
Bears can’t open car doors. Even if a bear could get into the car, a black bear couldn’t do it so fast that we couldn’t start the engine and escape. And a black bear wouldn’t hang on to the roof like James Bond as we swerved down the mountain.
I could close my eyes and try to get some sleep.
But what if I had to go to the bathroom?
My eyes popped back open.
We had driven hours and hours from suburban DC to a weird and wild part of the Mid Atlantic. It’s mountainous. It’s old mining country. Logging roads wind along rivers and up steep valleys and it’s easy to loose track of if you’re in Maryland, West Virginia, or Pennsylvania. And it’s rural. With a capital R.
Rural also meant big rivers. There were plenty of fine trout streams only a short drive from home. The vast majority were just that: streams. Creeks. Runs. I love those streams. Every now and again it is nice to be able to cast. More refreshing is to cast without thinking about being surrounded by trees. In that part of the country, you do have to get rural to find these big trout rivers.
It was so rural that the first two campsites were on roads our little Toyota Corolla couldn’t navigate. Brown signs with a-frame tent logos promised opportunities just down the path. But the paths were equal parts mud, roots, and tire-eating holes. Add in the darkening skies over a thick canopy, and we opted for another option.









