The first real hobo journey I’ve taken in decades, and my first real bike tour too. And I dove in deep, head first and solo. My overconfidence bordered on foolhardiness, but I got through it unscathed. So now it’s just road wisdom and stories.
I let Ride with GPS pick the most direct route on back country roads from Columbus, OH due south to Huntington, WV where my uncle lives. Somebody on a Facebook bike tour group had warned me about rednecks in trucks who tried to run him off the road when he rode through southeastern Ohio. I just assumed it was exaggeration caused by typical prejudice against hillbillies. And I think I was right. While most the few people I came across were not thrilled to see me, nobody was outright hostile.
The only real danger I encountered was their dogs. I used to live in the Shenandoah Valley where I often road my bike on 20-25 mile rides. I thought it knew Appalachian cycling – the steep hills, beautiful landscape dotted with rusted trailers and manufactured homes here and there. But Appalachian Ohio is waaaay poorer than Appalachian Virginia, and more densely populated. And it seems like every trailer has neglected, hungry dogs who have never seen a cyclist ride past their property.
I’d been chased by dogs up steep hills in Virginia too, and was always able to outrun them well enough. But this time I was on a bike loaded down with 60 pounds of camping gear, and I was riding much farther than I ever rode before. I was basically a giant, slow moving rabbit to them.
As long as I was going downhill or on flat road I was usually well past their trailer before they noticed me. But southeast Ohio has lots of steep hills, and when you’re slowly plodding up one on a loaded bike, the dogs have much more time to hear and see you coming. At least 7-8 times I got chased by dogs going uphill. Each time I was able to escape before they got close enough to bite my frantically spinning legs, but adrenaline and luck was all that saved me.
It was hard to relax and enjoy the rolling green landscape because every time I started peddling up a hill I was anticipating a rabid dog exploding around the corner of the next trailer.
By the end of the second day my route went through the middle of Wayne National Forest, so I figured I’d have no problem finding some place I could camp at least semi-legally and be gone before anyone noticed. But the Wayne NF is not like the George Washington NF in Virginia, where there’s always a recreation area, or a trailhead, or an abandoned logging road every few miles. Here there was nothing but trailers and houses spaced out with high grass, ticks, snakes and poison ivy in between.
With about 1.5 hours of daylight left, I the zoomed in map way in and saw a green patch off a side road about 2 miles out off my route. I figured that must be NF land where I could find some place to pitch my hammock. So I turned off onto another steep uphill road, and of course had to speed past a dog near the top of the hill before I started back down. I got to another road before I checked the map and realized I passed it. I rode more slowly back the way I came, past the dog again, and looked closely for any NF-type sign. Nothing.
I rode back to my route drained and demoralized. Even though I was at the top of a big hill I was reluctant to descend because I knew there wouldn’t be any good camping spots in the marshy lowlands. And then I’d have to climb uphill again.
One of the beautiful things about this trip was rediscovering that I still had traveller’s luck that always kicked in when I needed it most.
As I started riding slowly downhill I spotted a nice mowed grassy flat spot next to a farm driveway gate and I stopped to rest there to figure out my next move. I decided I could probably cowboy camp there if I had to, but it was visible from the road and to anyone who might turn into the driveway.
But then I noticed there was a stand of trees downhill on the other side of the driveway where I wouldn’t be seen unless someone was really looking for me. So I hung out and I ate the “hot pastrami sandwich” that I bought in a gas station in Jackson. This vile product was made to be microwaved and had an expiration date in mid-2024! At least I still had some wine in my wine sack, a relic from the days when I tramped around in Spain.
By now it was nearly dark and time to set up my first real stealth campsite. I managed to string up my hammock with a mosquito and had a nice cozy bug-free cocoon to sleep until morning.
I got up early and packed up. Then I realized my solar battery pack was refusing to recharge my phone. I had only 7% battery left and I still needed to navigate the web of tiny roads through the last 50 miles to Huntington.
I was also starting to run low on water. I had assumed I find enough country stores to refill my water bottles, but nearly all economic activity in this part of Ohio shut down decades ago with the coal mines. Even the outdoor spigots on churches and abandoned stores that I’d tried were dry.
It’s late, I need to go to bed. If anyone actually read this far and wants to know what happened next, let me know. Maybe I’ll manage to finish this story…
I let Ride with GPS pick the most direct route on back country roads from Columbus, OH due south to Huntington, WV where my uncle lives. Somebody on a Facebook bike tour group had warned me about rednecks in trucks who tried to run him off the road when he rode through southeastern Ohio. I just assumed it was exaggeration caused by typical prejudice against hillbillies. And I think I was right. While most the few people I came across were not thrilled to see me, nobody was outright hostile.
The only real danger I encountered was their dogs. I used to live in the Shenandoah Valley where I often road my bike on 20-25 mile rides. I thought it knew Appalachian cycling – the steep hills, beautiful landscape dotted with rusted trailers and manufactured homes here and there. But Appalachian Ohio is waaaay poorer than Appalachian Virginia, and more densely populated. And it seems like every trailer has neglected, hungry dogs who have never seen a cyclist ride past their property.
I’d been chased by dogs up steep hills in Virginia too, and was always able to outrun them well enough. But this time I was on a bike loaded down with 60 pounds of camping gear, and I was riding much farther than I ever rode before. I was basically a giant, slow moving rabbit to them.
As long as I was going downhill or on flat road I was usually well past their trailer before they noticed me. But southeast Ohio has lots of steep hills, and when you’re slowly plodding up one on a loaded bike, the dogs have much more time to hear and see you coming. At least 7-8 times I got chased by dogs going uphill. Each time I was able to escape before they got close enough to bite my frantically spinning legs, but adrenaline and luck was all that saved me.
It was hard to relax and enjoy the rolling green landscape because every time I started peddling up a hill I was anticipating a rabid dog exploding around the corner of the next trailer.
By the end of the second day my route went through the middle of Wayne National Forest, so I figured I’d have no problem finding some place I could camp at least semi-legally and be gone before anyone noticed. But the Wayne NF is not like the George Washington NF in Virginia, where there’s always a recreation area, or a trailhead, or an abandoned logging road every few miles. Here there was nothing but trailers and houses spaced out with high grass, ticks, snakes and poison ivy in between.
With about 1.5 hours of daylight left, I the zoomed in map way in and saw a green patch off a side road about 2 miles out off my route. I figured that must be NF land where I could find some place to pitch my hammock. So I turned off onto another steep uphill road, and of course had to speed past a dog near the top of the hill before I started back down. I got to another road before I checked the map and realized I passed it. I rode more slowly back the way I came, past the dog again, and looked closely for any NF-type sign. Nothing.
I rode back to my route drained and demoralized. Even though I was at the top of a big hill I was reluctant to descend because I knew there wouldn’t be any good camping spots in the marshy lowlands. And then I’d have to climb uphill again.
One of the beautiful things about this trip was rediscovering that I still had traveller’s luck that always kicked in when I needed it most.
As I started riding slowly downhill I spotted a nice mowed grassy flat spot next to a farm driveway gate and I stopped to rest there to figure out my next move. I decided I could probably cowboy camp there if I had to, but it was visible from the road and to anyone who might turn into the driveway.
But then I noticed there was a stand of trees downhill on the other side of the driveway where I wouldn’t be seen unless someone was really looking for me. So I hung out and I ate the “hot pastrami sandwich” that I bought in a gas station in Jackson. This vile product was made to be microwaved and had an expiration date in mid-2024! At least I still had some wine in my wine sack, a relic from the days when I tramped around in Spain.
By now it was nearly dark and time to set up my first real stealth campsite. I managed to string up my hammock with a mosquito and had a nice cozy bug-free cocoon to sleep until morning.
I got up early and packed up. Then I realized my solar battery pack was refusing to recharge my phone. I had only 7% battery left and I still needed to navigate the web of tiny roads through the last 50 miles to Huntington.
I was also starting to run low on water. I had assumed I find enough country stores to refill my water bottles, but nearly all economic activity in this part of Ohio shut down decades ago with the coal mines. Even the outdoor spigots on churches and abandoned stores that I’d tried were dry.
It’s late, I need to go to bed. If anyone actually read this far and wants to know what happened next, let me know. Maybe I’ll manage to finish this story…
