Four

By Phil Walker

“Everyone has moments in life where everything changes. When the sky color changes, the air smells different, and our view of the world is somehow different. Ultimately this book is a story about one of those moments, and how suddenly I realized we might not make it home.” –Phil Walker 2011

Four friends connected by the bonds of motorcycle adventure head off on what initially seems like a weekend of companionship and fun in the Appalachian Mountains. The mountains, and their unpredictable weather, have their own plans for the weekend and the four suddenly find themselves perilously caught in a freak snowstorm, lost and cold.

This true story chronicles the author's years of adventures leading up to the fateful trip and the long night spent trying to get off the mountain. It is a story of close friendship, adventure and the chilling moment when a casual trip turns deadly.

66,000 Words
25 Color Pictures

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phil Walker
• Release date: Jan 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465987679

Book preview

Chapter 1

We went from laughing about being too cold to a state of life-threatening, reduced-core temperatures in about 30 minutes. Our jokes about the need for Wayne’s emergency blanket that were so funny only moments before suddenly struck me with icy potency. The wrong decision at this point had the very real possibility of leaving Wayne and I frozen to death on top of a West Virginia mountain in the middle of the worst freak snowstorm that anyone could remember. Our options were limited, our time was running out, and the whiteout was absolute. As I shivered hard enough to shake the snow and ice from my face, it was almost impossible to remember the beginning of our trip, only 18 hours before.

After graduating from college and getting our first jobs, Rob, Chris, Wayne and I went in separate directions as we followed the pathways of our lives. But we still remained close friends. During our college lives at Virginia Tech, we used our dirt bikes to commute to class, run errands and meet at the Subway down near Main Street. For the most part, the weekends found us partying fairly lightly, by college standards, because on most Saturday and Sunday mornings we could be found up in the mountains exploring new trails or blasting through familiar trails as though they were the streets around our apartment building. We rode during the days and nights and in the freezing rain and snow. One winter week it was so cold that Chris and I kept our motorcycles in our apartment hall and still needed to heat the engine cases with a propane torch in order to start the bikes in the morning. That day the wind-chill was minus 25 and I was like a freeze dried pork chop by the time I made it to class -- cold, shrunken and tasteless. Little did I realize on that day that my short, brisk ride to class was an icy omen to what was in store for me just a few years later.

Motorcycles were our hobby, our passion, and the center of our lives. We rebuilt bikes on the front lawn of our apartment and made numerous friends and perhaps even a few enemies while wrenching out there. We did our shopping on bikes, took laundry to the laundromat on our bikes, and some of us even met our future wives one way or another through motorcycles. To this day, my dearest friends roll on two wheels. I have never mindfully chosen my friends this way, but somehow cosmically this is how I connect.

Chapter 2

It was late on a Friday night as Rob and I motored down the highway in his Explorer pulling a small trailer with a couple of dirt bikes. Since it was early November, the sun had long since departed and the lights from the Ford beat easily into the night, up and down as the truck eased through the road’s expansion joints. The air was cold, crisp and clear while we trucked south to the meeting spot. We talked easily and our excitement was fresh as we bantered about our jobs, new friends and recent adventures. It was the regular sort of conversation you have with a good friend you have not seen in a few months, the kind of conversation you fall into as easily as listening to your favorite song on the radio. Fresh graduates from VA Tech, our most current adventures tended to center around work activities, so getting out and exploring the woods was a vacation for us. The giddy excitement of a weekend in the mountains was akin to the same sort of getaway feeling as going to the beach or a night in the big city for others.

About a month prior to that day, I signed up and rode in an organized, off-road ride in the mountains of West Virginia. It was not a competitive event but instead just an opportunity to spend a couple of days riding in the mountains on dirt roads and trails that were pre-planned by the event organizers. The 200-mile ride included a stop for lunch and a number of optional trails that allowed the entrants the ability to have a full day of riding as well as enjoy a full stomach of local barbequed pork. My wife came along for the ride and we enjoyed a day full of clean air, pulled pork sandwiches and fantastic dirt trails. I had such a good time on the ride that, upon getting home, I called my friends and organized a weekend for us to follow many of the same trails I had just ridden. I had the maps and the route sheets with directions, so a re-creation of the ride would be easy, I thought.

Rob turned the Explorer off the highway and pointed it west toward the mountains. The hills rolled gently as we approached the chosen meeting spot. Thick fog owned the trees and spilled listlessly into the dirt road of the campground, making finding a spot to park the Ford a bit strenuous.

You think we’ll be able to find the boys in all of this fog? I asked Rob.

This place doesn’t look too big really, let’s just find a place to park. Rob’s deep voice always seemed to intone confidence.

Just as Rob was finishing his sentence, the road broke out of the trees into a big field. The campground had been officially closed since the beginning of November, but during the height of the summer season, it was easy to imagine the entire field filled with tents, travel trailers and campers running around with their bicycles and fishing poles. The fog rolling gently across the rhythmically undulating field provided the ghost images of the summer fun. The evenly spaced camping spots off the main road were tilted in such a way that it appeared almost as if we had come across a drive-in theater in the middle of the West Virginia foothills. At the very end of the field, in the last parking spot before the woods reclaimed the meadow, was a tiny spark of light peeking through the fog like a spark floating up from a campfire.

Rob chugged the Ford toward the light and we soon came upon Chris in the back of his Subaru station wagon. The back seats were folded flat and Chris was there in the midst of his clothes, gear and provisions reading a book using the interior light on the Suby like his own personal sunshine. He dropped his book to the side and smiled as we rolled up next to him. He was reading a McMaster Carr industrial supply catalog. Obviously Chris had arrived some time earlier and was occupying himself brainstorming his way through the toy catalog of engineers and tinkerers everywhere. I had seen Chris do similar things in college where he came up with a solution to a problem with some obscure item he had cataloged in the back of his brain from some previous late-night read. Secured tightly on the trailer tucked behind the Subaru was Chris’ trusty Honda CR250.

An unexpected, freshly exposed beam of moonlight struck us as we stepped from our vehicles.

Hey Chris, how long have you been here?

About an hour or so, remarked Chris.

The three of us shook hands followed by warm embraces. There were no pretenses with this group. We were very close friends who had spent many years in each other’s company.

Has anyone heard from Wayne? Chris asked.

We talked to him before we left Falls Church, I said. My wife’s parents lived in Falls Church, Virginia, and we had dropped her there for the weekend. I had called Wayne before we left to make sure everything was still a go.

Some of those roads coming in were awful to navigate with the fog, said Rob in his deep and slow-paced voice. Hopefully Wayne won’t get slowed down too much if it continues to build up.

I’m sure he’ll be fine, said Chris. He’s such country boy that driving in bad weather is second nature to him. Let’s get our camp set so we can try to get some sleep.

It was well past midnight when we started to put up our tents. We used the lights from the cars to give some leadership since the stray beam of moonlight from before had long since disappeared. The conversation was light as we threw up the tents and cast in our bags and basic gear. As a result of our inexperience with the area, looking around in the night with our eyes blinded by the car lights and the air layered thick with fog meant it was impossible to get any sense of what lay ahead for tomorrow. Rob, Chris and Wayne had heard my stories about the area from our phone conversations, but standing around in the middle of the cool November night, we all had little idea of what exciting adventure awaited the next day. We might as well have been standing in a cold, darkened room discussing the amazing riding that would happen the next day. Our surroundings were unknown, creating a feeling that was both a little ominous and certainly exciting.

Tucked tightly in our sleeping bags, it was still pretty easy to drive a conversation through the thin veneer of our tent walls. We caught up on families, jobs and dreams for our careers. Sometime after one in the morning we heard the sound of an engine working its way through the trees. One by one we poked our heads from our tents like prairie dogs to see Wayne pull by in his truck with his Honda CR500 tied down in the bed. He had his window rolled down even before the truck came to a stop.

Hey, Wayne. Any trouble finding the spot?

Nope, I just got a late start. Let me get some of my gear unloaded so I can get my tent set up as well.

Wearing nothing but long johns, we all crawled out of our tents and, as Wayne stepped out of his truck, we exchanged enthusiastic greetings just as before when Rob and I had stumbled upon Chris. Excitedly we helped Wayne get only the necessities out of his truck so we could quickly get him set up in a tent. We repeated the same process of using the car lights to make setting up Wayne’s tent easier. The air was still crisp and the moon was still hidden behind the clouds and the fog. Within ten minutes we had the vehicle lights turned back off and we were all bedded down for the evening. We talked excitedly as before through the walls of the tents for a few more minutes before the discussion naturally trailed off and exhaustion settled in solidly. As we were saying our final good nights I added, Tomorrow is going to be amazing. Just wait until you guys see all of the trails we are going to cover. It will be fantastic. Good night, guys.

We concluded our good nights and I tucked my nose under the edge of my bag to keep the chill away.

Chapter 3

Ultimately we were a band with no leader. I organized the gathering and possessed the maps, but we were all equal in our ability and desire to lead and follow. This chaotic momentum had never been a problem with any of our other adventures and there was no reason for it to be a problem here, either.

Rob was the least experienced motorcycle rider of the group though he made up for his lack of experience with his unbridled enthusiasm. Wayne probably had the most actual riding miles under his belt and had never found a motorcycle he could not tame. Chris has a skill that has always been particularly astonishing to me -- his natural coordination. He is the most naturally skilled physical person I have ever met. When we all learned something new, whether it was spelunking or riding our Roller Blades on the half-pipe for the first time, Chris would advance in ability and competence far faster than the rest of us. As we looked awkward or physically confused, Chris always progressed quickly and looked smooth and confident doing so.

Our excitement for the ride, combined with the darkness escaping, had us all waking up near daybreak. I dressed in the tent but felt that, though the morning was cool, it was not cold enough to wear an extra layer under my clothes. Peering out of the tent I could see my breath filling the air in front of the gray sky. Rotating my head around like a turtle peering from its shell, I sensed activity from all of the boys and heard the silence from the night being slowly replaced with the mouse-like sounds of bodies awakening and gear being moved.

As we broke camp and packed up our gear, we began discussing the details for the day. Even the low clouds clinging over the tall pines did nothing to subdue our spirits and excitement.

When I did the ride a few weeks ago, we left from this campground and headed west and then south at the next town. We’ll follow the paved road up the mountain. There is a dirt road at the top that we’ll follow and look for a place to make camp. I need to get some fuel in my bike so we can stop at the gas station down the road.

We’re going to eat on the road today, but what are the plans for dinner tonight? asked Wayne.

I haven’t quite figured that out. We should plan on being back at the campsite by late afternoon or early evening. Maybe we can pick up some cans of Dinty Moore stew and heat them up in the fire, I replied.

Chris interjected, Dinty Moore is the best and easiest camp food; it’s filling and loaded with calories.

Better than an MRE, said Wayne. He was referring to the Army’s Meals Ready to Eat which were infamously loaded with enough carbohydrates and calories to keep eager, battling soldiers ahead of the energy curve.

I’m good with whatever, said Rob. Hot dogs, peanut butter sandwiches, whatever works for me.

We’ll just pay attention in the afternoon and when we come across a small store we’ll check on our options. I just want to get going. Is everything packed up? said Chris.

Wayne was standing beside his truck leaning over the bed side securing his last bag. He nodded to Chris that he was ready to go. With a quick tug on all of the motorcycles to assure ourselves of their security we piled into our respective vehicles and slowly navigated our way back through the campground.

Chapter 4

As we meandered out to the main road, the car’s engine blocks warmed and the cars’ cabins were filling with enough warm air to take the chill out of the wet air. The night’s fog had vacated the roads though many of the wooded areas had not shed their silky bed of mist, which drifted lazily like fake cotton-ball snow I once saw in a neighbor’s model train diorama.

Moving west on the main road, the mountains rose in front of us like layers on top of the gray skies and the very high clouds. This was a typical gray and cloudy, east coast day. The day never made you think twice. If it was bright and sunny, you would remark about how amazing the day was, or if the skies were pouring down quarter-size drops of rain, the conversation in the car would have certainly focused around how we were loony or breaking all of mommy’s rules by riding motorcycles in the mud on a cold, rainy day. This day, however, was starting out like many others: it was full of clouds, expectations and excitement. As the trees and the yellow curvy-road signs passed by my passenger window, I thought to myself that I could not think of a better way to start out the day. The Subaru and Dodge truck followed eagerly behind us; our short train of vehicles was lonely in the early morning foothills.

Lost in my thoughts of perfect day recipes and the clanking of the trailer over the bumps in the cold asphalt, the fork in the road –which we were to take south and up into the mountains – came upon us suddenly. Fortunately my recollection of a gas station was correct and I told Rob to hit the brakes and drift into the station so we could grab some fuel and supplies.

I wasn’t the only member of our group needing fuel and the rest of the troops topped off their motorcycles and vehicles. Post fueling, we found ourselves probing the shelves of the ubiquitous gas station convenience store, looking for breakfast and some snacks to pack for our trip. A natural choice for breakfast for a motorcycle race or ride is a pack of those six small chocolate donuts. Fat and sugar all rolled into a package of chocolate joy that sits nicely in your stomach and has a bit of staying power. If you are so lucky as to be travelling with a friend in a car or truck on the way to a meeting spot, there is always the shared pleasure option of a full box of those little circles of happiness.

We were all laughing and joking around as we circled the small isles and selected our goodies for the trail. These small, country stores are always different in layout but similar in content right down to the homemade beef jerky by the counter. Sometimes they have homemade chocolate chip cookies by the checkout, or maybe even Rice Crispy treats. They have chipped linoleum tiles or sometimes even ancient hardwood floors. Occasionally the doors have bells and in more sophisticated stores, an electronic beeper. Many stores merely have a squeaky door that alerts the cashier that someone has just entered the building. There is, however, one unifier among every country store; one key trait that makes the country store special and unique but common with other stores: the knowledgeable local behind the counter. No local store hires someone from another town to work there, and in most cases it is the owner, him or herself, flattening the bills and chain smoking in synchronicity. Our local store was no different and was typical, especially with obvious outsiders invading his territory, striking up a short conversation was an expected part of the transaction.

I stepped up to the counter with a pile of junk food, chocolate donut box included, and a small stack of weary bills ready to settle my tab. Our store proprietor was an obvious chain smoker with a dried up face, orange moustache and orange tips on the front of his uncombed white hair. To a non-smoker, Marlboro Reds seemed like a bold, early morning smoking choice, but I guess to an addict it is never too early. Taking a deep puff on his Marlboro resting in the crotch of his left pointer and middle finger, he looked out his smoke-misted window at our rigs with our bikes strapped on. I was surprised he could actually see anything with the stain so thick on the windows, but then I noticed a clean spot in the window that was evidently regularly rubbed with the elbow of his flannel shirt to maintain a clear view out to the gas pumps.

Where you boys headed today? He spit out as he leaned over to the window and rubbed the clean circle bigger with the elbow of his shirt. Looks like you’re up for having some fun. His accent was thick and