Last Run in May

Today was the last day in May, a good opportunity to complete one of my favorite training runs (as the few readers of this blog must know by now):  Big Bearpen.  Tomorrow is June 1, a new month, and new adventures await.  But today I stayed with the familiar:  that long, shady, winding morning road up this mountain that I try to climb at least once a week.

It was still cool under the shade of these towering trees, and the recent rains had settled the dust which can be a problem during the summer.  There was little traffic; a woman I did not recognize, wearing earphones and blissfully listening to music, was striding down the mountain just below the last switch-back, possibly a left-over visitor from Memorial Day.  I reached the first vista, just opposite Fred's driveway marked by the sign of a descending dove, with the little gazebo looking down on the Recreation Park.

And then the other vistas, scattered around the summit.  First, the view of Satulah to the southwest, what I consider the true "summit" where the road levels off and begins that big counter-clockwise circle, and where I always stop to stretch and take in the view.

And then on around to the Kalanta view, where in clear weather one can see the big lakes of South Carolina shining in the distance.  It's all downhill from here!  (But I wish I knew what "Kalanta" means.  Can it really refer to a Greek folk song as Wikipedia suggests?)

And finally that spectacular view of Whiteside Mountain to the East, with Highlands Falls just to the left.  On a quiet day (following rainy periods) you can hear it flowing all the way up here.

It was a good climb and was rewarding to come up here again, to another summit, pulling it in one long, slow, steady climb without stop. 

On the way back down I saw a trash-can overturned (I had not noticed it on the way up), trash scattered everywhere, and I thought a bear might be in the neighborhood.  So when I reached Chestnut Street, I decided to forego a climb up Sunset, or around Gibson Street, and stick to the safe, populated areas around Harris Lake.  It really is unnerving to see a bear - these large, wild, unpredictable creatures - up close as I have more than once.  I was not in the mood for that today.

As I was nearing Satulah Ridge Road, a workman on a house under construction was walking out to his truck parked on the road, and he said, "Hey, buddy!  A young man and two women just came by and told me there was a bear up ahead, like two mailboxes up, just a couple of minutes ago!  Just wanted to let you know so you wouldn't be scared!"  I thanked him, and slowed to a walk, and then shouted out, "Awright, bear, out of the way!  Here I come!" and began coughing loudly, and started running again.  No sign of any bear.  But they are out, and they are hungry.

Of course, it stands to reason that a bear will not stay long on Big Bearpen after overturning an unsatisfying trash-can.  Nor will he be lurking on Lower Lake Road or Gibson Street, where there are no houses.  He will be here, in Town, where the food is.  He will be having lunch in Town today. 

Memorial Day Weekend

Yesterday we had to go to Asheville, so I did not complete the "Run for the Park 5-K" held at 8:00 a.m. right here in Highlands.  It was a perfect morning for a race and I hope it went well for all the many other Highlands Roadrunners out there, although I have not heard any reports yet.  Looking ahead, I had been able to complete my long run for the week (10 miles) on Friday morning, an equally perfect day with cool temperatures and sunshine. 

Today I took a short hike instead of running, something I have been enjoying on weekend days when I do not run.  The pace was nice and slow and there was plenty to see and enjoy on a hike I have taken a hundred times or more, to the top of Sunset Rocks.  I began on the narrow gravel path along Horse Cove Road, a beautiful little walkway through arching rhododendron.

Mountain laurel was blooming in great profusion all along the way, and it reminded me that my mother-in-law had told me earlier in the week that it blooms like this every seven years.  She remembered that it exploded in bloom in 1954 and was used to decorate the church at her sister's wedding . . . exactly 63 years ago.  I should try to remember to check in 2024.  

Flame azalea was blooming, too, and some June wildflowers.  All along the trail, other hikers were talking and smiling and having a good day, as it is on most hikes (I've never seen a grouchy hiker).

One group asked me, "Are we almost there?" and I answered with my stock reply:  "You're already there!"  Still, it is always a wonderful feeling, even after a hundred times or more, to reach that final "there," a place as high as a person can climb ("Nearer to Heaven," in the words of signs in some local tourist shops), those bare rocks.  And gaze down on our little Town, its streets crowded on this busy holiday weekend.

Good cross-training, and equally good refreshment for the spirit.

Rain Forest Highlands

Sunday afternoon, we drove up to Highlands in the rain to enjoy "Don't Cry for Me Margaret Mitchell," the most recent production of the Highlands Cashiers Players.  During intermission, we stood outside under the porte-cochère watching the rain come down and talking with a man who had been coming here for years. "This is the way Highlands used to be!  It would rain all summer," he said.  "Couldn't ever play golf!"

That is very true.  We both remember summers when it would rain nearly every day, making a game of golf problematic and generating hundred of voracious slugs in the garden and on the impatiens.  Highlands has always been known as a Rain Forest, averaging 80 inches per year until these recent years of extreme drought.  It does seem as if the cycle is shifting and we are back in the Rain Forest again, and it has made running as problematic as golfing.  Today I drove up to Town, believing my weather app when it said there was a Zero percent chance of rain at 9:00 a.m., and sat in the car and watched it come down for nearly a half hour before giving up and driving home. 

I have run in the rain many times, have even run marathons on days like this, but perhaps my need for what we used to call "character-building runs" has finally waned.  I just don't like soggy shoes and cold, shivering trips home in the car these days.  So we went out of Town to do our grocery shopping and when we returned it genuinely seemed as if it was clearing up.  I drove back up to Founders Park, and indeed it was not raining at all; in fact, sunlight seemed to be flashing around on the horizon here and there.  I started off quickly and completed three miles before returning to the car for a few sips of Gatorade. 

But the plan was to run six miles today, so off I started again.  I did not complete twenty meters before it began raining again, and then pouring again.  I sprinted back for cover, stood and watched it for awhile, and then as it continued to intensify decided that I should go home.  A runner living in a Rain Forest should be grateful, after all, for a window of opportunity, but not greedy.

Pacing Myself

"Pacing myself."   That's a phrase loaded with meaning for a runner.

• To set or regulate the rate of speed for (a race or a competitor in a race).
• To lead (one's team or teammates) with a good performance: paced her team to a victory with 18 points.
• To advance or develop (something) for a particular purpose or at a particular rate: paced the lectures so as not to overwhelm the students.

It is an especially apt phrase for an out-of-shape runner like me.  A couple of years ago, my friend Morris told a young runner he was tutoring to run easy on a particular day after a hard run.  "You know," he said.  "Richard Pace."  That brought some laughter, and the phrase has been the subject of the usual banter since then, but I did not take it as an insult at all; in fact, I like to insist now that I always run Richard Pace, whether it means slow persistent non-stop pulls to the top of Big Bearpen, intervals sessions, or those easy long runs on Saturday, lengthened even more by frequent walking breaks. 

And that is what I need to do now.  I will run some hills, and some faster-paced workouts, but mostly I will build that slow, gradual mileage that is the foundation for a season of running and racing.  Last Saturday I intended to complete as many miles as I could, and it was not pretty starting out; two days of yard work seemed to have left weights strapped to my ankles.  But after a few miles I felt better, and even better, and I finally completed eight miles, feeling that I could have gone two more but knowing that it is best not to push too much during this recovery period.  My goal for next Saturday is ten miles.

And it is a beautiful time to run in Highlands!  Around every corner, rhododendron is exploding, shy blue irises are hiding in the tall roadside grass, the fragrance of fresh-cut grass is everywhere, and temperatures are still cool enough in the mornings to thoroughly enjoy.  Traffic won't become really heavy until Memorial Day, too, so an occasional run right up the middle of Main Street, as I did this morning at the end of a six-mile run, is still possible.  There is no place like Highlands in which to live and run!

Home

It seemed as if we encountered every possible delay on our final leg of the journey home, from Winston-Salem to Highlands.  We must have been slowed by a dozen construction projects, and drivers on the interstates seemed to be more annoying and obstructive than usual.   Roads were closed and detours were everywhere.

But at last we reached Asheville, and then Brevard, and finally two-lane roads, and only that one traffic signal in Cashiers.  It is always with great pleasure and anticipation that we reach those final miles, noticing the verdant trees all around us (mostly bare a month ago), the familiar sights along the way, and finally that beautiful Town of Highlands and its Main Street, unlike any town we had passed through on our long journey.  And then the embrace of loved ones, the sighting of friends on the street and in the Post Office.  Home.

This is what the walk to our back door looked like four weeks ago.

And this is what greeted us when we returned today.  Spring has finally arrived!  It is so rewarding to travel, but so comforting to return home again.

Returning Home

On this final stage of our return home, we traveled east on US-64, that famous road from Manteo to Murphy.  I realized that if we continued on this road, we would (in two or three days) arrive on Main Street in Highlands.

This was pretty country to drive through on a sunny Sunday morning, bright green, close to the water, with bait and tackle stands all along the roadside; we stopped in the little town of Plymouth at lunch-time to see if serendipity would provide an interesting place to eat.  Out on the bypass, we passed up Bojangles, Burger King, and all the rest.  But on Main Street we stumbled upon the only building that had cars parked out front, the Garden Spot Cafe and Oyster Bar.  This was a true local place!  As soon as we walked in the front door, an older woman (the owner, probably) announced heartily "It's New Orleans today," and indeed the special today was Oyster Po' Boys.  Neighboring churches finished their worship services shortly after we were seated, and in no time the place was packed.  We enjoyed good, simple food, and listened with great pleasure to that ordinary chattering conversation all around us that takes place in small towns across this country. 

Our next stop was a Sunday flea market at the Raleigh Fairground, a place we had not visited for a number of years.  What a treat!  Here you could barter for anything at any price, and the place was filled with Americans of every racial, ethnic, and religious group.  If you merely cast your eyes casually on some item in a stall along the way, you would attract the zealous attention of the proprietor who would immediately tell you that his prices were negotiable.

I wandered into one stall, and a young African-American man hurried to say, "Don't worry 'bout no price, man, I'm giving it away!!"  All around me, I could hear conversations like, "How much would you take for that?"  "Oh . . . $20?  "Well, if I want the little one there too, would you take $22?"  This is Capitalism at its most basic.  Some of our politicians in Washington would benefit from a stroll down this crazy popcorn-smelly noisy aisle and learn what the real America economy is all about.

And there, suddenly, right in the middle of all this chaos, this little flock of birds came strolling down the aisle, babies in tow.  "They just walked in the gate," somebody said.  "Nobody knows where they came from."

We ended our Sunday journey at the Historic Brookstown Inn in Winston-Salem, where we had stayed earlier in the year on our journey to Atlantic Beach.  We love this place!  It is a piece of history, an old mill converted into quiet rooms (helped by two-foot-thick brick walls) right next door to Old Salem.  The highlight for us is seeing Sally, the hotel cat, who occupies all the comfortable chairs in the lobby.

The room, with its brick walls and high beamed ceiling, was perhaps the most comfortable place we had stayed on this entire trip.  There was not a sound all night, and we slept as soundly as Sally.

Homeward Bound

This will be my last post for a couple of days because in the morning we will be packing up and heading home (with an overnight stay in Winston-Salem to break up the 530-mile journey).  We have become very efficient at packing and unpacking, so there isn't much to do except wait for our running clothes to dry on hangers in the spare bedroom.

We went for our final run this morning, five breezy miles - I went to all our favorite places on the Boardwalk, including Clinton Memorial Chapel.  A west wind was blowing and the Sound was choppy with white-caps, but nothing like the other day when water was cascading upward all around me.

There is a widely-dispersed colony of black cats out here - I have seen them five miles from here, so I know it's not the same cat - and this little fellow showed up the other day a minute or two after I opened a can of tuna.  I have learned from experience that an open can of tuna for a cat is like that proverbial drop of blood in the ocean for a shark.

She flitted across the handrail on the outside of the screen, connecting one open deck to another.  And then she stood at the corner looking in.  She's been here regularly at lunch and dinner when the seafood appears, and feeding her that piece of scallop the other night probably only encouraged her.

We like cats and will miss this little one.  She may miss us even more, although her sleek coat indicates regular feeding. 

Departure is always a little bittersweet - we love staying here, but it will be four weeks tomorrow since we left Highlands on this long journey and we are ready to be home again.  I will miss these beautiful sunrises, which we do not get to witness living deep down in Clear Creek Valley among many mountains.  This one earlier in the week was extraordinary.  I had gotten down to the beach early and was waiting for it to make an appearance, and it seemed as if clouds had gathered on the horizon on either side, purple-tinted and standing at attention, like courtiers waiting along with me expectantly for the royal appearance.

Finally the glory of simple daylight appeared, unerringly on time as always:  the beginning of a brand new day.

Ghost Crabs and Other Creatures

Martha is an observant person, and this morning she told me she had spotted dolphins out in the surf not far from our house.  I went out to see, and sure enough, there they were, arcing into the air, feeding on something that had brought them close to shore.  These dorsal-finned fish were brown in color, not black as we have seen in the past, which made us wonder if they could be sharks after all.

This afternoon, she went down to the beach to read a book, while I remained up in the house (working on this blog).  In a little while, she came back up to the house to tell me excitedly that there were all kinds of things on the beach, especially little crabs, running back and forth and then disappearing down their half-dollar-sized holes in the sand which we had noticed everywhere a few days ago.  I went down to the beach to see, and it was true:  literally dozens of little sand-colored crabs, from the size of pennies to perhaps the size of a child's hand; they could detect the approach of a predator like me and instantly scuttle side-ways into these tiny holes.

I learned from our friendly and informative locals at "Dockside 'N Duck," where we purchase all our seafood, that these are "Ghost Crabs," and they appear in droves this time of year on these warm afternoons.

Their eyes are perched atop two stalks and can peer around 360 degrees, so they are very aware of any unusual movement.  They especially like to make an appearance when a person is sitting still, as Martha was.  A local guide confirmed this:

Ghost crabs are notoriously shy, and with 360 degree vision, are very sensitive to any action that occurs around them. This is why many daytime beach goers will never encounter them, unless they are perfectly still, either taking a beach-side nap, or lost in a good book. In these cases, a ghost crab may break out of an otherwise-unnoticeable hole in the sand.
 
A popular activity here is to go out after dark with a flashlight and see how many of these little creatures you can find.  Yes, it's true:  after dinner, after the glorious display of sunset over the Sound, we don't go to dance-clubs, or parties.  This is the kind of exciting activity we beach-dwellers enjoy.

It was a laid-back afternoon, and we strolled down to the Corps of Engineers Research Pier, tracing messages in the sand.

Overhead, squadrons of pelicans flew in tight formation, barely moving their wings, soaring southward over the vacation homes.

West Wind

I had a most extraordinary run today!  The wind had changed overnight to a west wind, close to 15 mph, and it was really stirring up the Sound.  I could feel it in my face as I started out, but I did not realize how strong it was until I got on the boardwalk, in the vicinity of Aqua restaurant, and started back north in a homeward direction.  There were whitecaps on the Sound, and in this place the Boardwalk is close to the water; I realized that water was splashing up against the wall to the right of me, and also from the sound itself, left and right, drenching the Boardwalk as I ran from both sides.  Exhilarating!

I tried to gauge when the spray across the boardwalk was the strongest, and then I would sprint a little and to try to minimize how much I was being drenched by sound-water (I brought only one pair of running shoes with me and wanted to keep them dry).

Suddenly, I was astonished to see (and feel) water splashing upward through the Boardwalk in front of me, pushed forcefully through the cracks between the boards!  It reminded me of running through a summer lawn sprinkler when I was a little boy.  I realized that in the countless training runs and races that I have recklessly completed, I have gotten wet from above on many occasions.  I have also gotten wet from the side in horizontal wind-driven rain, sometimes straight into my face (most memorably during the inaugural OBX Marathon of 2006).

But this was the first time I think I have ever gotten wet from below, a truly unique experience!