25. A Summer Hike (Aug. 2016)
Summer solstice and Father’s Day shared the same desk calendar square in 2004 (Sunday, June 20). I noticed this in my Dundee Street curbside office in near-downtown Asheville (NC, USA), while sipping some tepid tea.
Having knocked out the last item (replacement of a faulty electrical receptacle) on the to-do-while-they’re-away list (my first wife and 38-week-old son were in the Philippines) at 7:07 AM, it was time to finally do that Kitsuma Peak hike. A decent-for-June high temperature of 77º (Fahrenheit; 25º Celsius) was forecast for Black Mountain (15 miles – 24 km – east of our house). I thought: That’s not too bad for summer. Might as well head out now while it’s not hot. And, let’s bring Viche, [my dachshund-mix rescue dog] too; she will enjoy getting out of this old fixer-upper.
At – would you believe? – 08:08:08 AM, we were rolling east through the Interstate 240 Beaucatcher Mountain blast-cut. Traffic was light. We soon passed over Tunnel Road and took the exit for I-40 East. Should be a great day. What could go wrong? Darn, why did I have to think that?
Thirteen minutes later I was taking Exit 66 for Ridgecrest. I turned right at the STOP sign onto Dunsmore Avenue. We were almost immediately going over a pair of railroad tracks. Wonder if I’ll see a train today. Do they run on Sundays?
I then made a quick left onto Yates Avenue. Viche, previously asleep in the shotgun seat, looked up, trying to discern our whereabouts. Where on Earth is he taking me now?
Yates Avenue, a quasi-rural two-lane highway, paralleled I-40 for a mile (1.6 km), and then crossed over it. Just after the overpass, I turned right onto Royal Gorge Road. We tootled down it for 689 feet (210 meters), where it ended as a small parking lot. Only one vehicle was there: a dark blue Jeep Wagoneer. Good deal. It’s not crowded.
“We’re here, Viche,” I announced to my curious canine. “Are you ready to do some hiking?”
Viche looked at me with an excited expression on her little black-and-tan face.
We got out of the van. I got my backpack adjusted, and we were off. We soon arrived at the official beginning of the trail. An old wooden sign read:
YOUNGS RIDGE / KITSUMA PEAK
4 MI
I wasn’t planning on doing an 8-mile (12.9 km) roundtrip hike. That would be way too much for Viche and her short legs. We would just take in some overlooks within the first two miles (3.2 km).
The narrow, dirt-and-grass trail was bordered by I-40 on the right (southwest) and a ravine on the left. After walking 984 feet (300 meters), we began a steep climb that consisted of a dozen switchbacks. The trail became a trench with numerous rocks, some loose, and bicycle tire tracks. Wow! People mountain-bike this? Their bikes must have ultra-low granny gears.
Halfway up the incline, we stopped at a little granite overlook for some water. Viche lapped it up. Her nine-year-old body was already feeling the burn; she was panting hard. My heart was pounding, too; I had already broken a sweat. Let’s take a 15-minute rest. Don’t want to give her – or me – a heart attack. There’s really no rush. No need to turn this into a race.
We both parked on some semi-comfortable shaded spots on the gray craggy outcrop. Interstate 40 and the eastern part of the town of Black Mountain were visible in the distance. A pair of hawks soared on a thermal.
Then I heard a freight train to my right, chugging up the steep, winding grade from Old Fort. My mind meandered, just like the loopy railroad track layout to the north. (You really should see it: an array of clover leafs.) When was the last time I was here? It was in the wintertime. The winter of ‘96? Late January? Sounds about right. I remember sitting right here, hoping that I would be married by 2000. Well, that happened. But, it looks like I married the wrong one. Moving to Asheville got her away from her pernicious sister in Charlotte, but that damn cellphone remains an unbreakable link to Miss Evil. I’ll always be coming in second place to the slut-witch in terms of influence. She completely controls my wife’s mind; programs her like a robot. Oh, what does it matter? My wife is really not my type, nor the Asheville type. She has no interest in kewl [sic] art or music. She doesn’t like hiking, kayaking or cycling. She would never hike up here with Viche and me. She only likes spending money on shoes in Asheville Mall. She’s not going to change. I’ve truly married the wrong woman. I was naïve. Got played. And now I have a child with her. Man, I really fucked up. This don’t end good. [sic] I need to look out for my dear son, though. If we divorce, she might shack up with some real knuckleheads. [She would.] Maybe I could get primary custody. Ha! In this state? Are you kidding? I’d have to have a photo of her sucking on a crack pipe or a dude’s crank. She’s not a drug addict or alcoholic. This is going to get tricky and stressful. I’ll probably have to deal with an unethical lawyer at some point. [I would.] It will also get costly, I bet. [It did; still haven’t recovered financially.] ‘It’s cheaper to keep her’, they say. Keep a cheater? No way – I’m done. I’m sure that she’ll cheat on me again. [She would.] She’s probably screwing her old boyfriend in the Philippines right about now. [Never verified.] Yes, I bet we’re divorced before too long. [She would leave for her sister’s house on Christmas Day 2006 after being confronted about another affair; we would be officially divorced in February 2008.] Ah, such a lovely day for crappy thoughts. Time to get moving. Maybe that will clear my head out.
“Ok, Viche, did you have enough of a break?”
Viche just raised her head and looked at me. I hope we’re going down and not up.
We continued our upward trek. Why are we going up? What is up there? Tons of food? This had better be worth it.
In the penultimate switchback, Viche barked. A pair of hikers were coming downslope. When they got to us, I could tell that they were a couple. The man was a mid-20-something Caucasian collegiate type with reddish blonde hair; the female was Asian, Vietnamese perhaps, and about the same age. (My age: 39.) What a perfect pair. Why couldn’t we be like this? They seem so happy together. So content. What a sublime present for them. And what a fabulous future must surely be awaiting them.
“Hello!” the young lady said with genuine cheer. “Nice day for a hike.”
“Yes, it is,” I replied. “Not too bad for summer.”
“My thoughts, too,” the dude said in a non-American accent. Is he from England?
There was a semi-awkward pause. I wonder where they will be in ten years. Probably still on Happy Street.
The female finally spoke. “You have a cute dog.”
“Oh, thanks,” I said. “I got her from the Charlotte Dog Pound. She was just 72 hours away from being put to sleep.”
“Good on you, mate,” the dude said, now sounding Australian. Is he really an Aussie? Maybe an exchange grad student at UNCA. [University of North Carolina at Asheville] Maybe they both are.
“Well, don’t let me hold you guys up,” I then said. “Have a grand day.” Grand?
“You, too,” they said in unison as they sauntered along.
I watched them disappear into the dense greenery. Another ephemeral moment vanishes.
“Well, come on, Viche. We’re almost there.”
Her head tilted. We’d better be!
Ninety-nine seconds later, the back-and-forth ascent was over. We alighted on another west-facing granite outcrop. This overlook was larger than the last one. I undid Viche’s leash and lay down, utilizing a fallen tree as a pillow.
The sound of the freight train’s churning diesel engine grew louder. It was almost out of the curly-Q section now. And then the black locomotive appeared, billowing gray exhaust smoke up with such force that the bright-green-leaved tree limbs above it were rippling. Wow! What a sight. I’d still love to be a train engineer. Probably too late now.
The train was now on a straight shot, gaining speed, heading for the long tunnel that went under I-40 at Yates Avenue. Another successful climb. I guess that it’s much hairier going down. ‘Check those brakes! Check ‘em again, Ed.’
Six minutes later and the mostly-boxcar freight train had disappeared to the west, en route to the Asheville yard. I looked around for Viche. But, I didn’t see her … anywhere! She was gone.
I stood up and yelled, “Viche!” Nothing. “Hey, Viche! Viche, I’ve got treats!” No dog sounds. Oh, crap! Where’d she go?
I put my backpack on and walked to the trail. I kept calling her name. Nothing. Only the sound of leaves rustling in the late-morning breeze. Oh, man! Where is she?
I would walk down the trail to the van, calling for her, and back up, all the way to Kitsuma Peak (way beyond the second overlook). I didn’t see or hear her anywhere. I would then go off the trail into the woods. Still nothing. Did she fall off a cliff? Would I have heard anything if she did? Maybe, but maybe not. Or, did some animal, like a wolf or fox, suddenly attack her and carry her away? But, she would have yelped. Did she go off with a passing hiker that had food? Would she really do that?
I would keep searching until sundown. I asked several hikers that I came across, but none of them had seen her.
I resigned when it got dark. It was a morose, dispirited drive back to Asheville.
The next morning I returned to look for her. No luck.
Not finding her, I posted flyers in the area. I even placed a Lost Dog announcement in the local weekly.
However, it was all to no avail. I would never see Viche again.
