Eh, so I missed an entire week of NaBlo. NaBlo me.
("Umm," you may ask, "isn't that the kind of crudeness you should start backspacing since your mom reads your blog?" My answer: Probably, but she's a librarian, and librarians are historic foes of censorship. Also, making this blog entirely parent-appropriate would be much less fun for my many readers, who would miss out on witty, hilarious wordplay such as "NaBlo me." On a related note, email me if you want to hear about the time I tried to buy heroin from a Taiwanese prostitute.)
(Kidding about the heroin and the prostitute, Mom. If I had a kick-ass story like that, I'd totally put it on my blog, mom or no mom. Also, I never check my blog email, so that entire sentence was a lie.)
Where were we before my mother so rudely interrupted? Oh, right- NaBloPoMo, or more specifically my failure to make it past day 3. Did I really think I could more or less ignore my blog for a year and a half and then suddenly flip the switch and start posting every day? Apparently, yes. But then Thursday rolled around, I didn't feel like writing anything and I had to bank another three or four posts because I was going away for the weekend, and, well, bleh.
So I'm a failure.
But I did spend a long weekend in the mountains with my friend John at his family's cabin. I actually camped out in the back of my truck the first night and experienced the first snow of the season because John couldn't make it until Saturday. I sleep incredibly well when the temperature is in the upper twenties. My sleeping bag is rated to 20 degrees, but somewhere around 30 seems to be the real sweet spot.
John and I did some light hiking, found some of the largest trees in the state, briefly lost his dog, also caught said dog eating a discarded deer stomach (totally gross), burned through a bunch of firewood and generally enjoyed the crisp, clear, fragrant fall air of North Georgia. And I didn't write about it until now; I refer you back to my opening sentence.
As best we could figure (following the hiking guide,) this poplar is the thickest tree in the Chattahoochee National Forest at about 18 feet in circumference. If trees could talk, this one might say, "Dude, at least buy me dinner first."
This is me admiring (respectfully this time) another behemoth in the so-called Valley of the Giants. To get here you drive several miles off the main highway beyond where the pavement ends, park in an unmarked pull-out and hike an unofficial and unsigned trail. Needless to say, we were the only ones there. My kind of place.
In rural backwoods Georgia, graffiti gets to the point. Bonus points for correct spelling! I have to ask though: Is this a phenomenon found in other states? In Minnesota, do they spray-paint "fuck north dakota" on abandoned silos? It's a thinker.