We threw our packs into the back of Pops’ truck and piled into the cab. Pops pulled out to Chisold and turned onto Watford, then Main. “Need to get a couple pounds of fatback from Hivey’s. When you’re tramping, nothing beats crispy fatback with strong coffee in the morning.”
“Hey, I thought we were living off the land,” I said with mock disappointment.
“We are. I just fry it up for the smell. Call it redneck aromatherapy.” He pulled into an empty parking spot in front of Hivey’s. Inside, Jesper, Lo, Bobby Clinch, and Grubby Mitchell were at first coffee by the woodstove. Pops went to the freezer and pulled out a white-wrapped parcel of fatback, then walked toward them. “Morning, ladies.”
There were replies all around.
“We was jus arguin bout you, Arthur. An now you walk in to settle it,” Lo said.
“Make it quick, boys. We are off on the Tramp and two hours behind schedule.”
Jesper spoke first. “Heard you sold Jukes to Bubba for two hundred thousand dollars cash money.”
“Who told you that?”
“Bubba’s permit man, Wall Fratz, was up Glassville applyin to widen Jukes Holler Road so they can get the big stuff up there.”
Pops froze and looked at Jesper hard. His scowl unnerved the man. “I’m only sayin what Clarice tole Alison.”
“What part of Jukes did he apply for? The front part or the hollow part?”
“Not sure. I can ask Alison to ask Clarice.”
“I’d appreciate that. And to settle the argument, I’m not selling Jukes for two hundred or two million. I will see you gentlemen week after next.” He nodded, turned, and walked down the aisle to the cash register. At the counter he patted his pants pocket. “Kevin, I left my wallet in the truck. Can you run out and get it? It’s on the dash.”
I hurried out the front just as a blue late-model Ford pickup jerked and heaved into the parking spot next to Pops.
“Don’t be pumpin the brakes when you’re turnin. Just push down on em easy.” It was Sen Budget instructing the newly licensed Tilroy in the finer points of pickup-truck driving. They exited the cab. Tilroy seemed to have grown a few inches in the last weeks. He moved easily to the sidewalk, chin in the air, chest pushed out in front of him. A slight grin as if he was sporting expensive new clothes. He looked over at me. “What are you doin here, faggot?” His father guffawed and kept walking to the door.
“Buzzy and I are going up to Glaston Lake with my grandfather.” I scowled inside myself at the solicitous tone, but the last thing I wanted was a run-in with crazy Tilroy. I opened Pops’ truck door and grabbed his wallet from the dash. At the mention of Buzzy Fink, Tilroy pulled up and peered anxiously into the front window. His face went white. “Daddy, you go on in. I’m gonna check the oil.”
Sen grunted and opened the door. I followed him inside. He brushed past Pops without a word. “Tilroy’s outside,” I whispered to Buzzy as Pops paid for the fatback. Buzzy shrugged and we followed Pops out into the late morning. The sidewalk and parking lot were empty of people. Buzzy and I scanned the area for Tilroy, but he was nowhere around. “Let’s go, boys. Ten cents holding up a dollar.”
We scrambled into the cab and Pops pulled out into the empty street and turned toward Route 32. As we passed the side of the building, we saw Tilroy crouched behind a Dumpster watching us. “That is one messed-up mutha,” Buzzy said under his breath.
“Does he know you know?”
Pops looked over at us. “Who are you talking about?”
“Tilroy. I saw him outside, and as soon as I mentioned Buzzy he got all freaked and went and hid.”
“He don’t know that I know. Less Cleo tole him, but I doubt he’d do that. Cle’s gonna pretend Tilroy never even existed. You watch.”
“Why is Tilroy so freaked-out by you?”
Buzzy went silent.
We rode that way out to Route 32. As we pulled up to the stop sign, Cleo Fink, on his daily road-work routine, jogged in front of the truck. He waved at Pops, then pulled up suddenly when he saw his brother in the cab. “Oh, man,” Buzzy said and slunk in his seat. Cleo stood at the bumper, hands on hips, staring in at Buzzy.
Pops put his head out the window. “Cle, you’re holding up our Tramp. You’re in danger of getting run over.”
He stepped to the passenger side and Pops waved as we passed. Buzzy tried to slide even lower as Cleo locked on him. He stood there for a moment more, watching us pull away, then turned and headed back toward town.
Buzzy stayed slunked, staring into the dashboard for a mile down 32. Pops looked over at him. “It’s all gonna pass, son.”
We were quiet for the next few miles until Pops spoke. “We’re going to take the old Jukes Hollow Road up the hollow, then park. The trailhead is on top of the plateau above Jukes. We follow that up over Bridger Mountain, across Six Hollow Ridge to Sadler Mountain, or what’s left of it after Bubba Boyd got to it, then down Prettyman Hollow to the back of Old Blue National Forest. From there things get interesting. Blue is one of the last truly wild places left in the Appalachians, and help is far away, so we’ll all need to keep our wits about us.” He looked over at Buzzy and me with a seldom-seen seriousness. “There’s an old game trail that runs up Prettyman Hollow to Irish Ridge. We follow the Irish Ridge Trail for about eight miles, then camp. Tomorrow we’ll get down to the Blackball River and follow that for another eight miles or so, then cross over for the trail up to the summit of Old Blue. Glaston is on the other side of the mountain. It’s hard to get to, and that’s what makes it so special.”
“Aint there an old loggin road up the back way? My grandaddy’s been up there,” Buzzy said, taking back his usual demeanor.
“There is. You gotta drive forty miles into Blue, then walk the last three to get to the lake. No disrespect to your grandaddy, but that way is a cheat. If you’re gonna tramp properly, it requires you to strap forty pounds of gear to your back and walk for at least two days in the woods.”
After a few miles Pops began to slow down, even though there was no detectable break in the thick forest. Suddenly an old road materialized, like a secret passageway, from the solid block of trees and undergrowth. Thick kudzu hung down from heavy limbs; hip-high thistle and horseweed labored to meet it in the middle. Pops stopped and turned slowly into the dark tunnel. It took a few seconds to adjust to the dim. A heavy canopy of leaves and overgrowth blocked out most of the light, leaving the road in perpetual twilight. The forest floor was peopled with huge ferns that sent their arms invitingly up and out. The road was hard-packed dirt with traces of old gravel and rock in the wheel ruts. Monumental trees, the largest I’d ever seen, covered in thick green moss on one side.
We followed the road in the murky light for about a mile until the hills began to close in and the pitch of the track pointed up, taking us onto the shoulder of a steep, rocky rise. We kept on the narrow course for a half mile more along the north shoulder of a sheer mountain. Knee-high loosestrife and jimson scraped the undercarriage; overhanging pipevine slapped the side-view mirror. Buzzy took his arm off the windowsill. Pops said that he was going to get a man up to clear the road next spring.