opposite side of the hill was just as rough, and he was thankful that he was within a couple of miles of the campground. As he rounded the final switchback, he found himself skidding to a halt for the third time that day. Just a dozen feet ahead of him the trail disappeared into water. He dismounted and walked closer. Was it a swamp? A river? A lake?
He couldn’t tell. The water was so brown that he couldn’t see how deep it was nor could he see how far it stretched. The water was far enough up the trunks of the trees that he couldn’t see their roots. That could be anywhere from half a dozen inches to more than a foot. He could no longer see the path as the entire valley seemed to be immersed in water.
Had there been a flood? He was baffled. Never had he been on a bike trail with so much devastation. Why hadn’t there been signs? Why hadn’t he been told when he’d made his campsite reservation? He had even told the woman who answered the phone that he was coming to the park to try out a bike trail or two.
Depression descended upon him like a great black cloud. He had no choice but to ride back the way he’d come. It would take him the remainder of the day to get back to the campsite. He felt as if all the energy had been sucked right out of him. As he turned his bike around, his legs felt leaden, his heart even heavier.
The morning had started out so beautifully. He’d never considered himself neither an unlucky person nor the most fortunate, but this day couldn’t get much worse.
When he finally rode into the campground nearly half an hour past five o’clock, he was startled to see some kind of commotion occurring near the bathhouse. Did one of the roving retirees go to the big RV park in the sky, he wondered as he pedaled closer.
He could see an ambulance with no flashing lights so it wasn’t an emergency. People were clumped together in small groups talking quietly, their attention focused on the left side of the bathhouse where he was camped.
As he got closer, he realized that they were gathered around his campsite. That was odd. Had someone had a heart attack or something enroute to the bathhouse while taking a short cut through his site?
“What’s up?” he asked the nearest person as he got off his bike and began wheeling it toward his car.
No response. He guessed they were too wrapped up in the ongoing drama to hear his question.
He leaned his bike against a pine tree just as a woman walked up. She held a leash, at the end of which was a small dog, some kind of spaniel, he guessed, he didn’t know breeds well.
“What’s going on, Delilah?” she said.
“I don’t know . . .” he was saying when it registered that she was talking to her dog. He frowned, but followed her to the picnic table where she joined a few other retirees—two men and a woman.
“What happened Stu?” she asked the taller of the two men.
“I’m not sure, but my guess would be aneurysm,” Stu replied.
“He’s so young,” the other woman said. “He could be the same age as our Jason.”
Pushing his way past the people gathered around his picnic table and in front of his tent, he moved closer for a better view, heart thumping painfully against his ribs. It didn’t make sense. How did someone young die in his tent? What were they doing in there?
He made it to the front of the crowd in time to see the EMTs zipping up a body bag. There was no mistaking that face. Acceptance finally arrived, pulling him into her warm embrace.
