Orion’s Belt was clearly visible as I took Thunder, the Wonder Dog, out for his morning evacuation. The Wonder is that a dog of seven pounds could be named Thunder, but our’s is not to question why. Across the Valley of the Suaree, the peaks of Tiger’s Den were visible though hard to distinguish from the blue-black sky above. Although it was just a bit past five of the clock, the reversion to standard time had me feeling like it was an hour later. The clear, cool air let me know that today’s run would be epic.
Mist clung to the slopes which rise out of the North Fork valley and settled on top of the Burnett Reservoir. (Note to Dr. Mumpower: You may have your water system back when we get our cove back.) Reaching the heights above Cragmont, the valley of the South Fork spread below my feet and rose in golden tones to frame the red roof of Robert E. Lee Hall, an ancestral home place I did not know was in the family until relatively recently. As I passed sleeping houses, their window panes reflected a warm copper glow produced by the dawning light mixed with late autumnal trees.
Lake Tomahawk sat placidly at the foot of the Black Mountain range, offering both flat paths and water bottle refills. Grey Eagle itself was enjoying an extra hour’s rest, but Nina Simone and I celebrated the Lord’s Day with old gospel songs. Passing through the gate at Montreat, I am always reminded how it was such a mystical place in my childhood, but has become a third home. The utter shock of seeing two college students ambulatory before the meridian on a weekend distracted me from taking in Lake Susan, although her waterfall was in full rush.
Passing again through Grey Eagle, the bells of the temples were ringing for the faithful to join the ceremonies. Other faithful filed into the Drip for their communion. Since the view over Lake Tomahawk had not been diminished in an hour, I had to take a picture to share with the twitterverse. You’re welcome.
Returning through Groovemont to the land of the Suaree, I came to understand why so many reasonable runners take their long runs on Sunday mornings: no traffic. Okkervil River lent their special talents to my closing mile such that I reached the compound knowing that four additional miles were well within my reach. This, dear Monkey, is what I was thinking when I signed up for your marathon.