The trail head was an access point for a network of ATV/UTV trails and an overlain mesh of motorcycle-only trails. Miles and miles of trail on our forest. The forests of the American people.
Imagine that! Some tiny vestigial organs of the behemoth that is the current government still serve Americans (even deplorables!). Here, far from DC, the idea that we are subjects to be manipulated rather than citizens to be served hasn’t gained traction. The logic is this: “Americans want to drive through the forest like rabid monkeys. So setup an outhouse and a parking lot; draw a line around an area and let them have at it. It’s their forest.” How quaint!
Not long ago (as recently as 2019?) I’d expect this happy synergy to last generations. Now, I’m not so sure. In 2020, people who normally ride subways ordered campsite outhouses closed in the name of “social distancing”. How unaware they must be! Cowering in their condominiums, ordering Uber eats and streaming Netflix, all so they can boss around farmers and ranchers who live in the real world. Our word for “socially distanced” is Tuesday.
How long until Kremlin on the Potomac wrecks this too? A declaration that National Forests are meant only for Karens who vote correctly. “You want to ride a snowmobile trail? If so, listen to your mandatory allotment of NPR and show us your medical paperwork.” Gluten free, leased, monitored, electric iScooters governed to walking speed? Is it impossible? Not at all. Watch National Parks fellate e-bikes while they sneer at a gas scooter.
All I can say is it hasn’t happened yet.
Some trails were for ATVs/UTVs, some for motorcycles, many for both. A few “roads” were suitable (barely) for jeeps and trucks. Sadly, nothing here was meant for horses. This is probably for the best; the ATVs and motorcycles and support trucks and RVs and trailers and so forth would send a skittish horse into hysterics. They’d do the same to the average “journalism major”.
I was happy to interact with folks at the trail head. These are my people. Actual living breathing Americans. They aren’t lame. They’re not damaged. They’re not angry. They’re not demanding anyone join them or be like them. They don’t give a shit about your opinion on Covid. They don’t care about your opinion in general. What you do is your problem, not theirs.
They’re content, chaotic, and happy. Theirs is a dirt paradise and they love it.
Tents and RVs were scattered about. There was no particular order to camping arrangements, because there didn’t need to be. There was no fee for camping. Why should there be? There were no services other than an ancient outhouse and a dirt spot for parking. What more could anyone need?
Americans and personally owned internal combustion engines are a match made in heaven. This is probably why politicians spend so much time trying to crush them. Take James Dean’s bike and what’s left? An emo in a cool jacket? A ‘rebel without a cause’ moping on the stained plastic seat of a light rail car?
A deplorable on a Suzuki might be a noisy, mud spattered ruffian, but a college student waiting at a bus stop is a pawn on a vote farmer’s chessboard.
Some of the more motivated folks were making field expedient repairs to their equipment; often surrounded by an audience. Isn’t it better for the heart to watch someone using JB Weld to patch up a swingarm than stream a TikTok of a non-binary weirdo whining about depression?
It was a heady mix of nature, machinery, and reckless bravado; imagine if the guys from Mad Max went on holiday. Where would they go? What would they do? They’d be drinking Bud Light on a mountainside while tuning their desert racers. My happy tribe of Americans looked only slightly tamer than the half naked oiled Australian body builders who were actors in a silly movie.
Each machine that roared off on a trail would return in due time. Some returned damaged. In general, scratches and dents are treasured battle scars. Each damaged ATV came with a story:
“Jim just hammered it! You shoulda’ seen it. It was awesome! But the headlight bracket got bent up.”
“Did you get it on video?”
“Hell yeah! We already sent it to his old lady, she’s pissed!”
“Why?”
“Turns out that’s her ATV! His is in the shop!”
“That’s some funny shit!”
Cell service did detract a little from the fun (in my opinion). Most of the places I ride are “off grid”. But everyone else was enjoying it. Photos of torn plastic body cladding were sent off to the hive mind. I assume they became Facebook posts; meant to be assessed by like minded people scattered all over this great nation.
Why not? If you wish to claim entry into mechanical Valhalla, smashing an ATV to bits on a cliff face is as good a place to start as any.
If you’re feeling down, go visit the beating red heart of flyover country. The people are strong and vital and happy and… this is very important so pay attention…. they aren’t chickenshits.
More later…