Thickety Creek Okay, I admit it, I'm becoming attached to North Carolina. It's not that I like paying one of the highest gas tax rates in the nation, but rather what they do with all that money. I've not yet ridden in another state that has so many interesting paved roads. It seems there are many 'roads less traveled by' here, but the ones that are gravel or dirt usually lead only to a private residence and simply being on the pathway is committing trespass and risks either the business end of a shotgun in your face or a big "howdee!" from some lonely old farmer wanting a little company. Either situation is bound to tie up a good afternoon.

The other day I went out riding in Richmond and Montgomery counties, trying to locate a bit of cool air in the Pee Dee river basin. There's lots of low spots over there that collect water and, when combined with large forest areas near the road, it's not hard to find a drop of at least five or even ten degrees. When the heat index shoots over 100 that little bit of a break is essential to a comfortable ride.

As I passed by one obscure corner I noticed the road sign had dubbed the offshoot track as "Thickety Creek Road." My 'adventure' meter suddenly spiked up a few points and I turned around and began to wander up Thickety Creek. After a couple of hard left and right turns past a turkey farm and a few large fields I caught a glimpse of a beautiful horizon, broken only by many small hills. The road had to be approaching the creek.
The old bridge, now useless?

Solitude greets visitors...

Another sweeping turn and the view opened up onto a brand new bridge, crossing over the creek about 45 feet below. Well, there's an example of another million dollars of the road tax spent. But, what really caught my eye was the old bridge, immediately adjacent to the new structure. Probably built in the 1920's, the one lane bridge had originally offered a wooden deck, but at some point that had been covered by an good mix of asphalt and gravel to provide better traction on rainy days. Like the lonely farmer, it begged me to stop and spend a little time.

I obliged the invitation and quickly found myself parked on what had been Thickety Creek Road not so many years ago. Approaching the deck of the bridge I carefully looked at the rusting metal and the decking materials before I stepped out very far. It appeared safe, and what's more, it looked like a great place to spend a few minutes enjoying the cool atmosphere surrounding the creek. Somehow, striding with purpose across the span didn't seem to be the proper way to greet the old bridge. And a gentle sauntering doesn't fit either. So I choose the piecemeal approach, going a few feet at a time and stopping to look at the surroundings with a casual mood. I'm in no hurry, and the bridge sure isn't going anywhere.

Within moments I was transported back through the years. The sound of water flowing over the rocks below drifted up through the warm summer air and I could envision what this rural area had been 80 years before, when automobiles were uncommon and horses and mules were the only dependable form of transport. Back then a hot summer day meant that chores were relegated to very early morning and late evening. The afternoon was reserved for napping next to the stream, possibly with a fishing pole at the ready to snag dinner.

There wasn't any traffic on the new bridge and my reverie went uninterrupted. I gazed down to the creek bed and found that this old bridge probably wasn't the first to cross here. Older supports of something from the 1800's were still visible. Had any visitors in the 1920's been able to spend time on THAT old bridge and wonder just what a new span would do to disturb the peaceful nature of this place?

Looking up and down the creek, I oriented myself and pondered the fact that the broad Pee Dee was probably just three or four miles down stream and who knew what was upstream. The only thing I could see was a heron at the next bend, basking in a solitary pool of light and looking for a meal of fresh fish. Bridges usually mean commerce and commerce means population. Had this crossing been a hotspot of social activity at some point in time?

Bulletin Board? I look around with a more discerning eye and find that, yes, it still is a gathering place of sorts. Folks have scratched their initials and little ditties into the painted metal on each guardrail. But, to my surprise, nobody has tagged it with grafitti, although the new bridge has been given lots of effort. One girder grabs my attention; on it some artist has scratched the delightful digit. And above that a message is scrawled in pencil; "Call cell phone Friday." Suddenly the illusion of gentler days is gone. I'm drawn back to the present and all of its problems; could this spot really be a gathering place for evil doers? Is it possible this bridge isn't really the best place for strangers to relax in peaceful and quiet surroundings?
The little Wing waits patiently

I look back toward my faithful Silver Wing, slightly obscured by the weeds of neglect and obsolescence, and understand the moment has passed for me and this old bridge. It's time to move on and greet what lies on the road ahead.

As my helmet, damp with sweat, slides over my head I am again fully part of this century. Yet, as I hit the starter button and begin to pull back onto the new road, I look back and resolve to find this place again. Maybe not here on the old Thickety Creek bridge, but somewhere down the road on a hot summer day when the waters of a cool creek beckon me for a few minutes of solitude - when my soul needs to be in the days when horses and mules were the reliable form of transport and automobiles were less common.

Ride safe - LW