Slow day

I ran into another touring cyclist by a boat jetty. He was Joe, and had travel from Virgina. It was late, about 4pm, but I wasn't ready to call it a day. He was setting up camp, so I pushed onwards.

I camped in a tree farm off to the side of the road. There was an old overgrown swing that I sat and cooked on. I have bought some charcoal lighter fluid and it burns okay in my stove, a little dirtier than the white fuel, but not as smelly as gasoline.

It was a more isolated campsite than in the passed and probably for the first time, I had a clear sky. I heard a large rustling in the forest as I cooked and camped; I put on my iPod. I excused it with the simple, "there's nothing in the forest that both can and will want to hurt me." When I was breaking camp, two pitbulls the size of rhinoceroses came over to say hello - and I stood corrected. My water bottles had frozen and I had to have a small fire so I could move my fingers and undo the knots in my hammock.



The thing about stealth camping, and more generally, traveling without a good map, is you never know exactly what's around the corner. About thirty seconds, or 500 yards from what I thought was a remote site, I found a federal prison with all its razor wire and glory.