Springing the kilt on an unprepared public is a risky step to take. At least it feels that way to me, but I’m not sure anyone else gives a damn. My plan was to head out to Bent Creek in the early afternoon to get in a run and prepare mentally for the onslaught of a big work event tomorrow. Like sands through the hourglass, my minutes dripped away from me as yet one more issue presented itself. By the time that I arrived at an asphalt island in the midst of that sea of mud, there were any number of interlopers looking to edge onto my trail time with their dogs. I felt it was time to show them how a real man runs.
Although it would have been possible, I chose not to wrap the kilt around my shrinking love handles and drop trou in the parking lot. What the he nearby latrine lacked in ambiance, it made up for in seclusion. When I emerged, the amateurs tried to pretend like there was not a guy in a kilt in the parking lot. We are very practiced in minding our own business here in Altamont. I proceeded up the first climb aiming for rather than avoiding the mud.
A quarter of the way up a friend who had seen me in the lot below took a second to digest what was on display when I passed before calling out “NICE KILT!” That’s what I’m talking about. Rising further into Mr. Vanderbilt’s Back 40,000, I turned onto what was once the sweetest trail in these parts but is now a logging road. It too climbed, to a point where my choices were to continue on the road and take a well earned descent or to follow the first available trail upwards. An unbifurcated garment will make you do funny things. Me, I climb muddy trails.
In some ways this trail was like an old friend I had not seen in a while. This section was one of the first I check out almost 15 years ago as I made the slow transition from smoking channel surfer to vegetarian trail surfer. I felt like Mr. Kotter, and this trail was taking me to school. Wanting to prove I am still a Sweat Hog, I persisted past the Ingles Field Gap intersection to the trail’s end at Five Points.
From there it was a long, slow descent via the Sidehill trail. While the snow covered creek banks were lovely, the vistas east revealed frosted mountainsides set against a dusty blue sky in a way that stopped me in my snow tracks. I’ve seen these views before, but usually when clutching the handlebars of a mountain bike for dear life. To gaze at them without fear of incurring a traumatic brain injury for not looking at the trail was an epiphany.
As Sidehill emptied onto Laurel Branch Road, I looked for the next trail to traverse. Lower Sidehill brought me within easy distance of the car, but there was one more opportunity to get mud on my shoes. Trail 665 is known to the newbies as Boyd Branch but was known as Red Dirt in the days it was a poacher’s delight. The red clay mud was relatively well packed and this trail has definitely benefited from the maintenance that comes from legitimacy.
Being dumped out onto the main Forest Service road, I headed back toward the car. The mud had been churned by trucks to the point where the road was closed to traffic. Knowing I was to face my public soon, I tried to get some extra splashes on my calves. As it turns out, there were few cars left in the lot. Faced with the liquid dirt and the resilient snow, most folks had bagged the hike. The Black Watch prevails!