I can't currently walk, so that either indicates that a swell time or a miserable one was had by all. Mr. Crowell and I decided to be more ambitious than your average S24O and make for that next ring of sites that isn't readily available like our usual
Jefferson Forest one. Mr. Crowell decided on
Hardy Lake given that Clifty Falls, with its pretty meadow site, was busy with festival traffic for the weekend. Hardy would also required a 55-mile trip, and neither of us had camped there.
Not unlike a usual S24, we left late afternoon, only this time, instead of a mellow 1.5hr easy slog through the city, we had 55 miles of rolling IN terrain on out plate, a fair piece of it in the dark.
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| Pre-game at Great Flood. Only 1, I promise. |
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| We passed by the NuLu fete on Market. |
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| Rolling sunny skies out towards Utica. |
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| Puffballs |
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| Cow atop hill and below more puffballs. |
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| Atop the mellow Waterline climb. Tired, old shack. |
Once we crossed onto Bethany Ln things got slightly more interesting. Below we have Mr. Crowell consulting his gps. This wouldn't be the only time. "Wink, nudge, elbow". The set began its decline and the Golden Hour set in.
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| I had lost the festive FL beach glasses I found in April, but found them right before the trip. Good mojo. |
As the sun set and the clouds began to do their dance I stopped several times to capture just the right sunset pic. These suffice, I think.
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| La luna |
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| Mixed-terrain. We encountered this road of corn cobs and had a fun time bumping along. Both of us agreed that it was the first corn cob mixed-terrain for either of us. |
At some point it became night, obviously, and at some point we ended up in Scottburg when we were supposed to be in Austin. Once a little sleepy and tired, I get whiny and testy, so for me the goal was FOOD, and CAMP. After devouring a cold Coke at a gas station and supplying up with more junk, we began our last leg comparing our respective lights, my knife-edge utility of the dyno and Dave's blunt force trauma of his Dinottes. There were more folks out than expected.
We didn't arrive until almost 11, and I was pretty exhausted. It was a quick camp set up, but unlike the usual quiet tones of some other campgrounds, this one had jokers playing glow-in-the-dark football in one spot and classic rock blaring in another. I was worried that we were in for a redneck fest. Interestingly enough, quiet hours kicked in at 11 and we might have been the noisiest in the camp. We ate efficiently and I headed for bed about an hour after arrival. Tired.
The out roll was fun, especially catching the sunset and the nighttime riding. I slept like a rock and only tossed a bit in the morning right around when other folks were rousing as well at 7, the official end of quiet time. To my surprise in the dull morning light, I found that the camp was surrounded on 2 sides and that we were in for a treat of a sunrise. I even made Dave get up and take a look. I took many pics and had a couple nice discussions with what looked like a youth group at the end of the peninsula.
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| Yes, please. |
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| First cup |
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| Seafoam ready for return. |
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| Er, Moo! |
Our morning roll took us in to Scottburg again for breakfast. Things started to subtly shift at this point, at least for me. One shouldn't live by expectations; I claim that mistake.
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| Notice, no sign illuminated. |
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| Post-sign, what to do. |
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| Old-fashiony Scottsburg. At one point the middle building had a restaurant, now closed. The left building has a sign for an upcoming cafe. Maybe it would be open at 10.30 on a Sunday. |
We settled on always-solid Waffle House and then made our way south on a somewhat on-the-spot route, given that Mr. Crowell was not having the best of luck with his gps. A little bit of Fall heat was creeping up, and our (my) pace was creeping down a bit. At some point I began to be willing to walk some hills. Dave kept it kicking on the 'bent.
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| Knobs to the West. Very nice. |
We stopped at Brownstown Rd. to route assess. Sometime after this Mr. Smith became very cranky and leg tired. At some point further along Bethany near Charlestown Mr. Smith had problems going *downhill* on Waterline. Mr. Smith had blown, and blown *HARD*. Mr. Crowell kept rolling along but somewhere along Utica Pike waited for Mr. Smith, whose calves and feet were cramping, and whose derriere was feeling like a steak pounded with a meat tenderizer. Bad. I crawled into home after having, perhaps, the most punishing 30-mile ride on record. But, hey, the sunrise was something.
