“We should do this,” Joe wrote when he forwarded Devil’s Backbone’s marketing email to Ron. The email advertised their July special: book one campsite, get the second free. Ron did the legwork and booked the trip.
“Man, nice the whole time and rains when we get here,” Ron said as water drops started to splash on the windshield. Looks like we will get wet setting up camp.
Rain fell steadily on Ron as he checked us into the campground. Water puddled on the ground, fog clouds hung below the mountaintop, and the low 70s greeted us as we rolled to site 3, pulling in backwards, creating a buddy site with Joe in site 4.
Joe and Skippy arrived minutes after us. When Buddy came bounding over to say hello, our crew went nuts, causing a stir in the campground, drawing the neighbor’s attention.
After enjoying a beverage at the camper, we walked to the brewhouse for dinner. Good food, good company and free flowing drinks made for a jovial evening and an early night. Sunset over the mountains captured our hearts.
Skippy, from Missouri, worked on Dale Earnhardt’s pit crew from 1997-2002, a year after he died. A NASCAR lover, he helped Joe repair the fifth wheel axle. With his wife out of town, Skippy accepted Joe’s invitation for a weekend away.
“His death ruined the sport.” Skippy had witnessed the decline of NASCAR since Earnhardt’s death, no longer filling race tracks to capacity.
Saturday began slowly, everyone slept in late. Joe called me over to see the deer grazing by the road when he took Buddy for a walk.
As always, I started my morning with the Lord, reading devotionals and the Bible to set my mind on Him.
Ruby and Buddy made friends.
Hilltop Berry Farm and Winery, our first stop as we meandered around the area, had goats. Nestled at the top of the hill, trees surrounded the outdoor patio. A nice breeze kept us cool as we enjoyed tasting their offerings. Specializing in mead, a honey-based wine, none of us found it irresistible.
“I had the best luck with Rhode Island Reds, Hampshires and Rock Island Reds.” Skippy gave us advice on our future chicken coop and its residents, advising us not to get roosters at our next stop, Cardinal Winery.
“Find a local farmer, they’ll know the hens.”
“I’m writing that down so I don’t forget it.” And so I did.
Ron and I split a mushroom Swiss burger when we stopped for lunch at Three Notched. Busy, we had good service and a speedy lunch before heading home for afternoon naps.
Hearing Ruby bark woke me from my nap. Wandering outside, I found Ron talking to our neighbor, Matt, and his 3-year-old boxer, Remi, who caused Ruby to bark. From Bowling Green, outside of Fredericksburg, Matt, originally from Iowa, retired from the Navy as a Bomb Specialist, who deactivated them.
“I’ve never been on a ship,” he told me when I asked. He still does contract work when needed, living with his ‘Old Lady,” Kristi, whom he talked about constantly and obviously adored.
Matt spent the afternoon with us, the dogs playing, as we talked.
Evemtually, we played a little cornhole as the chicken, pork and potatoes cooked on the smoker.
“It haunts me every day, because they didn’t tell the truth,” Skippy said over dinner. As the person who installed Dale Earnhardt’s seatbelts, NASCAR claimed the malfunctioning belts caused his death.
In truth, Nascar required the team to adjust the A-frame bar over the driver’s seat, which needed welding. During the process, slag fell on the seatbelt, but no one realized it. When the crash happened, killing Dale, the seat belt sheared because of the compromised area from the hot slag. The seatbelts didn’t malfunction; the welding caused a weak spot that gave way in the crash.
Skippy wants the truth told, and I told him I would publish his story. He doesn’t know the best way to tell it. And so I pray that he finds peace in this part of his journey.
After our late dinner, we all headed to bed before 10:00 p.m.
Sunday morning, Ron and Joe cooked breakfast: waffles, eggs and sausage. Then we packed up. for the three hour trip home.
