Black Mountain of death

They say love is blind. This is true. I obviously didn't see what I was getting myself into. They say you'll do anything for love. Also true. I put myself through terrifying situations, facing certain death at every corner, in a place called Black Mountain, because James wanted to go "four-wheelin".

Black Mountain is the highest point in all of Kentucky. It is part of Appalachia in a place where you can spit and hit Virginia. the place of moonshiners, banjos and the hill people of your Texas Chainsaw nightmares. It is also an off-roading park, with trails winding up and down and across and all around the mountain. Steep trails. Dangerous trails. Super super scary trails.

I had no idea what I was in for.

I should preface this by saying that where I come from people don't use four wheelers, quads, etc. Where James is from they are a suitable alternative to a car. Everyone has one, for work and play. They use them to haul feed to the horses, go hunting, survey their land, and scare the shit out of their girlfriends.

James and his neighbors decided one weekend that we would head down to Black Mountain (this is where you should hear the "dun dun dunnn" music signifying something bad is about to happen). We packed the trailers with every all-terrain vehicle they could find, threw some tents in the truck and off we went. After a while on the interstate we exited and kept driving, up the hills, through the coal country, places I had never seen before.

Halfway up the mountain.

We finally arrived at our lovely home for the next few days. A patch of dirt and gravel with a bath house to be shared by all of the other campers. Cozy. By the time we got there they already had a whole pig on a spit, slowly turning over a fire. We unloaded and headed out.

I am quite terrified of steep hills, unreliable vehicles, and dying. This wasn't the place for me. We started the climb along with about 25 or so other quads, all in line up the hill, on the only trail in and out of the park - with a steep drop off the side. All I had to do the entire weekend was hold on. I spent that entire climb figuring out how to tuck and roll off of the vehicle in case anything started sliding, and biting back tears.

We spent the next 5 hours or so racing up and down trails, through mud holes and ravines, pausing only to lolly gag with other enthusiasts and watch as one by one they tried to climb an impossible hill, only to roll the 60 feet or so back down to where we stood.

Ronnie, hitting a ramp.

A rock crawler.

The gathering...

It was a place full of mud and dirt and crazy people. Occasionally James would let me off the four wheeler so that he could whip up some dirt on his own.

Dirt slangin'.

All in all, I can say that I survived. I seriously doubted this at some times, but alas, here I stand today, just slightly traumatized. The only casualty was the beautiful (expensive) leather wallet I had bought James for Christmas that year.

James had unloaded me with his friend, Richard, who putted around behind him along a popular portion of one trail. This particular spot had a mud hole that was about 4 feet wide and 12 feet long, who knows how deep. People began loitering around to watch others drive through the hole (I'll never get that), and soon it was James' turn. He revved up and sped through the first 4 feet of the mud hole, hit a root in the muck and launched his four wheeler straight into the side of a guy on a dirt bike. Over the handlebars, over the dirt bike, over the guy, he flew head first, did a nice little flip and landed flat on his ass in the deep mud. Imagine my terror in having to watch my beloved plow straight into the mud, and my joy in getting to say "I told you so"! We putted over to him and to see if he was alive. He was. The other guy was fine, too, but had bent his handlebars. James had landed on his butt after hitting the other man's handlebars. He stood up to check for wounds, in that particular region, and pulled out the brand new wallet, now covered in mud with a giant gaping hole ripped in the center. My Christmas present had literally saved his ass.

After the spill we headed back to the campground to see that the party was just getting started. The pig had come down and was being portioned out to campers and visitors. The bonfire was burning, and everyone circled around. The following is the most authentic "Kentucky" experience I have ever lived...

Covered in mud.

As we circled around the roaring fire, surrounded by mud-covered strangers eating pig parts, someone pulled out a banjo and started to sing. The crowd joined in when they knew the words, and we sang into the night. The constable showed up... whipped out his guitar and a mason jar full of moonshine and started passing it around. It was a beautiful scene, something out a movie, for sure (maybe right before they all haul off the little blonde and turn her into a lampshade).

Yea, right.

That was our adventure at Black Mountain. I was blowing mud out of my nose for at least 3 days after we returned, and I never wore that outfit again. James is still talking about it and has gone back a few times, without me, thankfully. But I am happy to say that I have at least learned how to drive a four wheeler since. Not that I would ever be suicidal enough to attempt the mountain by myself...