Much of the BRP is nestled high in the mountains, often approaching 5,000ft above sea level. This provides views of the valley below that are often quite striking. Heck, from this altitude, you could skydive into the valley.

As I pull into one of the many lookouts, I notice a black GS-1100 parked near a picnic table. It is well loaded with luggage.

I dismount, pull out my earplugs and take in the almost deafening silence. The sky is mostly sunny with a mix of scattered clouds. At this altitude, the temperature is somewhat cooler but still very comfortable.

I nod hello to the GS rider and walk closer to the edge of the escarpment. He's sitting some 100 feet back having lunch. The view before me is panoramic and breathtaking, revealing a lush, green valley packed in high-density vegetation several thousand feet below. The light-mist covering gives it a soft-focus look.

Turning back, I walk towards the GS rider.

His name is Michael. He's sitting at the picnic table with his kitchen accessories out and having lunch (beans). The scene is just perfect and I don't want to disturb it.

He's a younger rider and seems quiet and introspective. I match my tone to his to not intrude on his state of mind. We share some words. I expected that he was on the way to the rally, but instead discover that he's just setting out on a long-term journey across the US that may eventually include a ride up to Alaska.

He's not aware of the rally and so I pull out the schedule and share details and location. He seems to show some interest. But he's low-key, apparently on a journey that includes an inward as much as an outward dimension.
The best kind . . .

I envy what he's doing and tell him. After a few moments, I gear up and say farewell.

Some minutes later, it starts to rain lightly. I notice that my rear tire is sliding noticeably and regularly as I lean the bike for the many curves ahead. This is odd. There must be a light, non-apparent coating of mud on the road. Typically my tires should not be sliding at this pace.

I come across a series of tight s-bends on a downward section. As I exit one corner I come up on an unmarked police cruiser. It pulls over to let me pass and then sets off the light bar. I slow down but there's nowhere to pull over safely. I activate my right turn signal and raise my left hand to indicate that I'm not going anywhere, just looking for a safe place to stop. I stop at a clearing within a thousand feet or so. Dismount, helmet off.

The female officer quickly walks over. She seems in a good mood. Early forties, lean, tall, short-cropped blond hair, blue eyes, and angular features. She mentions that there's been a spate of bike crashes lately and just wanted to give me a verbal caution to be careful, what with the tight road and the rain.

She says she clocked me at 50 in a 35 zone. I fully agree but mention that it was on a downhill. She's very understanding. She seems empathetic to the fact that keeping a bike at 35, especially in downhill sections, takes effort. Again she cautions me to be prudent and wishes me a safe trip. This whole episode takes less than five minutes. Not even an official warning!

The rain goes off and on for the next two hours.

It’s now 5pm. I need to get a fix on where I am in relation to Hiawassee time-wise. I pull into an information center and walk up to the desk. The woman staring back at me asks if she can help me. I mention my destination. She's in her mid-to-late forties, shoulder length black hair, dark eyes. Southern-type figure, you know, curvaceous.

I look at her and could swear that I hear myself saying, "well, there you are," but I'm not sure. Maybe I just thought it. As she gives me some travel advice I have the strange feeling that I know this person. Yet, I've never met her before. Odd.

Not knowing what roads await me, I mention my intention to make Hiawassee and ask for her opinion. She seems ambivalent. I ask her what she would do. Her suggestion is to possibly stop for the night. Considering that I'll be crossing Asheville during rush hour, Hiawassee is close to three hours away. In addition, I'll be travelling tired, over twisty mountain roads, in the rain and in the dark.

She's making a compelling case. As I head out, I decide to scope out a room in Asheville. Yet the aura from this encounter lingers on . . .

By 6pm, I've come across just what I need. Good room, good rate.

It's still raining on and off.

I get some dinner.

Back at the room, I check my chain tension. Very loose.

Hmm… That's odd. I'll need to look at that in the morning.

The weather forecast for tomorrow is worrisome. Doesn’t look good. Nothing I can do about it, so I settle in and go over maps of the area.

Daily mileage: 1,250 miles

Bruno
Montreal, Canada