Asheville – North Carolina

October 6, 2010

I left Lexington, going in roughly in the wrong direction.

Steve had told me that I should drive up into the mountains of the George Washington National Forest. So I did that – even though it wasn’t on my exact path.

My exact path was to Asheville, North Carolina, where I would be meeting Kate for dinner. Kate is friend from the topsy-turvy TEN/pogo days, the Internet start-up where we worked in the late 90’s.

I had 3 somewhat conflicting goals for my trip to Asheville, in ascending order of importance:

1) See the aforementioned George Washington mountains.

2) Drive along the scenic Blue Ridge Parkway leading to Asheville.

3) Don’t be late for dinner.

The George Washington National Forest was nice, and I got to see some backwoods areas. But the detour took longer than I expected, creating some worry about goals 2 and 3. So I almost regretted undertaking goal 1. But I didn’t. Because there was something else.

I rescued a doggie.

Driving on Highway 220, we crossed over a river with a gravel boat ramp. Kettle and I like to stop at easy to access rivers, so we turned off onto Glen Wilton Road and pulled into the boat ramp parking area.

As soon as I got out of the car, I was greeted by an excited and friendly little dog.

There were some other parked cars, but there was no one around. I was worried that the little guy would run out onto the highway, so I got Kettle’s leash and put it on Glen, then walked him down to the river to see if anyone was there.

The dog’s name was not actually Glen, but whatever name had been written on his collar had faded off. That’s right, instead of buying a tag, someone just wrote on the collar with a marker. (I was annoyed, until I realized that it was something I might do.)

I called him Glen for two reasons. The first you will figure out, if you haven’t already. The second is that when I got Kettle, the name on his papers was Glen. But he didn’t respond to that name, and so I called him Kettle instead. I have since wondered if I should have used the name Glen. This was my second chance.

No one was down at the river, so I brought Glen back up to my car. Normally if another dog approaches the car, he will bark menacingly. But Kettle just watched Glen and wagged his tail.

Would Kettle end up having a buddy for the ride home?

Most likley not. Glen probably still had a home somewhere. If no one showed up soon, I would have to find a dog shelter so that, hopefully, his owners would find him there.

Then an old pick-up truck came down Glen Wilton Road and stopped at the stop sign. I waved to get their attention.

The three people in the front seat were the most hillbilly-looking folks I’ve ever seen in real life. We were in the woods, after all, and not far from West Virginia. They seemed a bit uneasy about having to talk to me.

I, of course, was completely comfortable.

I asked if they recognized Glen.

They did!

They were difficult to understand, but they said he belonged at a big, brown house half a mile up the road.

“He’s a roamer,” said the woman in the middle of the seat.

I was hoping they’d volunteer to take him back themselves, but no such offer was made. So I drove up the road, with the little dog on my lap, and found the brown house.

No one was home (I think), but there was an enclosed front porch with the gate open. I put Glen the Roamer on the porch, left a bowl of water, shut the porch gate, and went on my way.

No shot guns were fired in the process.

From there I drove to Roanoke, then found my way onto the Blue Ridge Parkway … running late for my dinner with Kate.

I was expecting the Blue Ridge Parkway to be just like any other scenic highway. But my expectations were far surpassed. The Parkway is 469 miles of road along the Blue Ridge portion of the Appalachian Mountains. The entire drive is buffered from civilization. Not only is it extraordinarily scenic, but it is uninterrupted by stops of any kind. And the road was in great condition. And it was curvy (but not too curvy) – and nicely banked. And there were not many cars on the road.

Did I mention I was running late?

And have I mentioned that I’m driving a Mini Cooper?

If so, you will not be surprised to learn that on this spectacular afternoon in Virginia (soon to be North Carolina), on one of the most beautiful roads in the world, I broke one of my 3 rules for the trip …

I drove fast.

And it was good.

So was dinner with Kate. She took me to a place called Tupelo Honey, where I had blackened catfish over goat cheese grits. For two things that seems so different, goat cheese and grits go quite well together.

The only problem with dinner was that it was too short, so we decided to go for a hike the next day.

One reason that dinner with Kate was too short was that … well … I was late.

But hey, I rescued a doggie.

And that wasn’t even on my list.