Tornadoes and Flooding in Winter, Cheaha Mountain, Woodall and Britton, HP 22-25

I told my wife and family, “Just a quick trip to Mississippi. 11 hours to get there. Two days I’ll be gone, that’s it.” I probably don’t mention enough how amazingly understanding they are.

Coasting through boring Columbus, then to the Queen City of Cincinnati where the geography starts to dramatically change, from flat nothingness farmland to the glacier scars and hills of lower Cincinnasty. Served my time in that city—five years—turned into life and death for some of my classmates at UC.

South of Cincy the road forked, and I opted to head towards Louisville. Hit a traffic jam. Just as the congestion was building, there was an exit. That is the hardest choice while traveling. You think, “Get off the exit and self-navigate around the delay? But how long would that take? Will I get lost? Or should I stay and hope it clears up quickly?” My rule has always been as long as traffic is moving, albeit at a snail’s pace, you stay. So I did. After taking an hour to go four miles, it cleared. Construction crew was putting up a sign, and everyone just HAD to slow down and stare, causing an accident. Which resulted in even more staring.

All my momentum was lost. Was making good time and feeling solid, then it became a grind. And the road from Louisville to Nashville was even worse. All construction, 55 MPH, clueless women captains aged 40-60 with both hands on the top of the wheel, as if it were holding them up, refusing to merge into the slow lane. The only thing that kept me sane was realizing that most drivers aren’t daydreaming about anything cool—they are just in a field, petting a pony, whispering, “Good pony.”

This would be a good opportunity to cry about a small portion of truck drivers. Truckers are a necessity and in the Johnny Cash sense of the open road, they are awesome. The problem is that 15 percent of them never received proper training, and it reflects badly for the rest. For example, the road to Nashville was quite hilly. So naturally, trucks would be flying down the hill, which is the acceptable nature so they have momentum to go back up. But a small few were unaware that if you are going to pass, you do that while going down. But some of these dumb assholes would jump out into the left lane at the bottom of the hill, cut you off, lose all their momentum and have the vehicle they were trying to pass speed past them on the right. And repeat. All the way to Music City, USA.

Oh, and if you are driving a vehicle and have a phone pressed to your head, you are operating both incorrectly.

Oh, and it rained the whole drive past Cincinnati. Did I mention I decided to head to The South as they were expecting some horrible weather? Tornadoes, flash flooding, storms—luckily the twisters missed me but I saw their aftermath.

Tornado Tracker

Since the highways have dynamited their way through different ranges, you can clearly see the crosscut view of the rock. They change as you cycle south across limestone and shale all the sedimentary rocks with calcite poking out.

Half way to Memphis on I-40, I went due south at Jackson. The rain was in dump truck loads, but it was good to get off the highway. Through the hometown of Carl Perkins and made it into Mississippi. After another hour and a half of off-interstate driving, I arrived at the road leading up to Woodall Mountain. 659 miles down. There wasn’t a gate restricting vehicle access, as I had read. Regardless, I needed to hike. Put on my waterproof shell in the back of the Ford Explorer, headlamp, camera and headed out. Didn’t mess with water or snacks. Only a couple of miles and I was MOVING.

Fear was the motivator. I want to talk to you all for a second about how petrified I am of southern “good old boys.” Maybe I watched “Deliverance” at too young of an age, maybe I let the history of the Civil War, the Klan, the actions AFTER the 60s Civil Rights Movement, etc., get into my head. But I didn’t fear a mountain lion, getting lost, dealing with the torrential downpour that was just above freezing and the insane gusts. I was quite certain that a bunch of white dudes, dressed in different Nascar clown outfits, would jump out and kidnap me. Reminding me, like they once told Neil Young, “A southern man don’t need him around anyhow.” Somehow, I survived. The peak was bleak and gray and with no visibility. I did see a “highpointers” bench, the mailbox and the survey marker. Stayed maybe 5 minutes at the top and sprinted down. Changed out the soaked gear.

Woodall Mountain

Decision time. I could add 6-8 hours to the trip if I went after Alabama’s highpoint.

After a minute of “debating the inevitable,” I found my way east on 72 into northern Alabama. I will give Alabama credit; they have high speed limits regardless of the access to the highway. Suicide and murder at your own risk. I like that.

At Birmingham, there came another choice. Since the state park where the high point of Alabama was located didn’t open until morning, I had “time to kill.” Sure, I could find a place to sleep. It was 9 p.m. Or…. cruise on down to Florida and grab their highpoint, all 300 some feet of her.

My eyes began to sag surrounding Montgomery, as it was hour 13 of the journey and the 912th mile. Every rest area I would pass I would make a note of its location so I could crash on the way back, if not before. From 11:30 p.m. to 1 a.m., I traversed the back roads of southern Alabama. The rain never stopped. Down limbs and leaf debris were all over the country roads. But they had leaves! Beautiful to see the green colors in February. And with all the hues of dark and downfall, it was hard to notice the subtle change in climate as I traveled hundred of miles into the sweet depths of America. There was no mistaking the smell of year-round accommodating weather in the Deep South.

Lots of wild dogs, too. Maybe they just ran free from home at night? They weren’t coyotes. Scanning the FM frequency revealed mostly country and Christian music, with a token “pop/hip-hop mix” station thrown in.

Alabama Wild Dogs

Britton Hill in Florida was just across the state line, in a park—an easy drive-up. 1,032 miles so far. The rain relaxed a little for my selfie summit shots, in the early hours past midnight. Then I heard dogs barking. They seemed to be getting closer. Oh god, had the KKK clowns followed me? No. This was a new set, this was a bunch of jurors from the Trayvon Martin trial, and as soon as they see my Ohio plates, I’m done. No witnesses. Again, somehow, I survived the creatures that weren’t there and made it back to the car. 1:30 a.m. Fatigue at an all-time high. Just gonna drive to the Econlodge parking lot I saw a half hour up the road. Made it to the Econlodge. I just gotta make it to the gas station, 45 mins up the road. Got there. I’ll just go to the next one. This is an endless, extremely dangerous way to travel. Like running 20 miles and saying, Ill just run one more. But once you start that new mile you have to complete it, regardless of the cramps. If you cramp up and fall over, consider your car wrapped around all the thick trees lining the highway.

Britton Hill, FL

At 3 a.m., just north of Greenville, Alabama, a neon orange sign read, “Don’t drive tired. Get rest.” I pulled into the rest area. 1,107 miles. Laid in the seat-downed back seats, and tossed and turned as the coffee would never fully let go of my brain.

At 6 a.m., a Jake Brake from a semi-truck caused palpitations in my heart, resulting in me coming fully awake. Three hours or so of rest was good enough, on the road again. The rain had ceased. God decided not to drown us all, again. Good thing, ‘cus I don’t think any penguins made the trip from Antarctica.

Around 9 a.m. I had passed Talladega Motor Speedway and was deep in the backcountry of middle Alabama, just entering Cheaha State Park.

It reminded me a lot of the Blue Mountains in North Carolina. Similar distant mountain ridge views with peaks of rounded prominence.

Talladega Mountains

I entered the park office and inquired about hiking permits. The two young ladies were extremely welcoming. I had actually read that the park staff was unusually nice. It’s the opposite for most park staff—they believe the natural area is theirs—they see all visitors as possible stains on the carpet. Their carpet.

I decided to hike around for a while without following any trail, as the summit was clear. Neat little castle-like lookout at the top. Inside, when I entered, ‘twas revealed to be flooded from the rain. Like happening upon a medieval castle shortly after the siege.

Cheaha Castle

Alone at the top like usual. Not to go on an egotistical rant or whatever, but I love having the summit all to myself. Most of mine have been that way. I go in winter or super early and don’t have to share the experience. (Or like an idiot, I go during a series of tornadoes.)

11 hours to home. How far could I go through all the wreckage and flooding? Made a promise to the family, only be gone two days, plus got them spectacular native-to-the-state gifts. That’s always my motivation to return home, no matter what happens, to see and return to my family.

Tornado Aftermath

Exiting the park I got gas at an old shack with one pump and no pre-pay option. After filling up, I dipped back in to piss and when I came out, black cowboy was there. The man from the start of the story.

I left and so did he. Looking back at the map in retrospect, I see how he took a shortcut and came out on the other side of a long road with baseball fields on both sides that were flooded from the rain. “That’s not the same black truck is it?” I thought in desperation.

He slowly began going left-of-center. In 8 seconds, if this continued, we would collide. I got over, and he took the slack. In two seconds, I’d be in the ditch, so I locked my elbows and stayed the course. He flew by me as our side mirrors somehow didn’t explode into one another. That fucker. Even with that insane interaction, I do need to apologize to the state of Alabama. I’m not being sarcastic. You are beautiful. Even though I found a condom hanging from a tree in the middle of the forest, a car burning along the highway that was left totally alone and to physics, all of the humans I encountered (90% female, I guess it should be noted), were very respectful, charming and nice. And what an accent! On my way home I stopped in Kentucky—they don’t have a true southern drawl—they are just basically speaking lazy Ohio. The Alabama voice is sweet and tangy, exciting and trustworthy. All the stupid Alabama football fans are just as dumb as all the OSU and Michigan fans—they just have sleeveless racing shirts on and and perhaps a slightly less proportionate literacy rate. But outside of the minority of die-hard fans, racists and the uneducated, Alabama is amazing. I want to move to the mountains there. Get milk from a blond girl in pigtails who delivers it from the farm of her “paw.”

Took I-25 to Chattanooga, Tennessee, then up to Knoxville. The home stretch is the last place you want to have road rage. But this trucker went the same speed in the left lane as a semi did in the right, and no one could pass for miles. So I gave him an Ohio hello with one of my fingers and honked. 70 miles later I got gas, went to get back on the highway and a trucker wouldn’t merge. I heard a horn. It was him! I sped past and “learned a lesson” or whatever.

On to Lexington, KY, and finally back through The Nasty. Got home at 9 p.m. Close to 30 hours of driving and 2,000 miles over two days. More miles than driving from Ohio to Phoenix, Arizona.

The road knows how to hold me, you see, knows the perfect placement of its arms over my shoulders, offering the support and even a little massage. “Only 100 more miles to the next city,” the road tells me, “and you are looking great. Gas on my friend, gas on.”