Thunderstorms & Trail Angels (Fri – 7/8/16)

This redneck party is moving quickly towards a full-blown beer and gab-fueled bonanza. I could use a nap. Adventure time! Hell yea! I’m really all for it but, as Captain just said, “There are too many people around. I wish I was in the woods.” My sentiments exactly. We bombed down some road in search of Newport, VA on a route suggested by the madman SOBO named Jeopardy, whom of course we listened to. It was pouring rain at the time and lightning doesn’t mix so well with wet hiker atop mountain ridges.

Did I mention Chicken of the Woods? It’s a mushroom that actually tastes like chicken. Who knew? Yea, this uber Redneck Barbeque is commencing with the circus master, Shatterproof, as its ring leader and chief instigator. How is anyone even still hungry? I ate enough for three hiker stomachs at the gas station once we finally hitched a ride into town. Oh well, eat your hearts out friends! It was a pretty wild ride getting here, no doubt about it. After slogging five miles down the road, soaked and frozen to the bone, we finally managed the hitch I was referring to. The driver of the flatbed truck damn near left Shatter and I due to our earlier over-zealous approach to hitching. Apparently yelling, “Help us out!!” at a passing car left a derogatory taste in our driver’s mouth (of course it’s the same guy, he came back for us in a truck). I guess he didn’t quite catch my exact words. We made it alright after a tense couple minutes explaining ourselves, water under the bridge and all that.

At the gas station our Trail Angel took over. Dressed in a loose button-down striped shirt; cheap watch and faded shorts ending above worn out red Nikes as old as he was, with a nicotine stained white beard and missing teeth to match, his demeanor of sarcasm was just the breath of fresh air we needed. His arms are so deeply tanned from sunny Virginia  summers you could almost miss the sores all over his left one, they look suspiciously like cigarette burns. Note to self: I suspect this it’s the world’s nicest man until he’s not. Don’t piss him off. His name is Sandy Newman and he is indeed an Angel. The house itself is planted like a single tree atop a hill overlooking a valley rimmed by the mountains beyond, threatening to swallow it all up, cattle; trees and all. The air smells like chicken and rings of farm-related words echoing from across the yard. Some kid is tearing up the turf on a four-wheeler somewhere in the distance, scaring the dogs.

I’m not exactly hungry or feeling terribly social but it’s too dark to write alone on the stairs of this broken-down hot tub anymore (do you ever see any other variety?). Maybe it’s time to slam a couple more beers and attempt conversation. We’ll see how it goes.  My current one is empty anyways. I always have this depressing book about a marriage falling apart, Gone Girl, to read if I want, I’ve scarcely been able to put it down anyways. Here goes nothing.

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