Getting There
When we last left you three months ago, the Traveling Roses were happily tooling down the road in luxurious comfort with Kenneth and Krisy, headed to a meeting with Pat in Alabama.
We’d left Gueydan, Louisiana around six-thirty. With the time change, it was still quite dark. Sunrise was an hour away.
Anxious to be on time and not inadvertently leave us waiting somewhere, Pat left Mountain Rest in South Carolina by seven to meet us just over a third of the way.
Our drive with Kenneth and Krisy was relaxed and peaceful. We talked, we were quiet, we listened to music, we stopped for bathroom breaks, we even had a picnic lunch somewhere in Alabama.
Pat arrived at our meeting point several hours early. Rather than hang around a gas station and wait, he opted to drive farther and meet us on the south side of Montgomery. Our exchange point was about halfway between Gueydan and Mountain Rest.
With the accompaniment of teary hugs, goodbyes, and heartfelt thanks, we quickly and efficiently transferred gear, equipment and ourselves from Kenneth’s pickup truck to Pat’s Toyota Avalon. The desire to get out of the heavy Alabama heat spurred us on.
After our wild “getting to Gueydan” experience, we were old pros at getting a new bike rack set up and the bikes tied down firmly. That went without a hitch.
While Chelsea and I paid attention to the bikes and loading, Krisy was efficiently scouring the truck behind us, ensuring that we weren’t leaving anything behind.
After final goodbyes and hugs, we settled in for the last section of our long drive. Pat was tired from being up early and driving such a distance, so I took over driving within the hour.
The second half of our drive was equally peaceful. As time rolled by, though, we felt exhaustion creeping slowly up. We’d been on the road for many hours; I’d now been driving for what felt like an unending eternity; and the dark sky made us want to be home in bed.
Pat’s biggest concern was traffic through Atlanta. Ours was finding food. Not wanting to stop until we successfully negotiated any potential traffic jams, Pat asked if we’d wait till we got to the far side of Atlanta. To Pat’s surprise and our mutual appreciation, traffic was non-existent.
Back in Boca Raton in 2006 Alex discovered Chipotle, a high-end fast food place serving excellent quality Mexican food at great prices with great service. We fell in love.
Unfortunately Chipotle was not a big chain, so having their food was always a treat, reserved for being home in Delray.
Doing online searches in Gueydan for my list of “fun things to do in our new area” I discovered a Chipotle listed in Atlanta. Now in Atlanta, we’d been talking and laughing with Pat (congratulating ourselves on the lack of traffic), telling him about Chipotle, asking if we’d ever be able to come back to Atlanta and eat at Chipotle.
At last came time for food. We were now well through Atlanta, so I arbitrarily picked a freeway exit and committed us.
Crawling along slowly, careful not to make the other drivers too nuts, we methodically scanned the roadsides for the perfect place to eat. I’d unknowingly picked the ideal exit. We had scads of choices from sit-down restaurant chains to fast food places.
After several undecided miles we opted to take a u-turn and pick something on the way back.
Meanwhile, just for fun, Chelsea looked up Atlanta Chipotle locations on her Droid X as I made my way into the left-turn lane.
Right then she raised her head and cried out, “Look, there’s Chipotle, right there!” The driveway was straight in line with my turn. I was pointed directly at Chipotle. A parking space was open right in front. It was worth a Facebook post.
After a glorious meal break, armed with our Chipotle leftovers and flush with success, we headed out on our last stretch of road. I continued driving till a dozen miles before our destination.
By the last fifty miles my body ached, my bums were sore from so much sitting, my contacts were glued to my eyeballs, and Chelsea hadn’t said a word for hours.
Seven hundred fifty two miles and sixteen hours after we’d left that morning, surviving on three hours of sleep, we bumped slowly over a rutted dirt road, trees crowding the car in the pitch black, awaiting the much anticipated reward of being in our new place.
Where We Are
We’ve now been in the foothills of extreme northwest South Carolina, near the borders of Georgia and North Carolina, for three months. It’s a new world.
About a month after arriving, still stunned with the activity level and differences, Chelsea said one day, “Well Mom, we’ve stepped through the looking glass and the cell phone reception isn’t too great here.” Given the challenges we’d had, I could only laugh.
It took us forever to figure out where we are and what the setup is, so let me shorten your learning curve and explain a bit.
Jim, our host, owns sixty acres, encompassing both a hilltop – at eighteen hundred feet in elevation it’s one of the highest in the immediate area – and riverfront footage, which he calls “the bottoms”.
Jim’s got a two-bedroom house, more of a cottage, in good condition, down on the Chauga River in the bottoms.
Pat lives upriver a hundred yards or so, with more riverfront footage. He’s got a charming small two-bedroom house (like a cabin), a multi-room basement that was used as a separate apartment some years ago but is now used for storage and laundry, and a good-sized, new, professionally outfitted workshop a dozen yards or so from the main house.
His river view is nearly perfect.
Partway up Jim’s hill, reached by a gravel and dirt road, is a beautiful unfinished building known as the barn. I don’t know the history to it, but it’s got all the makings of a secluded cottage in the forest. Though it doesn’t have the amenities (like a bathroom or kitchen), it’s set up to have them installed.
Loaded with charm, surrounded by junked cars, dusty and cluttered, it’s got a small greenhouse attached. The barn is a five-minute walk up a steep little hill from Jim’s riverfront house.
Hiking ten minutes farther up the steep hill on a rutted dirt road through the woods is yet a third house, the family home (Jim now calls it the ranch house). His wife bought a home in a nearby community and moved last summer with the two boys. The house has been unoccupied since then.
The two-bedroom one-bath wood-frame home sits in a clearing by itself in the woods, with a chicken coop and storage shed off to the north side. The interior was recently repainted, but still needs a fair bit of rehab.
Finally, up another short but steep little section of hill on the same dirt road is the Big House. When finished it will run nearly forty five hundred square feet over two spacious floors. It’s got a massive wraparound deck.
The Big House has been under construction since about 2004. It’s got water to the house, though nothing is plumbed yet. It’s framed out and has a roof and that gorgeous wraparound deck, but that’s about it. The interior is still full of construction supplies and equipment.
Like other locals, Jim’s been building his home gradually as workers and funds are available. Like the others, he’s proud that he owes nothing to anyone for the house.
Jim says he’s got the most expensive, prettiest, and privately owned open-air pavilion in Oconee County.
The First View
Our first view of our new home (the former family home) was underwhelming, if not outright discouraging.
The place was absolutely pitch black; all windows and doors were open; it was very cold inside and out; the front room and kitchen counters were covered with loose papers, as was the mudroom floor downstairs in front of the wood-burning stove; the back bedroom smelled of mold; there was very little furniture.
The main bedroom had a double bed, made up in sheets and blankets, with nothing else in the room. The refrigerator was clean, the sink was clean, the water in the bathroom sink didn’t work, but it was clean and the shower was clean. The toilet was clean.
The floors were littered with leaves and loose dirt, blown in through the open doors. An old hot tub with a disintegrated cover, filled with leaves, and covered with bits and pieces of things, took up most of the front porch space.
We were too tired to process the situation, and it didn’t look like staying there for the night was much of a possibility, so when Pat suggested we spend the night at his house down at the river, we agreed.
It took only a few minutes for all three of us to unload our gear and bikes into the main room. We bumped back over the rutted dirt roads in the pitch black.