CHAPTER FIVE - Campfire

Lance looked rather somber as he stood before me, arm out, fist wrapped around his little pipe with the pointy end staring directly at me. Beckoning.

Peace offering, huh? Wonder what that's all about. Granted the afternoon was a little odd, what with the fight and shooting, but adventures sometimes go that way. Still, looking at the wisps of curling smoke coming from between his fingers… wrapped around his white Onyx pipe to keep the embers lit… I was quite ready to accept his gesture in the spirit of friendship. He appeared to be in a melancholy mood on the ride that's for sure.

Lance withdrew his other hand from deep inside his left pocket and extended it to me. Between his thumb and forefinger was a bill folded over two times. My eyes caught his, as I took a long draw on the pipe. Another gesture? I stopped inhaling (…how could anybody suck on the end of a pipe like this and not inhale? Slick Willie sure was a lying, cheating bastard…) pleased by the instant rise of bluish smoke coming from the bowl. He's giving me money?

I must have looked dumbfounded, a still life picture. The air was calm, smoke from the fire leading tendrils of white into the trees above. The crackling of the campfire was the only evident interruption to the stillness, except for the occasional drip from the trees onto the leaf-covered ground at our feet. All four of us locked in time, my eyes the only sign of life as they darted between the bill in his hand, his eyes, and the couple across the fire from us - searching for an explanation. This may have repeated several times before Lance spoke.

"Two-Tone was drunk. We were playing pool about a month ago, I was a couple hundred up at that point, and he was getting pretty mad. He was there with about six of his riding buddies, I hadn't seen them before - your friend wasn't there I don't think. He called the Eight in the corner pocket - and instead of dropping in the corner he was aiming at, it railed one time and sunk in the opposite corner."

"The whole thing got kinda ugly at that point, his buds siding with him and we ended up in the parking lot. The odds didn't look good and I ended up having to hop on Ol' Petey there," he said, pointing to his campsite in the near darkness, "and make a hasty retreat."

OK, so it was a good story starting up here, one that deserved a good ending, but I still didn't know what the money in his hand had to do with this. He motioned with the bill for me to take it. Looked at it once, then at me, saying, "You risked your money tonight to keep my ass out of trouble, you won it fair and square. Take it."

I reached out and grasped the folded bill, pinching and sliding my fingers as I did, splaying it out so it unfolded somewhat. With the orange light from the fire dancing all over it, I found myself looking at a new $100 bill.

As if the matter was settled, Lance turned in Candy's direction, took two steps, his hand reaching out, and said in that damned James Bond voice of his, "Hi, I'm Lance…Lance West."

I didn't hear her response, although I vaguely recall her introducing herself and Chet. I got one of those 'Hey, I dunno' shrugs and one-raised-eyelid gestures from Chet as I stood there still holding the pipe in one hand and the Franklin in the other. Yeah - this guy could turn out to be a good bud to ride with.

In case you're wondering, I pocketed the bill. True, I did risk my own hundred on the game. In truth, I didn't have a hundred on me at the time, either. It was a gamble that just paid off, getting Two-Tone off his ass and seemingly paying for this trip at the same time. In a lull in the conversation, as we all babbled on about who we were and what brought us to the Hanging Rock State Park this particular weekend, I looked over at Lance.

"Tell me about this Two-Tone guy," I said. Lance was looking into the fire and just sighed… an audible sigh that signaled the start of a long story. One I don't think Chet was going to make it through. It was now dark, and the rain had stopped, although the stars were not yet visible. Chet's chin had dropped to his chest more than once. Candy leaned forward in her chair, closer to the firelight, intent on Lance's face, as she had been during the past twenty minutes of chitchat. Lance went on over the next twenty explaining how he used to ride with Two-Tone and about ten other guys from southwestern Virginia.

He had gotten the nickname after a bad spill on the Blue Ridge Parkway. Eighty feet after impact with the asphalt at 45 miles per hour, faded jeans in rags hanging off his left hip and reddening by the minute, James Thomas Parker stood up, ripped away the remaining tatters of his pant leg revealing an astonishing patch of road rash, and was dubbed Two-Tone by his unsympathetic buddies.

It WAS his fault after all. Hot dogging his '91 Silver Fatboy at the head of the pack, Parker had rounded a corner a little too fast, clipping the bumper of a slow moving mini-van rounding the corner from the opposite direction. Lance, it turned out, was the first one to lay his bike over on its stand, get to him and order him to lie still.

The poor family from Wisconsin was frightened to death at the turn of events. Eight Harley riders stopped in the middle of the parkway trying to help their buddy, while Daddy gets out of the rented Plymouth Voyager. Mom locks the door immediately and tells the two teenaged girls to be quiet and don't make eye contact. I can see it now.

No one called him Jim again after that day, and Two-Tone resents having to be reminded of it daily, but that's how riding handles get bestowed. Watch out for those who name themselves - a truly unsavory thing to do!

I notice with fascination how Candy's eyes never stray from Lance for more than a few seconds, usually to see if Chet is still chin-down in his folding chair, one too many Crown and Mountain Dew's under his belt. Once in a while I catch her glancing in my direction and am stunned by the glimmer in her eyes as she peers over the firelight into mine. Sparkles of yellow flash in reflection of the fire as I note that she is a pretty woman. Lance is still mumbling on about something, staring into the fire as we all have been for some time now. Candy holds the gaze for a few moments longer than expected. I've never been one to avert my eyes at the gaze of an attractive woman.

We get around to Candy's story. She and Chet, now making audible snoring sounds from his corner, were married eight years ago. She looks at him with a mixed combination of admiration and embarrassment. She repeats several times how he usually doesn't get drunk this early around a campfire. I saw him put away nearly a half bottle of Crown and three cans of Dew just since I've been here. It was a wonder he hadn't peed his pants yet.

They've decided not to have kids, for all the right reasons in their minds. Winter camping, for them, is an exercise in conversation. Sitting around a fire with no one else around, no TV, no phone, no kids… I could understand the attraction. I almost felt guilty interrupting their solitude. She led on a few times that they were having some problems, but we didn't press it. She had one of those soft silky voices that made you want to just shut up and listen.

I suddenly was aware that Lance had the same intense gaze on her face that she had had on his and instinctively looked over at Chet to make sure we weren't about to get into another fight here. Safe for the moment.

When it was my turn, I explained the purpose of my evening at Hanging Rock. The third year in a row here in late winter, I too enjoyed the solitude, although I looked at both Lance and Candy and told them that this year sitting around the campfire with new friends was pretty nice, too.

I explained how three years ago I had just finished reading a book on Indian culture and spirituality and was fascinated by their concept of Vision Quests - going off to a mountaintop somewhere and smoking dope (oh hell, you KNOW they did!) and getting their visions. I wasn't quite that spiritually needy, but I did like the concept of an adventure out on a mountain in the dead of winter. I found myself swinging in the hammock the night before Christmas Eve, unusually warm winter that year, looking up at the full moon and seeing the tip of Hanging Rock loom overhead in the moonlight.

It took me only a half hour to untie the hammock, grab a pillow and sleeping bag, and hike over to the trailhead, trying to avoid any park rangers that might be patrolling. Within the hour I was tying the hammock between two scrawny trees on the tip of the rock outcrop and swinging under the clear night, looking over the valley lights below.

It was obvious from the way I spoke about the experience that I had intended to do the same this year as well. Last year was bitterly cold, and timed for the night in mid-December when the moon was full, at its closest to the earth and appeared huge in the sky as I climbed the face of the mountain. That was an awesome evening, and one I hoped to repeat this year.

This year, though, I timed the trip for a new moon because it was supposed to be the peak of the Geminids Meteor Shower, although it would result in a more dangerous hike up in the dark. Last year was fully illuminated by the moonlight - tonight would be pitch black, but I still wanted to see the meteors from the top of the rock.

As if on cue we all looked up. Not a star in the sky because of the enveloping overcast, but seemingly less dense than earlier. At least the rain had stopped. I looked at both of them, who looked at each other silently.

"Care to join me?"

All I got in return was Candy glancing over at Chet, and Lance turning back the cuff of his jacket looking at his watch - appears that I won't have any takers tonight. Which was fine with me. Last year I woke up before sunrise on top of the rock to find a Father and Son sitting on the rock behind me and felt cheated, so a solo trek to the top would be fine with me.

In the 15 seconds of silence that followed, I took a heavy sigh and slapped my palms on my knees, elbows out, signaling I was going to leave. I was suddenly hungry as I remembered I hadn't eaten dinner. The frequent passing of the pipe and the last five beers, served regularly by Candy out of their cooler, was beginning to speak to me. Once on my feet, I realized the hike up the mountain was going to be an experience all to itself.

Lance had just loaded up his little pipe and stood in unison with me, tucked it into my jacket pocket saying "Just in case it gets cold up there." I was just trying to focus on not falling into the fire pit.

I left them staring into the waning flicker of the untended fire, saying goodnight as I passed out of the circle of light. Lance made no move to excuse himself. I do hope Chet doesn't carry any weapons.

Click here to go to the INDEX

 

"Lets Roll!"
 

 
For Information, contact:
Muthuh@Muthuh.com  

MUTHUH'S RIDES HOME | ARCHIVES | FUTURE TRIPS