The Weekend Gold Rush: Roadside Camping in Pisgah National Forest
The mad dash began at 2:00pm, hurriedly fleeing work, en route to Mills River — the most convenient gateway to Pisgah National Forest from South Asheville. Being a Friday in an unseasonably warm October, I knew the pickings would be slim for roadside camping, which is free on a first-come-first-served basis along the the winding dirt and gravel roads spanning 512,758 acres of mountains and timber beyond the pavement of Route 208.
“Do you know if there are any spots open up the road?” I inquired at such a site. “He spent last night looking, and finally found this one this morning,” a twenty-something-year-old camper replied, her toddler in tow. “Good luck!” She shouted as I continued weaving through the mountains. There were several desirable locations along the road, but most were adorned in yellow “no camping here” signs. After 11 strike-outs, I came across a highly trafficked spot, a dirt platform below USDA Road 5000, with a rock fire pit and ample space to pitch a tent. Albeit lacking the official designation, it neither possessed the “no camping” signage, and I was able to pull my truck entirely out of the way. I anticipated a Ranger showing up, telling me that I wasn’t in a designated site, and would have to move, but one never arrived, nor would I cross paths with one throughout the duration of my stay.
Thus I set up camp South of Kramers Vista, along a tiny tributary which feeds the North Fork Mills River in the sunset shadow of Trace Ridge. The water pooled up just before my tent, filled with the first colorful signs of the season. “Your dog is so cute!” A passing mountain biker remarked. “See what happens when you’re nice? You get a compliment” I joked to V, my six-year-old Blue Heeler with a penchant for nipping at people who move too fast.
Mountain bikers seemed to make up a vast majority of passers by. The record breaking October heat of 88 degrees made sleep tempting after set-up; I dozed off several times between 3:30 and 4:45pm while attempting to devour one of my favorite books, only to be startled by V’s alarming barks at fellow outdoor enthusiasts.
One time I awoke on my own, dreaming I was receiving a call from a friend, only to remember I had left my phone in the truck, and didn’t have service in these parts anyhow. After expressing gratitude toward the compliment and grabbing two measly rotted logs from the bed of the truck, I began gathering twigs for kindling, arranging them in order of size on the flat surface of a rock beside the fire pit. Knowing Western North Carolina was in the midst of a drought, I took a brief stroll along the creek to scour a clog of larger limbs which had been beached into a pervious dam at higher waters, which would provide a range of various sized wood within one tug and drag to the site.
I used my folding saw to dissect the limbs, much to V’s excitement, as she gnawed and chewed apart the appendages. Avoiding a menial debate about the benefits of fire construction designs, I’ll state that I prefer to use the finer debris in a Lincoln Log pattern, and add flying buttress supports to the structure once I reach inch-thick wood, fusing the teepee pattern atop. Everyone has their own method, but we’re creatures of habit.
Around 6:15 I jubilantly ignited my one-strike fire, using a palm of dryer lint as my tinder, while V leaped and bounded, engaging in a fierce battle with what I surmised to be a rather menacing horse fly. Dusk was falling upon us; I tried to snap some shots of a bashful Venus as the first car in an hour whizzed past; I reckoned their day-trip had expired and they were en route to civilization. I was relieved to remain stationary; the pristine trickling waters flooded me with serenity and vindication, and the evanescing blue above was ripe for woolgathering.
Adding fuel to the fire and listening to my miniature radio — the only modern entertainment technology I sparingly indulged on trips — I pondered what awaited on the trail the following morning. At 7:07pm the quarter moon rapped between the canopy; a gentle but prevalent entrance to the scene. While securing my food and shuttling an extra couple of logs from the truck, I took a spill, sliding down the sandy gully between the roots which acted as a trail for the campsite. Skimming my right arm and leg, I chuckled while lamenting my lack of caution. This was my sign to pack it in and head to my shelter for the night, drifting off to the chorus of crickets.
I awoke the following morning to the tapping of free falling leaves against my tent. Outside the forest was cloaked in a drizzly predawn tranquility. My radio proclaimed a chance of scattered showers, but no real rain until Monday, before Steve Wariner sang “sun is up, time’s at hand, there’s a stir across the land, and so begins another day on life’s highway.”
Just a few miles to the Southwest, Asheville would remain clear, but in Pisgah I would have no such luck. After reading for a spell, I broke out my stove to whip up some grub; instant coffee and pancake mix is a godsend! A crafty son-of-a-gun may have smuggled some packets of “buttery spread” from a fast food joint to go with a tiny bottle of maple syrup, as well as some creamer and sugar packets, but I refuse to self-incriminate.
Once jacked up on caffeine in the refreshing 61 degree breeze, I clipped V’s leash to a carabiner on my belt loop and started North up the dirt road, hanging left onto 5000B, and forking right along the Spencer Gap Trail. Still riddled with mountain bikers, I crossed paths with a plethora of smiling faces, one of whom was sympathetic to the plight of socializing Heelers, “oh I get it, mine’s the same way,” he remarked while disembarking his bike, opting to walk it up a steeper portion of trail. “Pretty pup,” another announced while cutting around a switchback at decent speed.
After a couple of miles, entering the clouds, the light rain threatened to become more menacing, so we turned back and headed for camp. I wasn’t disheartened, however; there was a six-pack of Labatt awaiting me. In previous years, that particular beer had been a part of my annual autumn tradition of tramping around Connecticut and the Catskill Mountains; they were hard to come by in downstate New York, the last place I called home.
While splitting a few more logs — I’d have to get a good bed of coals going to sustain my fire through the damp conditions — V retreated to the cover of rhododendrons. That first sip of beer tasted almost as good the pancakes hours earlier, especially after hiking and swinging my axe. There was nothing left to do but to sit back and enjoy the symphony of Neil Young, crackling pine, and the gurgling stream. There was nowhere else in the world I’d rather spend that particular sliver of time.
V repeatedly climbed the small embankment to the road to keep watch over a dwindling roster of traffic, before returning to lick the scrape on my leg; ironically incurred from the same embankment the night before. “God made you to love, though selectively, and such a lover and generous giver you are!” I praised. Perhaps she was a Blue Healer.
By 4:30pm the temperature had only peaked at 63 degrees, a stark contrast to every day prior for the last several months. I inched closer to the fire and listened to the birds, who had finally announced their boisterous appearance from the thickets; for most of the day they had silently bode their time hunkered down out of the weather. The loud “chip” of a cardinal circled camp a few times before disappearing once more into the wilderness. Without the passing of another human soul in hours, the barometric circumstances encouraged an atmosphere of solitude.
“Y-ouch!” At around 5:45pm, while scavenging firewood along the stream I accidentally trampled a nest of yellow jackets at the edge of the camp. I slapped one off my left index finger and swatted at a handful making their assault on my left calf. Could this be the arch nemesis V had battled the night before? I had seen the horseflies, and made the assumption they were the pests who had been such a hindrance; I would need to be more vigilant from now on. Just when I thought they had dispersed, one more took a stab at my right arm, sending a burning sensation through my muscles.
I retreated to the truck for a while, to let my worthy adversary settle down for the evening. Once more I was stung on my lower back, by a stealthy yellow jacket who had hitched onto my sweater, waiting for me to drop my guard in the safety of my vehicle. “Really?!” I screamed, shedding my outer layer in frustration. “All is not well on the hippie front,” I quoted from one of my favorite movies: Into the Wild. Maybe this was why the Rangers hadn’t bothered to put up signage; Mother Nature provided her own security.
After an hour I was comfortable enough to return to my still-engulfed campfire, and throw a pot of water on the stove to cook up some noodles for supper. The remaining glow made rudimentary cooking a breeze, and the hot meal eased the pain and frustration from the assault by my highly aggressive neighbors. By this point I could laugh about it; “why didn’t you yelp?” I asked V, surprised she wasn’t as vocal as I while getting stung the prior evening. I guess she’s a little bit tougher than me. She just brushed my question off and got a good itch-scratching in, before we cozied up in the tent for one last night. The real world awaited us in the morning.
