North of Florida

Part 1. Crane Creek

The adventure for me started before I even left Miami.

It was a Thursday and I was running late (as always) only this time it was for court.

No, not for something I had done, surprisingly, but for jury duty! I figured they'd read my confessional paper and cut my bad apple self loose before lunch time. Not this time, I got roped into the courtroom along with several other sad souls for a case that

would take weeks! Which meant no mountain shenanigans.

I had to think fast and make them think that I was a disorderly, untrustworthy scumbag... so I told the truth. I raised my hand and let the judge have it. She asked for a quick break and called me in for a personal interview.

Again I tried my hardest to weasel out of my constitutional right- I could smell the mountain air, the freedom! Long story short and a disappointed judge, jury, lawyer, and defendant later, I was out! I knew they didn't want my stinkin' opinion anyway.

So I was off the next day to North Georgia.

We stopped at antique shops along the way where I saw vintage 3/4 helmets and random Harley banners, signs, and clothing. During one of our mountain adventures, while leaving Trackrock, we spur-of-the-moment decided to take the mountain pass, stairway to heaven if you will.

Coming around the bend I saw the golden gate... oh it was heaven alright:

A camping spot filled with vintage two and four strokes. We're talking 70's Suzuki thumpers, Yamaha thumpers, a beautifully restored Norton Commando 850 with a two into one carb mod and cafe cowl. Two 2016 Triumph Thruxtons and vintage Jap parts and frames galore. Turns out the bikes were owned by some old timers that grew up in Panama together and always rode the sick old scramblers and cafes. They met up at Trackrock to attend a Vintage Moto Exhibition and tear up the side roads and trails like nobody's fucking business.

The Panama Boys, 2017.

Part 2. Trackrock

Traveling up an old mountain road with the sweet smell of smoky wood and

amber-colored leaves raining down -

A golden light awaits atop a fir-covered slope.

You know you're close when the road turns to gravel and the pines close in on either side of you.

Then that old familiar face opens the cabin door, inviting you in to the warmth of the den.

Your home amongst the pines.

As a child I was endlessly excited to venture up to the North Georgia mountains once a year.

We would trek up the winding roads, higher and higher, until we could roll down our windows in the car and feel the clouds around us. Our destination was Trackrock Campground. At the top of a brilliant grassy slope sat the main lodge, marked by a large and iconic totem pole. Here you could play pool, reward yourself with a good ol' Flintstones Push-Up ice cream, and relax on wooden swings overlooking the lake.

The gravel road would wind you around the landscape and back into the woods where our little cabin would sit, tucked away. We would roast marshmallows around a bonfire before slipping away in the moonlight to swing under an old weeping willow by the lake.

The moon reflecting into the lake at night.

The sound of crickets humming in the brush around us.

The smell of grass and a smoky bonfire.

The bumpy ride through muddy trails on a hayride in the woods.

The crunch of fiery-colored leaves beneath our feet.

The excitement of running across the meadow to my grandparents, eagerly awaiting our arrival.

The cool air easing us into a deep sleep.

Our home amongst the pines.