Here I am again in civilization, or what can be called such, banging out another report of my findings in Yankeeland. (I know Virginia is still considered “South,” but north of I-10 is my cutoff.)  As I write this, I am in the student union of Virginia Tech, mooching their computers, having hiked 622 miles since May. When you read this in August, I will be in the ShenandoahNational Park, Mile 851, and will have done 1000 miles in Harpers Ferryby the middle of the month.

As I trudge ever deeper into the woods, I notice that the scenery never changes.  I have climbed a ridge mountain named Brushy a dozen times for the last 100 miles.  The same damn mountain.  It's tall and rocky and named Brushy and it never ends.  Never.  But to get to the next town with electricity and "flushies," toilets that actually flush (two months in the woods and toilets become a thing of interest), you have to climb this beast again and like it.  Oh well, I did bring this on myself.

Onward to Bland, Virginia, located near Dismal Creek.  Whoever named this town and creek needed to take a class in marketing.  At least we give our boring and depressing places creative names like Denham Springs and the AmiteRiver.

Bland was not just a town, but also a region, I guess.  After leaving the Bland Post Office, we hiked three days into the wild, battling off bees and bears, mice and deer, to make it to a greasy spoon gas station in the middle of nowhere.  After ingesting an abnormal amount of lard, I noticed that the convenience store not only sold nails and "no trespassing" signs, but also shotguns and "muzzleloader propellant," which I assume to be black powder, and beer.  So sitting here, eating, I realized that I could get a gun, ammo, beer, and a lard injection, all at the same spot.

But that's not what scared me the most.  It was that their T-shirt said Bland, VA.  I hiked 30+ miles to be in the same Podunk burg that I climbed out of three days ago (and had to climb BrushyMountainthree or four times to escape).  At least the lady working there had a sense of humor when she said that everywhere we go around, there is Bland.  No kidding.  At least DismalFalls (the locals called it the Falls at Dismal) was pretty despite such a depressing name.

But I soldier on and will be coming home soon enough with more stories and pictures and a healthy respect for flat land, liquor stores, and showers with hot water.  Please, God, let there be liquor when I get home; there is none in the last two months of cities that I pass through.  I thought hillbillies loved their liquor.  Oh well, onward and upward…