Ode to Pisgah

I hadn't been running in awhile so I decided to go hurt myself on Pressley Cove before work. It was a beautiful day, just like every other day in February. My heart pounded and my legs burned as I puffed slowly up the climb, which must attain a thirty degree slope in places. Although my brain was addled and anaerobic, reasons to love Pisgah kept popping into my head.

Passing by that incongruous chimney built off to the side of Maxwell, I stopped to read the plaque commemorating it as a historic feature. I have always liked the utilitarian history of the forest. It was not protected for or shaped by hikers and bikers; before there was IMBA, Tom Ritchey, or Gary Fisher, there was Gifford Pinchot, Carl Schenck, and George Vanderbilt.

Scanning for that secret connector that would spit me back out on Avery Creek Road, I thought with affection of the trail maintenance grudgingly performed by a small cadre of forest rangers and independent contractors. For the most part they leave us to our own devices; we avoid the puddles, brush away the briars, and mold the trails with heavy travel, whether by foot, hoof, or tire.

I love the delicious snobbism that we've cultivated living here. "Oh, you have eighty miles of trails? Well, we have hundreds of thousands of acres of national forest. Oh, you have a gnarly rock garden that everyone sessions? Well, we have Daniel Ridge. Oh, you drive an hour on weekends when you want a change of scenery? Well, we have Dupont."

I love the miles upon miles of gravel roads upon which you can beat your brain into submission. I love the seasonal trails; just as the weather turns glum, we have them to look forward to like early Christmas presents. I love the glittering exhilaration in the eyes of a newcomer after that first descent of something super sketchy.

I love the friendly hikers with their day packs and ski poles. And even the not-so-friendly ones; their snarling possessiveness just means they love it too. I love the fevered masochism of people who compete in the Double Dare, the stage race, or the Pitchell 100k (sheer insanity). I love the tourists who lumber around the parking lots like corpulent dollar signs, because they never defile the quiet havens a half mile from their cars. I love the rugged, majestic views you encounter on almost every trail.

It's times like this, when I know I haven't seen half of what Pisgah has to offer, that I question my (or anyone's) need to leave here for even a few years. I will definitely go somewhere else, but I will just as definitely come back.