Addiction

THERE IS NO CURE

I am an addict. It is something that I have been wrestling with for the past 13 years and on this trip it has blatantly come to surface and I feel as though it is something that I need to share. I have no one to blame, accept maybe my father who I watched for years struggle with the same addiction and to this day still finds a cure outside of his grasp. There is no known medical cure, no support group and no therapy classes set-up to deal with this addiction, it is something that we just have to deal with everyday. For the past seven years, while living in Nevada, it has sat dormant for the most part, but has come back in full force on this trip.

This addiction has no clinical name but my father and I refer to it as "backroadisim" (the compulsive need for taking back roads as opposed to established roadways and interstates). Virginia is a breading ground for some of the most palatial and fun to drive back roads in the country and this week my addiction has forced me to once again take the long way. While in college at Virginia Tech I had the distinct pleasure of traveling every back road within a 100 mile radius of campus. I even traded in my '92 Cherokee for a '01 Volvo S40 senior year so that I could better experience every turn and bend in the roads that I called home.

For me each road has a distinct look and feel and every single one of them has a place or a bend in it that I associate with that particular road. My favorites are lovingly known as 42, 601, 602, 624, 632, 658 and 700. They are not sexy names, nor do they conjure up images of greatness for most people, but every one of them is special to me for these roads take me to hidden mountain reservoirs, covered bridges, a favorite fly-fishing hole or an epic trail head. This past week, after a seven year absence, I have been able to travel every single one of them again and introduce them to a new set of tires. They are just as beautiful as I remember and they all have welcomed me back with the same look and feel they did when I first drove them ten years ago.

Well, almost all of them. One of my all-time favorites, 632, is undergoing an unneeded development in the way of a 1,600 acre master planned community scarring it right in its soul. For those looking to take this scenic by-way, 632 can be accessed either by taking the "the glory road", 42 to 658, or by traversing over John's Creek Mountain via 601. I chose to take 601 yesterday which winds past the historic Newport covered bridge, numerous 100 year old Victorian-style estates and thousands of acres of open farm land. The last 8 miles of 601 are unpaved switchbacks down the north face of John's Creek Mountain and tunnel through groves of old growth spruce and hemlock before t-boning with 632. This road holds a special place with me because it wraps around John's Creek Reservoir #1, a place that will forever be known for almost taking my life 10 years ago.

Back in the fall of '99 I was traversing the north bank of this remote body of water in search of a good fishing spot. I had my day (fanny) pack on and fly-rod in hand. I can remember the ground around the lake was really muddy that day and by the time I reached the lakes source, John's Creek, my legs were covered in mud from my knees down. As I went to step across the mouth of the creek and traverse to the other side I made a last minute decision to jump as opposed to step across. When I landed on the other side the earth gave way and I sank up to my chest in thick, cement-like mud - better known as quicksand.

I had never experienced quicksand before, nor did I know exactly how to handle it. My closest encounter with how to deal with a life threatening liquid came in the form of watching the Disney Classic "Swiss Family Robinson" when the boys rescue the Zebra from quicksand as it is being attacked by hyenas. I had sunk in the mud half-way up to my chest and I was about 3 feet from anything substantial to grab onto. The first thing I tried to do was free myself by reaching for the tall grass around the shore, but as you quickly realize, the more you move, the more you sink. So I took note of the "tools" that I had around me and tried to devise a plan to get out of this ordeal. I was still wearing my day pack, which by the way had saved my life because it was the one thing keeping me from sinking further in the mud, I had my fly rod in hand and my cotton t-shirt on my back. The sole homestead in sight was a good half mile away and from the looks of it, was vacated several years prior so screaming for help was not an option.

So my first thought was to use the fly rod as a support beam and try and lift myself out of the mud and onto the shore. Of course my +190 lbs vs. a 4/5 weight fly rod would snap the rod in a heart beat. So I convised a plan to attach the fishing line to the rod and work to pull over some of the surrounding tree limbs and sticks and build a bridge out of the mud, a-la Swiss Family Robinson style. So I made the fishing pole into a make-shift bow with the line coming out the end and then tied it back to itself at the reel. This way I could snare the surrounding sticks and drag them over to myself.

After about 30 minutes I had collected everything within an eight foot radius and stacked everything into my cotton t-shirt (to help increase the footprint). I then placed it in front of me like a life raft and began to lean over it. I could begin to transfer my weight onto the stick-raft and lay Superman style, stretched out and reach for the tall grass around the shore. It worked! I was able to free myself after two passes and unearth my body from the mud. As I pulled myself up I was greeted with the stench of +100 year old decomposing matter that was oozing out of the pockets that my legs left behind. I nearly passed out from the smell, but took solace in knowing that my 30 minute mud bath would leave my legs silky and smooth for days to come. Needless to say, my shirt was lost in the chaos of freeing myself and I thought of heading back in search of it today... I wonder what it would look like 10 years later?

Until Tomorrow.