The Sporting Life

If you ever have the opportunity to visit North Georgia's Amicalola Falls after a sudden summer thunderstorm (the flash-flood variety), then you should jump at the chance. On Saturday, my friend Kyle and I had perfect timing to witness the falls like I'd never previously imagined they could be. There was no way to cross the bridge without getting completely soaked by the roaring water. By the time we made our way back down from the top after earlier crossing over, rocks had begun to dislodge and fall onto the bridge. It was an incredible sight.

To give people who've been there before a better idea of how extreme the conditions were, I should point out that the trout pond at the base of the falls was overflowing its banks and portions of the paved part of the trail up to the bridge had water flowing on it as if it were part of the creek bed.

Flushing queens

Finding myself in a New York state of mind

In 1989's "When Harry Met Sally," Sally's friend Marie quoted a magazine article, stating, "Restaurants are to people in the eighties what theater was to people in the sixties."  Little did she know it was written by Harry's friend Jess, who was sitting across the table from her. Jess was amazed and said it was the first time anyone had ever quoted his work back to him.

Today Paul Katcher should be similarly flattered. I think.

On Saturday, while in downtown Chattanooga with two friends of mine, nature called — urgently. I wasn't sure whether to blame Friday night's Six Feet Under, Saturday morning's Chick-fil-A or Saturday afternoon's Sticky Fingers. But in that moment, it was far from my greatest concern.

As I picked up the pace to almost a sprint, trying desperately to weave through the throngs of tourists to reach the men's restroom at the visitor center next door to the aquarium, words of the (semi) renowned blogger flashed across my mind: "Every time I see people in line for stalls at Yankee Stadium I think, 'This has to be the worst day of your life.'"

So congratulations, Paul. We've shared a moment. Considering the circumstances, I'm not any happier about it than you'll be.

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In Katcher fashion, here's a list of links I found interesting and you may, too:

• If I had a million dollars, I'd wager it all that you the artists chosen to set Shakespeare to music for "As You Like It" wouldn't have been your first guess. Or second. Or third. And I'd be rich.
• Maybe I'm stating the obvious, but travel writing is at its finest when it entertains you and makes you interested in a place you previously hadn't given much thought. Cynthia Barnes has done so for me with Timbuktu. "The patio at the Amanar is clean and attractive, but what the rest of the town needs is my mother. I imagine her standing in the sand-swept streets, broom in hand. 'You, put on some pants and pick up that garbage. You, bring me some bleach. And for God's sake, someone bury that cat.'"
• Speaking of travel, if you're ready for a road trip to Labrador, I'm your man.
• Am I the only one who, on seeing John Bolton, recalls that sketch of Teddy Roosevelt releasing a captured black bear back into the wild?

Shorts

When I was 17, listening to my cassette of Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me in my bedroom or in my silver '79 Cutlass Supreme, I never imagined I'd one day stand at the deli counter in an Atlanta-area Publix and hear the track "The Perfect Girl" piped throughout the store. It reminded me of when I heard "Anarchy in the UK" on a retro show three or four years ago and, at the song's conclusion, the DJ said, "I can remember that song sounding so violent and offensive when it first came out, and now it sounds like just another rock song. Things have certainly changed."

During that same visit last night, I was startled to see twin packs of Trojan condoms hanging next to the Trident gum and the Weekly World News in the checkout line. I'm thinking, "Am I in a grocery store or a dimly lit Chevron off Bankhead Highway?" Good luck in explaining those to the kids, mom. Yes, things have indeed changed.

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Before I talk about Omaha, Rosenblatt Stadium, Lincoln and the College World Series, I owe it to a couple of people to admit to arguably the most boneheaded thing I've ever done.

The night before we depart, I'm digging around for information on our hotel. And digging. And digging. And then I finally have to admit it to myself: I have absolutely no idea what the name of the hotel is.

I'm pretty sure it's one of those chains that sounds new and small, like Jameson Inns. I thought I had a printout of the details. I thought I had a receipt. But then I remember I'd written the details down on a sheet of paper. The reservation was made over the phone.

I finally find the confirmation number, but I've entered it on a to-do list with only the words "Omaha hotel."

It's now 1 a.m. I have to call and wake my friend Steve.

"You're going to kill me, but I can't find the name of our hotel," I said. "Any chance you could look in your e-mail for anything I maybe sent you about it?"

He does.

Nothing. It appears we only surfed sites while talking on the phone when trying to locate a cheap, clean place to stay. So I make a few phone calls to hotels, since we know we found it on a travel site and know it's not far from the airport.

And I still come up empty. It's 2 a.m. I have to be up in three hours, to shower, shave and swing by Steve's house en route to Hartsfield. So I do what any 35-year-old man would do: I e-mail my mom.

"I might need to beg you and Dad to let me use some of his reward points for a hotel in Omaha, if there's even a room to be found," I wrote.

She calls before we even depart from Atlanta and asks for details on what exactly I've done. So she starts calling around to hotels as I did earlier, trying to find where we're staying.

While waiting for a connecting flight in Minneapolis, we get the news: She's found our hotel. It turns out they underwent a change in ownership (and name) since I made the reservation, so I would've probably had a slight problem even if I had located the original hotel name.

It was a humbling experience, to say the least. I appreciate my friend Steve's patience and my mom's willingness to sacrifice her time to help us out.

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I'll admit that Over the Rhine's latest album, Drunkard's Prayer, had struck me as somewhat of a letdown. Considering how highly I regard the previous release, Ohio, it shouldn't have surprised me.

But seeing the band last month at Smith's Olde Bar here in Atlanta made me reconsider the new material. Recorded, the songs had sounded too subdued, too stylistically similar, to me. But live? Much, much better. I almost didn't attend because I was going stag, and playing the role of confirmed bachelor sometimes gets old. I'm glad I didn't let it deter me, as it was at least as memorable and enjoyable as the better shows I've seen in the last couple of years.

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I can't say with absolute certainty, but I'm pretty sure that none of the following athletes are gay:

Brandon Backe
Dany Heatley
Jeff Bagwell
Craig Biggio
Roger Clemens
Laird Hamilton

I thought I'd go ahead and address the subject for the many visitors who continue to arrive here via a Google search pairing each of those names with the word "gay."

Meet Virginia

I'm heading to the Old Dominion this evening for a long weekend. More specifically, I'll be near the coast, an hour or so east of Richmond.

It's tough for me to believe I've never visited the state before. I've been through it with my family, driving to New York and driving to Pennsylvania, but I've never actually spent time there.

I'm looking forward to hanging out with a friend of mine and seeing some of the historical sites. (I hope to get enough good shots to add a new album on the left.)

So if you've been planning to break into my house, now's your chance. Just know that I have an alarm that will sear your eardrums and a neighbor who's probably been itching to use one of his rifles. Do you really want to test a man named Red who chain-smokes? I didn't think so.

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In my absence, enjoy:

· A track from Over the Rhine's forthcoming album, Drunkard's Prayer.
· The first single from the Doves' forthcoming album, Some Cities.

Also, since I'll be traveling during the premiere tonight (and haven't watched Survivor since the second season), I'll be counting on y'all to cheer on the folks with ties to Alabama: Ibrehem, Bobby Jon and James.

The great Walls

My friend Steve began to wonder whether I thought I was the primary beneficiary of his life insurance policy. He was convinced I was trying to kill him.

Though the hike took a lot longer and was much more strenuous than either of us had expected, in the end, Steve agreed with me that our trip to the Walls of Jericho on Saturday was worth it. The 3.5-mile trail down Cumberland Mountain and along Turkey Creek into Tennessee led us to a natural wonder hidden for so many years to most people because it was, until late last year, on private property.

We started atop Cumberland Mountain around 1 p.m. CDT and encountered probably about 40 other people on the entire trip, among them a Cub Scouts troop and their leaders, five or six couples, a family of five, a young couple with their infant child, a father and son, two guys hiking separately by themselves and a grandfather, father and son.

The trail was mostly leaf-covered as it meandered down the side of the mountain but switched to muddy and slick once it crossed Hurricane Creek and began following Turkey Creek. When we encountered the Cub Scouts just before the trail's end, their leaders recommended that we make use of a rope they had, to ease our way down to the edge of the creek rather than finish the final 30 yards. They knew first hand: They had all fallen or slid through the mud in trying to reach the end earlier.

Once we were in the amphitheatre, we had to be even more careful with our footing, as the limestone rocks were unbelievably slippery from moss and water. I almost fell three or four times but, luckily, never ended up in the water. We stayed probably 20-30 minutes, soaking in the surroundings, and then Steve reminded me that we needed to get out as soon as we could to avoid wandering back in total darkness.

More than four hours after we started, at about 5:15 p.m., we finally returned to the parking lot, tired and thirsty. When we arrived at my parents' house in another 45 minutes or so, I think I ate three barbecue sandwiches, drank three glasses of tea and had three helpings of baked beans and potato chips. I never even broke pace enough to notice how much Steve had shoveled in, too.

My photos hardly do it justice, but, wow, the striking images these guys captured show Turkey Creek when the water's at a good level. Their full report of kayaking is here.

Now that I know what to expect, I fully intend to go back again. Next time, however, I plan to be more prepared and hope to go when the water is higher.

  · Photo album from Saturday
  · Topographic map of Walls of Jericho protected area

Fall at the falls

  

  

Besides taking him to Six Feet Under, I took my friend Kevin, who's visiting from Philadelphia this weekend, to Tallulah Gorge State Park yesterday. We're traveling to Auburn today for the Kentucky game and to North Alabama tomorrow for the U.S. Space and Rocket Center in Huntsville and the Walls of Jericho in Estill Fork.

Wonder Walls

When I was a newspaper reporter in Northeast Alabama, I once covered the excavation of the grounds of a remote cabin in a tiny community called Estill Fork, where authorities had suspected a convicted criminal had lured young girls and later buried them.

A friend of mine who had been living in the county seat for a few years told me over lunch one day that she had been to that area of the county only once, when she traveled by ATV with some friends of hers on private land to see the Walls of Jericho. I had no idea what she was talking about.

She said it was an amazing natural wonder, and her dad, who owned the restaurant where we were eating, chimed in and said he had been there when he was younger and recommended I seek out someone who could take me.

I never did. I never took the time to track down someone with connections to the landowners (or at least with a fast four-wheeler and an idea of when to go and not get caught), but I always kept the place in the back of my mind as something I one day wanted to visit.

I’m hoping I’ll get my first chance sometime this fall. I can’t imagine a better time of year to first experience the beauty of the area than when the leaves are changing color and the air is cooler and drier.

That northern portion of Paint Rock Valley was so beautiful and so isolated that I hoped, for purely selfish reasons, no developer would ever discover it: I thought it would be a great place to one day have a small cabin. But I suspect it won’t be long after Alabama and Tennessee open the park that other visitors will have the same idea. Maybe they’ll decide it’s too far off the beaten path for the effort.

I’m just thankful I’ll finally get to see what all the fuss is about.

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Update: (8/30) A trail from the Alabama side of the Walls of Jericho opened to the public Friday, Aug. 27.

  · Jericho hike has a rugged beauty
  · Forever Wild wins the battle of Jericho

A respite not only from the heat

Because the South’s heat and humidity in the summer make sleeping outdoors as pleasant as in a barracks scene in Biloxi Blues, I usually camp out only in spring and fall. But Byron and I decided to take advantage of the weekend’s unseasonably drier air and cooler temperatures and camped out one night in Northeast Georgia.

We found a place that had surprisingly few people making use of it, especially in light of locations we passed earlier in the day, in areas no more scenic, that resembled refugee camps. Not only was the one we stumbled upon quiet and mostly deserted, it had the most well-groomed individual sites I had ever seen — graveled, leveled, clearly defined and well-kept fire pits and plenty of room for cars to pull in.

Better yet, I felt like we were thousands of miles from the traffic, impatience and demands of the city.

Atlanta is a tough place to love, especially for a hillbilly who feels more at home in a town where the traffic lights can be counted on one hand. The quickest route to Byron’s is I-285 East, and, making my way to his place to leave for the mountains Saturday afternoon, I couldn’t believe how congested it was. At one point, somewhere between the Chattahoochee River and Georgia 400, I pulled back from my focus on the car ahead of me and took in the overall scene — lane after lane after lane of vehicles speeding along like products on assembly-line conveyor belts. How in the world are so many people on this highway of death on a random Saturday at 3 p.m.? I wondered.

The night before, a group of us had eaten dinner and taken in a movie at Phipps Plaza. A friend of David’s I hadn’t previously met, Michael, was with us, and he gave us a progress report on the house he’s building in Buford.

When residents of places like Buford introduce themselves to people from outside the state, they say they’re from Atlanta.

From downtown’s Centennial Olympic Park, the drive to Buford is about 40 miles. During rush hour, that’s about a 90-minute commute.

But in the world of infinite sprawl, which stretches out via interstates like Doc Ock’s arms to replace cow pastures and country kitchens with another Kohl’s and another QT, Buford is Atlanta as much as Techwood Homes. In 20 years, expect Chattanooga, Tenn., Birmingham, Ala., and Greenville, S.C., residents to claim they’re from Atlanta.

I shot a couple of photos with my camera phone from the docks at the Westin on Hutcheson Island in Savannah on Saturday night. Here's one of a tug boat.

Bear necessities

I almost didn't write about my trip to Alaska because, well, it's tough to keep vacation stories from putting people to sleep or sounding as if there's one underlying theme: "I went to this cool place and you didn't. And, even if you've been there before, I assure you it wasn't as good as my experience."

So I'll try to stick to subjects you non-jetsetting commoners can perhaps just try to imagine.

Like mosquitoes. I don't know what the state bird is in the Frontier State, but the mosquito has most certainly bitten it innumerable times, pissed that it doesn't qualify for the coveted title because it's an insect (nevermind that the little sash awarded the winner is custom-made for feathered breasts).

I'm guessing their size, probably triple that of their Southern cousins, resulted from some evolutionary attempt to remind visitors they're in the biggest state in the Union (in case the hundreds of miles of open spaces wasn't doing it for you).

But give the winged bloodsuckers a Darwin award for not realizing the trade-off for their enormity is alerting prey to their presence, thanks to the bug equivalent of the stealthlike qualities of an elephant. At one point, when I was riding in my friend Stan's truck, I immediately felt it when one lit on my right forearm.

So I swatted it. Suddenly, it appeared like one of those moments in a cop drama, where a guy doesn't know he's been hit by a stray bullet until he looks down and sees the pints of lost blood. My arm and left hand were covered in it. Two paper towels later, I was clean again.

By week's end, Stan had purchased a Mosquito Magnet, one of those $300 contraptions that lures its victims with propane-powered carbon dioxide emissions, and we were seeing a noticeable difference around his property.

The worst part about all the mosquito bites, though, is how they make presentation a challenge for brown bears serving you to guests as the main course. They, like all of us, prefer a nice, blemish-free skin on their meat.

No kidding, the bears freaked me out. I wanted to see one, but I wanted it to be waaaay over "there" somewhere, about a half-mile away in a clearing, when I saw it. Maybe even sleeping. Declawed and defanged. Possibly in restraints.