Daily Journal

Day Two: Tuesday, Aug. 14, 2001

  I awake to the sounds of people bustling around the house. Apparently, today is Andray's grandson's first day of school in the first grade. He lives with Andray and Martha. After a few moments, I drift back to dream land and have a horrible dream about the VFR being crashed. It is one of those dreams where I know it is not real, but man the anxiety sure feels real! It is a relief to wake up later to a beautiful morning. Martha is home, Dray (grandson) is safely at school and Andray is off working. Having arrived a day early has given me a free day to goof off, what to do? I have a coke and hang out visiting with Martha for a while. Andray should be getting home from work sometime around 3:30-4:00pm. And an idea pops into my head.

  About 24 years ago, my family lived in a small town about an hour south of here, Jacksonville, Alabama. At the time, I was in 6th grade. I had thought about routing the trip through there originally but decided against it as it was a little out of the way. But now I can get down there, spend the afternoon riding around town checking things out, and still get back to Guntersville in plenty of time to beat Andray back to the house. After a nice visit with Martha, I suit up and head out for the day to explore memory lane.

  US Hwy 431 is the main drag through town. It runs South to Gadsen. It is four lanes of stop lights and traffic the whole way, nearly 30 miles or so. Fortunately, the traffic is not real heavy and I seem to have an unusual knack for making the lights today. South of Gadsen, I pick up Hwy 204 and run East through the mountains and woods. It is a very nice ride. The weather is great and I am feeling pretty good, despite the long ride yesterday. Before I know it, the road pops out of the woods and dumps right into Jacksonville.

  I always get a strange feeling when I return to a place which I have been away from for a very long time. It never feels like it did before, but it is still vaguely familiar and yet unsettling at the same time. Many times, there is a sense of loss and sadness. Before the return, the place is still fresh in my memory, unchanged and as comfortable as before. Returning tarnishes the memory with the reality. In this case, like so many others, it seems as if the changes are mostly for the worse.

  The old town square is worn, dilapidated, and neglected, a shadow of it former self. The old High school has all but been demolished to make room for the expansion of the local college campus. The only thing left is the gym where I first encountered the dreaded rope climb exercise as a brand new 7th grader. I find the old football stadium, remodeled yet still familiar. I flash back to the homecoming bonfire held behind the gym. Just up the road is the small elementary school where I had just completed the 6th grade. It seemed so much larger then hehe. Amazingly, nothing has changed except the playground has new equipment. The church we used to attend is almost completely remodeled and nearly unrecognizable. I drift back toward the square and head for the south side of town, looking for the turn off leading into the subdivision where we lived. Apparently, all of the new development has spread southward. What used to be fields are now strip malls and parking lots.

  Hwy 21 runs south out of town towards Anniston. Not really remembering where to turn, I miss the turn and drive right by it. Then realizing that surely I have gone to far, I make a u-turn and head back. I remember the road going up and over a hill, and just over the crest of the hill and off to the right sat a very large dairy barn from the plantation that used to take up this whole area. I spot a road that goes up hill, it is on the correct side, so I take it. It is the Old Henry Farm road. When I get to the top of the hill and look over to the side for the barn, I am stunned by what I see.

  There is no old run down barn here anymore. In it's place is a beautifully restored barn converted into a steakhouse restaurant. The grounds are landscaped. The rusted old tin roof replaced with new tin (more likely galvanized steel). Pretty cool. My older brother and I used to come here to hang out and play. The size of the barn is incredible. It has several levels. I remember sitting inside, watching storms go by, relaxing in the shade avoiding the noonday sun, playing hide and go seek among the many rooms and stalls. This place was truly a young kids dream.

  After checking out the barn, I head down the hill into the subdivision. The first turn in the road ran right in front of the local Golf course country club. It is still here, showing the signs of the years, but the course itself looks exactly as I remember it. Of course, like so much else, it looks smaller. I turn right at the next corner and follow the road that runs the length of the first fairway. The houses on my left all have a view of the course. I try to spot the ones where past friends lived when we were here. Most are still in pretty good shape. Memories are flooding back into my mind, things I had long forgotten. People, small events, and a host of little things come forth as if they had just happened. I feel a strange sense of excitement.

  The road curves to the left and heads up over a hill. It crests and heads down hill fairly steeply and into an uphill left hand curve. Our driveway was at the bottom of the hill in the curve. When I reach the bottom, I pull over and park the bike. Our old house looks just like it did the day we left, oddly enough, even the trees look the same. (Pic 1 /  Pic 2). They don't seem to have really filled out much. They are still scraggly like the trees left after a heavily wooded lot is cleared, tall with short branches in the lower sections of the trunk. I stand here, overwhelmed with a flood of childhood memories: chasing each other in the yard, building forts in the woods behind the house, hauling firewood for the wood burning stove, late nights up alone in my room playing with my beloved LEGO's, and more and more... I am fortunate enough to have a childhood that was filled with delightful memories, something for which I have never truly been able to thank my parents and so often took for granted.

  Across the street is the house where several of our playmates lived. Behind their house runs the best stream in the world. The water is clear and cold, the bottom covered in smooth rocks, large fish swimming in its waters. This was the place to be. (Pic 1 /  Pic 2). Kids from all over the neighborhood came to dawdle away the lazy afternoon hours swimming, fishing, testing rubber band powered wood boats, and living daydreams. Across the breadth of the stream, some twenty or thirty feet away, lay the base of a mountain covered in heavy woods, the edge of civilization as we knew it. I remember the heady expeditions across the stream into the wild unknowns, feeling like we were truly exploring a world that man had never known. Of course, we probably never really went more than a mile or so into the woods. But then, we were little kids and everything seemed so much bigger back then. A mile seemed like twenty miles to us.

  There are two places in particular that we enjoyed, the Devil's Rocks and the Crooked Chimney Damn. At the crest of the ridge, there was a dirt road that ran both ways, to the left and to the right, disappearing into the woods in both directions. Who among us can resist the call of a road like that?! Heading to the right for what seemed like miles, we'd eventually come upon a trail leading into the woods a short way. Then, like some kind of other worldly apparitions, large rocks would begin to appear among the trees, jutting up out of the ground like they were shoved up by the demons of hell, hence the name of the place. They were all located in an area maybe a hundred feet in diameter. No where else had we seen such a thing. They were great for playing around, climbing on, and just hanging out. This was a favorite place to go to get away from the folks. But let's not forget the Crooked Chimney.

  Taking the dirt road to the left for a few hundred yards would bring us out into a beautiful break in the forest. The road ended in a small sandy beach on the side of a large pool at the base of rock wall damn. Here were the remains of the main house of the old plantation. The owners had built a damn and constructed the house and water powered mill on top of the damn. The original structure had long since burned and been abandoned. All that remained was the damn and the chimney from the house. The chimney leaned to one side, looking as if any day a slight breeze might topple it over into the water. One side of the damn had long since crumbled so there was no pond behind it. But the force of the water coming out from behind the damn on one side had caused a swirling motion that created a large round perfect swimming hole at the base of the damn. This was my personal favorite place to be.

  The small pond at the base of the damn was probably about 75 feet across. At one side, it spilled over and ran off into the woods, having once again become a wandering mountain stream. The trees on the banks hung over the water and shaded nearly the whole area, giving everything a soft green hue. The water was crystal clear and freezing cold. The sand stretched out all the way across the pond, having washed around the side of the damn and then settled into place. The feel of the sand rubbing on the souls of my feet as I waded out into the water is still vivid in my mind. Large trout could be seen lazily drifting on the slow currents, but not so lazy as to be caught by the thrashing hands of goofy youngsters intent on catching them barehanded. The feel of the water, the warmth of the sun on my skin, relaxing on the sand after a swim, all of these things came rushing back to me as I stood there in the back yard of the house, looking over the stream, reliving the adventures of my youth. Unfortunately, I did not have the time to go hiking and revisit these places. Besides, I had left the VFR parked up on the side of the road unattended.

  I eventually make my way back up to the main road that runs by the Golf Clubhouse. Instead of turning left as if to leave, I turn right, remembering an old back road out of the subdivision. This old road led back into the woods, past streams, ponds and swamps, the stuff of every 10 year olds' dreams. The road is bumpy and narrow as it wanders along. I cross an old single lane wooden bridge. Off to the side is an elderly gentleman and his dog playing by the side of the stream. After crossing the bridge I see an old brick building that I vaguely remember, but it was deserted, neglected and surrounded by overgrowth back then. Interesting. I keep going and see the old ponds where we used to fish and shoot our pellet guns at anything that moved. And then finally, the road dumps back out onto Hwy 21 a few miles south of the main entrance into the subdivision. Not yet satisfied with my cursory tour of the subdivision, I turn around and head back down the bumpy old road.

  As I round the corner before the wooden bridge, I notice the gentleman and his dog are in the drive for the brick building. I decide to stop and chat with him. He informs me that he and his wife purchased the mill three or four years ago and have since been working tirelessly to restore it to working order. It was originally built in 1836 as the Aderholst Mill. It looks impressive. The grounds are beautiful and the building nicely restored. I ask if he minds me walking around the grounds and taking a few pictures and he simply tells me to enjoy myself. The location is idyllic and very peaceful.

  After walking around the grounds I decide to see if I can get an insider tour of the mill. The owner had just mentioned that folks come out on the weekends to see the place so I'm thinking he might be willing to let me in for a quick lookie. I walk up the back steps to an old wooden split door, the kind where the top and bottom open independently. A solid rap on the door brings the owner out. He cheerfully invites me in to have a look. He is very proud of his work and is eager to show off his handiwork. A quick glance around makes it obvious that he has been quite busy!

  Picture in your mind the old factories from the 1800's, long leather belts running across the rooms from pulley to pulley, everything running off a main drive shaft and activated with the pull of a lever. On the wall next to the water wheel shaft is the main water valve control that controls the flow of water over the wheel. The main grinding stone sits on a raised platform by this same wall. Along the back wall of the mill is the main drive shaft for all the gadgets in the place. There are little chutes with conveyor belts running in them. The belts have small scoops to pick up the ground wheat or corn to transport it to the next station in the system for sifting and sacking. This machine is large. The owner has completely restored it all by hand to its original form.

  The coolest part of the mill is the woodworking shop. When I came in the back door, the actual milling area is off the the left, but off to the right is a complete woodworking shop that is also powered by the water wheel. It has a table saw, sanding table, a planer, drill press, and a host of other goodies. Hanging on the walls are old hand tools of the period, mostly collected by the owner's wife. When they purchased the mill, many of the tools were missing. Somehow, the owner managed to track down many of the original tools. Some had been relegated to local garages and attics. He bought them back, restored and reinstalled them. Very cool. Unfortunately, the inside of the mill is not very bright. I have a low speed film in my camera and don't have my flash unit with me. So no pictures of the really cool stuff.

  I hang out for a bit and chat with the owner. He has a lazy old dog that likes to come up and lean against my leg waiting patiently for me to pet him. After wandering around outside for a bit more, I start getting hot and need to get back on the bike to get cooled off. I say goodbye and head back into the neighborhood for one last run through. On the way out I decide to stop and check out the barn/restaurant.

  As I come upon the barn, I notice a large tour type bus pull into the parking lot and start unloading little old ladies. Figuring they are open for business, I pull into the parking lot. When I get up to the front door, the hostess comes out to greet me, "Can I help you?" I tell her I'd like to get some lunch and she looks at me kind of funny. "We're closed." Hmmm... I ask about the bus load of women. She then explains that during the summer months the restaurant is only open for large parties that are reserved ahead of time. The kitchen fixes only enough food for that party and then closes down again. However, she does agree to let me in so I can walk around and check it out.

  Cool! The original concrete floors have been lacquered with a clear coat. The wooden parts of the walls have been restored. What used to be a stall for a cow has now been transformed into a dining booth. The center of the milking area is now a large bar surrounded by stools. Original equipment is still in place, things like the overhead rail for moving hanging hay bales around the barn. The upstairs has been transformed into two very large great dining halls, perfect for a large wedding reception. Walking around this place is making all kinds of memories flood back into my mind, things I had long since forgotten. I must be getting old because I am feeling all emotional and sentimental, sheesh.

  I decide to head back into town and grab a bite to eat. When passing through earlier I had spotted an old burger stand where we used to go for ice cream cones dipped in chocolate syrup. It pretty much looks the same as it did twenty five years ago. The locals give me some funny looks. I guess they are used to seeing bikers with nothing but a t-shirt and sandals and not full gear. I scarf down a burger and then get one of those cones. Just as good as I remember, and just as big too!! It is starting to get pretty hot and late in the afternoon. I need to be heading back to Guntersville soon.

  Just across the street from the burger stand is the church we used to attend. It has changed so much I hardly recognize it at all. A block or two behind the church is the elementary school where I completed Fifth grade. I distinctly remember the first day of school there. My mom got out of the car and walked up to the first kid she saw, grabbed him and told him, "This is my son Scott, please hang out with him and show him around." The kid's name was Scott also hehe. We hit it off immediately and stayed friends the entire time we lived here. I ride around the school to take it all in, waving at the kids who are walking around and are enthralled by the bike hehe.

  Very satisfied with my decision to make this short detour, I head back out of town for Guntersville. The ride back is peaceful and I spend the time reflecting on the scenes of the day and reliving old memories. The traffic heading back up Hwy 431 is not very heavy and I make pretty good time. The skies are partly cloudy and it is in the high eighties. Perfect! I get back to Andrays' around 4:00 pm. His wife, Martha, pulls in the driveway a few minutes after I get there and we settle in for a visit while waiting for Andray to get home from work. Andray gets in a little after 4:30 or so. I can tell he is anxious to visit and talk bikes. He and Martha both are very casual and easy to chat with. Martha sets about fixing dinner while Andray and I retire to the living room to soak up some beer and shoot the breeze. A short time later, dinner is ready. Mmmmm... Good stuff and lots of it. Kudos to Martha.

  Shortly after dinner Andray and I decide to head over to his friend Phillip's house about 30 miles away. It is getting to be a little after 6:00pm and the sun is getting low in the sky. The light reflecting off the lake and the glow being cast on the surrounding mountains is beautiful. Guntersville is a very peaceful and lovely town. We head North on Hwy 431 until we reach the turn off for County road 5. This is a great little road that cuts up and over some low lying mountains to Hwy 72. The evening is great, cool and a little humid, but still nice for riding. After a short while we reach Phillip's.

  Phillip comes out and we stand around the driveway visiting for a bit. Then the mosquitoes start to get bad so we move inside. After getting something cold to drink, Phillip takes us out to his garage so we can see his nice white VFR. It is still in the midst of repairs after being damaged by a motorist backing into it while parked on an over look at the Blue Ridge Parkway. He is having some of the parts repainted. It is a shame he can't have it together so he ride with us tomorrow. We move back inside and continue to talk bikes and trips. Phillip is laid back and fun to chat with. It starts getting late so we decide to head back to Guntersville. But before leaving, Phillip lets me try on his Aerostich Roadcrafter, nice. I really need to get one of these riding suits.

  The ride back is a bit chilly. I am only wearing my Joe Rocket Phoenix jacket and it is a mesh so the cool damp air blows right through it. At 70 mph, the wind-chill is significant. But the ride back is still refreshing. Right as we get back into the edge of town, Andray takes me off onto a small side road that follows the edge of the lake. It is a fun ride. The night lights reflecting off the rippling water is hypnotic. The urge to pack up my wife and move here is pretty strong. This place is really cool. We get back to the house and park the bikes for the night. Inside we spend the next few hours getting to know each other, telling stories, and just having a good time. We call it quits before too late so that we can get up and ride in the morning. Andray is going to take the day off and ride part of the way with me to North Carolina. Back to that ohh so comfy couch... ZZzzzz...


Day One / Trip Home / Daily Report Index  / Day Three