The Great Outdoors – Richard Hopkins Writes

February 8, 2020

Fun in the Snow

Daddy always loved a good snow. He was child-like pacing the kitchen floor, constantly flipping on the back porch light during the night to see if it had begun. Of course, boots had been oiled and sat ready to put on for sledding and snowball fights. If the snow came during the night the two of us would be up at first light. Mama was in the kitchen making breakfast for us before the foolishness began. Later in the day she’d always have coffee and hot chocolate ready for us.

I was four years old the first time that I saw snow in real life. I saw it on television, but we didn’t get any snowfall for a few years. I was so excited for that first snow. Daddy took me outside and pitched me into it, pajamas and all.

For some reason Daddy always built up a fire when it snowed in the antique wood stove we had in the basement. It was an antique Home Atlantic parlor stove with a flat top which we could keep water and coffee warm on for when we didn’t want to undress and go back into the house. He made my first sled from scrap lumber in his shop and used roof flashing on the runners to make them slide. It weighed more than I did, but wow, did it haul down the hillside. Later I would get a store-bought wood and metal sled, but that home-made job was always the fastest.

On one occasion we went to the old homeplace on Bridge Creek to sled. Between the orchard and the home of my Uncle Rip was an epic hill for sledding. We spent most of the day over there sledding with my cousins Doug and Ricky.

Every time we got a good snow, we took off riding around in whatever old Jeep we had sitting in the yard at the time. Forget all the “roads are unsafe so stay at home stuff.” We must have hit every back road in the county just being nosey and taking pictures. Sometimes Mama went, other times she stayed at home to “send out the search party” if we didn’t make it back. Good times indeed.

As the years passed, we spent more time riding and exploring and less time with sledding and having snowball fights. Charles Dickerson, our family’s best friend, was almost always with us. When it snowed Charles always brought out his Browning down jacket, Daddy grabbed his cowboy hat, and we would pile into his old blue Chevy Blazer and headed out. If Daddy was child-like with his love of snow, him and Charles together were a hoot. Charles was one of the most fun-loving people I ever knew, and the two of them were a hoot. We never really had destinations; we just went on whatever roads we could get through. Through all the years and all the adventures, we never were never stranded in the snow.

Charles rocking the vintage Browning puff jacket

It’s dumping snow right now. The last forecast I heard before bedtime last night called for somewhere between a dusting and four inches. We have six inches of the white stuff now and it’s just tapering off.

I wish Daddy and Charles were still here to go play. They’d have a blast today. I’m sure they’re together watching it from Heaven. Maybe they had God send it so I would remember… They don’t need to worry; I’ll never forget. I miss you, Guys.

January 28, 2020February 6, 2020

When Camping Became Work

Early Spring 1985… It was supposed to be an unseasonably warm and beautiful weekend. My buddy Alan and I, along with another friend John, decided to go on a camping trip on our dirt bikes. The predicted weather was just too good to pass up. We loaded up our random bikes. I was on my fairly current Suzuki DR125. Alan, owner of a shed full of eclectic bikes picked up by his dad, was on an old Kawasaki 185 Enduro. John showed up with his trusty Suzuki TS185. We strapped our junk onto the bikes as best we could. Our camp site was, as usual, on Popcorn Creek. That time we camped close to the old homeplace of Alan’s family. His Uncle Juke still lived there, but otherwise there wasn’t a neighbor or house for miles in any direction.

We set up camp after school on Friday evening and spent the evening lying around the biggest campfire imaginable. I’ve seen school pep rally bonfires of less magnitude. We talked away the night, eating Cheetos and guzzling Mountain Dew while solving the word’s problems. That’s what thirteen-year-old boys did back then. I don’t think we’d quite discovered girls yet. The night was warm; the weather stayed tolerable, and we awoke on Saturday morning without frostbite.

About the time we finished cleaning up from breakfast we heard a vehicle coming down the old logging road to our camp. It was Joe Thompson. Alan’s daddy. I’ve said many times that he was a spectacular hunter and fisherman. Unfortunately, Joe had another extraordinary skill. He had an unbelievable knack for getting men to work. Furman Kilby also had this trait. They could get men to work like absolute dogs for them without the men even realizing it was happening. I mean, seriously, at the end of the day, men would actually thank Joe and Furman for the opportunity. It would always start with a casual comment… “Let’s see how this new axe handle feels on this oak firewood…” Next thing you knew, it was dusk and you’d just split a cord of wood while Joe or Furman sat in a lawn chair with a cold drink.

Looking back, had us boys been camping under the pretense of hunting or fishing, the Weekend of Blisters would have never happened. But in Joe’s eyes we were just being lazy. He got out of the truck and looked us over. He shook his head at our laziness, cocked his cap back on his head, hiked up his britches and said, “Boys, I have an opportunity for y’all today.”

He instructed us to mount our dirt bikes and follow him back to their house a few miles away after a short span on the highway. Yep, thirteen-year-olds on the highway on dirt bikes. Things were different then. Once we turned down the driveway we veered right to the home of Mr. Melton, known to everyone as just “Melt.” Melt wasn’t there, but three or four fruit trees with their root balls wrapped in burlap were. After we got our helmets off and walked over to Joe, we noticed a few stakes driven into the ground at precise intervals.

“Melt’s gone to town. We need to help get these trees planted before he gets back,” Joe said.

I looked around. My uncle had a commercial apple orchard on our old family homeplace, so I knew a little about setting out fruit trees

“Who’s gonna run the tractor and auger?” I asked.

“Y’all are big strapping men. Y’all don’t need no auger to dig ‘em,” Joe countered as he threw three shovels on the ground.

Alan, John, and I thought it would be nice to surprise Melt when he got home with the trees planted for him and figured if we worked wide open, we could be out riding our dirt bikes within an hour. We dug like crazy and cut the burlap from the root balls with our pocketknives. Every boy always had a pocketknife handy back then. We finished just before Melt turned down the gravel driveway. Pulling a trailer. With a lot of fruit trees bundled on it. Really a lot, like thirty or forty. It was then that us boys noticed that the whole yard and surrounding area was dotted with stakes in the ground.

We looked around for an escape route.

“You mean there’s more?” one of us asked.

“Yeah, I just needed to make sure you could do it without screwing up before we let you do all of them,” Joe responded.

The word ‘let’ wasn’t lost on me. We spent the entire rest of the weekend under the beautiful blue sky on the warmest weekend of the year digging until our hands actually bled. At some point Melt or Joe dropped us off some Lance crackers, Vienna Sausage and Mountain Dew, but otherwise we worked until Joe decided that we should call it a day so we could get back to camp before dark. We then worked all day Sunday until it was time to head home. I was never so ready for the school week to begin in my life.

Many of the snowflakes and younger people in general probably think we experienced child cruelty on that perfect weekend back in 1985, but I’m thankful for it, just as I’m thankful for many things our parents subjected us to. We didn’t once think of saying “no” and pitching a big fit like kids now would do. Never once did we think about quitting. We didn’t want Joe or Melt to think bad of us. We did the work because Alan’s daddy told us to. Times like that helped shape the work ethic I grew up to have. Thirty five years have passed and I’m not sure if any of those trees survived, but we planted every single tree on the trailer that weekend.

Joe, thanks for the opportunity.

November 4, 2019

Riding With the Popcorn Gang

For some reason, the changing of the seasons brings retrospective feelings for me every year. I tell everyone who listens that my favorite time of year is autumn. That’s not true. It’s actually the weeks leading up to autumn. The older I get, the more this time becomes a period for reflection on my life. I have a special fondness for the camping trips and dirt biking during late summer and autumn. I simply love motorcycling during the transition period between summer and autumn.

My buddy Matt bought a 2009 Suzuki V-Strom a few years ago. Maybe it was a midlife crisis, but for whatever reason, he got a case Motorcycle Fever. I’m sure his wife is pleased… After looking at virtually every bike from Harley 883s to BMW GS 1200s, I finally sold him on the V-Strom. He had it for several months and we ventured out for several day rides. He later sold the Suzuki and replaced it with a Harley, but it was fun while it lasted.

Matt and I grew up in Rabun County, Georgia and rode dirt bikes together sometimes as kids. I believe he had an XR100 and I had a Honda XL75, followed by a DR125, then a couple of ATVs. We rode all over the west end of Rabun County. Although I was a town kid, Daddy took me to an area called Popcorn almost every weekend, where he spent most of the day panning and sluicing for gold in Dickerson Branch. Later, we would buy a couple of acres just over the mountain at a place called Plum Orchard. We had a tiny camper that we parked on the property and spent weekends there for over ten years before selling the property during the late 1990s. Daddy began spending time over on Dickerson Branch panning for gold in recent years, and with Matt getting back into motorcycling, I find myself thinking of all the weekends I spent on Popcorn and Plum Orchard riding motorcycles, camping and fishing with my friends.

At the risk of sounding like my parents, things were safer and simpler back then. Daddy was usually busy building houses or boathouses on Lake Burton, and during the summers he would often unload me and my dirt bike with a gas can and I would head off for the day, usually checking in around lunchtime to let him know that I was still in one piece. I would meet up with some of my buddies, Alan or my best friend Billy most of the time, and we would explore the countless miles of dirt roads and trails in the Persimmon and Popcorn areas of Rabun County. We were generally respectful, used good sense while riding, and almost never got hurt while on the bikes. I only ended up at the doctor’s office twice in all of the years that we rode, and one of the ER trips was from an allergic reaction to a bee sting. Looking back, we would all have been arrested if we even attempted to ride dirt bikes in those areas today. When I get nostalgic, I either ride some of the old logging roads in the area on my mountain bike or hike them with Daddy. Most of us were not “rich” kids by any stretch of the imagination, and our bikes proved it. Alan probably had the most eclectic batch of bikes through the years. His dad Joe always managed to find some obscure, quirky bike for Alan to ride. Several of his bikes were Honda Trail 90s and 110s. Neat bikes, but even when we were 12 or 13 years old, Alan was like 6’2” and 200 pounds. He also had an old Kawasaki KE175, but his Trail 110s were great. When a tree had fallen across the trail behind us while we were riding one day, he simply picked up the bike and sat it across the tree on the return trip while the rest of us had to figure a way around the deadfall.

Many summers and weekends were spent on Popcorn and Persimmon on the bikes, and much money was spent on snacks and gas at the two old community stores on Persimmon. When I was growing up and riding over there during the 1980s, there was a store at each end of a straightaway on Persimmon Road. On the left at the turnoff for Plum Orchard Road was Welborn’s Store, or “Mae’s” as us kids referred to it. Mae Welborn was a wonderful old lady who ran the store with her sister, and both women always had kind words for us annoying kids on our loud dirt bikes. One quarter of a mile farther down the road was Carlos Nichols’ store, which by the time I was terrorizing the area was run by Mrs. Etrubia Hooper. She was one of the neatest folks I ever met, often cutting up with us and telling stories about the old days. Daddy has told me stories of Mrs. Hooper buying new Ford cars with alarming frequency down at Duvall Ford and hot-rodding around in them back in the late 1950s and early sixties. She might have even hauled a little liquor in them, according to Daddy. As Persimmon and Popcorn were always notorious for the moonshiners in the communities, there is likely some truth to the allegation.

By the late 1980s, my friends and I had all acquired the dream of every teenager… Drivers Licenses. The ability to go wherever we wanted while pretending to be adults. My dirt bikes quickly gave way to a 1967 Camaro. By that time, local law enforcement officers had finally cracked down on us kids riding around all day on the unpaved county roads and forest service roads on our dirt bikes. We didn’t really notice at the time, as we were busy chasing girls, cruising town and illegally drag racing anyway.

Looking back on a period of time more than half a lifetime ago, my childhood coincided with the end of an era in Rabun County. Although parents nowadays will likely cringe at the thought of having their kid running around all day in the woods completely unsupervised on a dirt bike, none of us was ever seriously injured, and we gained a large sense of trust and responsibility that children of later generations seem to not have.

Both stores on Persimmon from my childhood are long gone now, having closed down about the same time I started driving, and Mae and Etrubia passed away many years ago, their untold stories dying with them. The Popcorn Gang has also suffered tragedies. Alan and Billy died almost exactly a year apart, neither having reached their fortieth birthdays. They won’t be forgotten during my lifetime. Every time I ramble the backroads and trails on Popcorn, I think of the great days we had, the campouts, the hunting and fishing trips with them. Guys, thanks for the memories. You are missed.

July 21, 2019July 24, 2019

Opening Day

A while back Amy and I began a ritual of taking a three-mile evening stroll near her house. On one of these strolls near the end of May we were heading across the campus of North Georgia Tech right at dusk. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw it… A faint green winking light. My heart raced. The first lightnin’ bug sighting of the year. I took off across the grass trying to catch it while Amy stared at me like I was a complete nut. She didn’t realize that hunting season had just begun.

I started thinking about my lifelong obsession with lightnin’ bugs. I guess every kid has it, but most grow out of it before their teenage years. Not me. I’m well on my way to being an old fart, and I still look forward to seeing them every year. When I was a kid, my friends and I chased them all over mama’s yard. Sometimes for hours on end. We’d do it all summer, but there was always something special about seeing the first one of the year. Everyone who knows me understands that I practically live for Autumn. Nevertheless, it was always bittersweet as Summer turned into Fall and the winking of the Lightnin’ bugs became less frequent before ending as the cooler nights gave way to Autumn’s chill.

Most guys I know start getting crazy with buck fever when deer season begins. Not me. It’s lightnin’ bug season. Gotta go now. There’s still time for another hunt before bedtime…

October 19, 2018January 6, 2019

Autumn is Finally Here

My favorite season is finally here, but it’s a mixed bag so far. I spend the whole year looking forward to Autumn. When asked what my favorite holiday is, I usually say “Autumn,” and then I’m told that it isn’t a holiday. I then tell them “October,” just to keep them guessing. So far this year is a bust for leaf lookers, as the leaves are running way behind, I suppose in part due to the almost ninety inches of rain we’ve had this year. Not to mention the warm weather.

Looks like that has finally changed. I broke out a hoodie yesterday morning, and last night I built the First Fire of the Year in the wood heater. Yesterday was warm, but after running The Girl to a basketball team thing, and then going back to my office to work, it was eleven o’clock when I got home. It was a chilly fifty-nine degrees in the house as I refuse to turn on the central heat this early in the season. And I have three cords of wood already split by hand with a go devil. No sissy log splitter for me. Of course I have a pile of almost fifty logs waiting to be cut and split. The log splitter moratorium might be lifted.

Every year I start getting antsy along about mid-September trying to guess when the First Fire will be. It seems like no matter the weather throughout the year, it’s always around the third week in October. And last night was the night. I purchased a fancy modern wood heater a couple of years ago to replace the aging Buck stove my parents purchased in the late ‘70s. The new Quadra Fire heater is ridiculously efficient, using only one-third of the firewood the old Buck consumed.

Speaking of bucks, this coming Saturday is also opening day of deer season for firearms. While I mostly gave up deer hunting well over twenty years ago, Daddy has been out in the woods (as best as he can) as much as possible since early September looking for sign. I’m happy that he’s excited and has something to stave of boredom, but lord help us if he kills anything. He’s seventy-five, has emphysema, has undergone a quintuple bypass and an aneurism repair, both in the last two years. Hopefully he won’t go too far from the truck.

And pumpkin flavored and scented items. Yep, I’m that guy. I eat everything pumpkin that I can get my hands on. I’d use pumpkin toothpaste if they made it. Do they make it…? I love all things pumpkin. Luckily, I also love to be outdoors in the fall, trail running, hiking, and mountain biking, so I don’t get fluffier than I already am. I would stay outside all day, every day, soaking in the weather and the beauty, especially once the leaves begin their glorious show. I take a camera everywhere and try my pathetic best to capture the season through the lens.

Hopefully this Autumn will have some camping trips in store. I used to spend every second possible camping this time of year, camping on my motorcycle or mountain bike, or going with Daddy to deer camp. Life got in the way for the past several years, but maybe this will be the year. I keep my gear packed and have a brand new roof top tent ready to go. Daddy is begging to go on a trip, so maybe I’ll take him camping somewhere and pretend to deer hunt with him.

While many see Autumn as the end of the year, a time for things dying and all that, I simply use it as a time for quiet reflection on all the fine things I have, and for experiences I want to savor. It’s a great time to stock up on memories of family, friends, and the beautiful outdoors before Winter sets in.