If Bikes Were Rafts

Though some days have past now, I believe the storm that we lived through at Red River Gorge this weekend deserves a mention.  Those of you from back home may not even know about the storm, while those around here will likely be telling their kids about it.

The rain on Saturday had flooded the field where our tent was pitched so that our tent was surrounded by a protective moat of water.  We awoke Sunday to a break in the weather and actually managed some climbs in the morning.  However, that break was short lived and as the rain picked up that afternoon, it only seemed to intensify.  After hours of being shut in at Miguel's entertaining ourselves with endless games of scrabble and chess, I was ready for a walk.  The rain died down to a drizzle for a moment, which was as good a break as we had seen for hours and I figured I'd take a walk out and check on our tent.  Now our little moat has begun to fill in and I found myself unable to jump over the puddles without getting soaked.  I figured the last thing I wanted was to get head over to my tent that night and have to wade through this mess of water.  So I took up the stakes and trudged over to some higher ground where a slight slope meant the ground would be well drained. 

Hours passed and night fell.  I had stayed up a bit later than Geoff to write and now headed back to the campsite.  I foolishly hadn't taken my headlamp with me and now had to make my way blindly groping for the entrance to our field.  As I approached the gate's opening, I looked out upon the field and got an eerie sense that I was looking out at a lake. I shrugged off the feeling, figuring the darkness and rain were playing tricks on my eyes.  Then I took my first step down into the field and into water up to my ankle.  As if on cue, lightning flashed in the distance, briefly illuminating the field.  It was enough to show me that the lake was no illusion.  I could see our tent ahead of me on dry ground, but down grade was a tent I had seen earlier that day now submerged in the  lake.  Only feet away in the new-formed lake was where our tent had been earlier that day.

We woke up, damp and slightly bitter the next morning to sunshine.  Mist hung in the air and I again cursed myself for not having a camera as the hazy sunlight was a stunning accent to the rocky cliff faces all around us.    We headed out in the afternoon towards Berea, KY.  Evidence of the flooding rain was all around us, swollen rivers stranding cows on islands of dry ground.  We noticed a set of bar-be-que grills sticking out of a river, I assume it was a campground on most days.  About mid-way through our ride, our directions prompted us to cross a valley so that we could cross over the easier mountain pass into Berea.  A sign stood at the intersection warning of high water ahead.  I reasoned that we would ride through and though our feet would get wet, we shouldn't have any issues.  The next sign we ran into was completely unnecessary.  It read, "Road Closed." Ten feet past it, the road disappeared, and where it reappeared is a mystery to us.  The flooding was so extensive, I couldn't see to the other side of the pool.  Even with the evidence directly before my eyes, I could not believe that this lake had not always been there.  It was an ominous sight.  We both stood for a moment, confounded and trying to grasp the situation.  After a moment, Geoff turned to me and simply said, "I guess we're not taking this road."  I still hold on to the image of riding down that road and disappearing beneath the murky brown water.