Queer Camping in Sheville
For years this column has been called CAMPout for no specific reason except, I guess, that this is a column for CAMP, and let’s face it, I am out.
But lately, with the acquisition of our RV, things are changing. We appear to be CAMPingOut and oddly, after more than 15 years, this column is aptly titled.
And last week we camped out in Asheville, North Carolina where I was invited to speak about lesbian publishing for the University of North Carolina Queer Conference. Did you gulp at the phrase Queer Conference? I did. I know that gay kids are reclaiming the word queer, but to tell the truth it still gives me the yips.
However, there I was, and this column is about queer things (“adj. odd from a conventional viewpoint”), like this author passing up the conference rate at a Four Seasons for a campsite.
We drove in the RV, towing the Tracker, down the Eastern Shore of Virginia (Yay, Temperenceville!) across the foggy, rainy Chesapeake Bay Bridge and Tunnel (what scenic view?), through a thick slab of Virginia, into North Carolina, turned right and headed across the state.
A pea soup fog descended as we threaded our way up Black Mountain, past the Eastern Continental Divide—which I determined to mean you couldn’t see a thing in either direction for an equal distance from sea to shining sea.
Bonnie at the wheel, Fay with her laptop Schnauzers, made the ten hour trip, forgoing attractive temptations like the Daniel Boone Family Festival, a roadside gun show, the museum of tobacco, and the plethora of convenience stores flying the confederate flag.
Obeying our GPS, we turned left at the sign boasting camping/prison facilities. Oy. Not encouraging. Then we saw that Mapquest warned, “You’ve gone a little too far if you get to Banjo Lane.” They had to be kidding, right? Or should I be, as Ms. GPS said, recalculating?
So we turned, saw the campground sign, and began a chug straight up a perilously steep incline on a skinny, hairpin turn-strewn road, with sheer drop-offs on either side. Depending on your point of view, the posted signs, either snarky or encouraging, kept us going with phrases like “You can do it,” “Just a bit further,” and my favorite. “You made it!”
Frankly, I almost did. In my pants.
But once at our site we couldn’t believe our eyes; a stunning vista to the valley below and more mountains across the way. A flock of wild turkeys greeted us, strutting around the RV with their tails fanned out, like colorful paper cutouts for Thanksgiving table centerpieces.
One look at a lunging Schnauzer and the birds showed us the origins of the phrase turkey trot. And then, to our surprise, they took off in gorgeous flight…who knew? I’d heard that Ben Franklin wanted our national bird to be the turkey, and I always equated that idea with his ill-advised key and kite thing, but no, these turkeys were stunning in flight. I’m not so sure that adopting the turkey instead of our mean-spirited current national bird is wrong in these mean-spirited times.
I awoke in our comfy RV Friday morning April 1, dressed for my panel appearance, and ventured outside to find a lacey dusting of snow. April Fool, indeed. I navigated the car, carefully, very carefully down the mountain, to the school.
I have to say it was a little jarring to pull into campus and see big signs announcing "Queer Conference This Way." Then, when I saw the program of speakers and topics I was just floored. Hundreds of students and visitors were signed up to attend this great big gay conference, with people filing into the registration area, acting as if it were no big deal.
But for me, it was a big deal. When I was in college people smoked grass in the open but whispered the word lesbian in the closet—and nobody majored in it, socially or academically. Holy Hasheesh, look at what 40 years can do. It’s queer, it’s here and apparently this whole campus is used to it.
My conference packet included a parking permit with four inch letters announcing QUEER CONFERENCE for my dashboard. I looked at my car with its proud declaration and laughed, recalling, for some reason, my first-ever drive to a gay bar.
I had parked my brand new 1979 vehicle in a dicey neighborhood and slinked toward the bar, panicking upon realizing that my vanity license said Fay J. Running back, I took a t-shirt out of the car and draped the license plate in a self-hating shroud. And I was 31 years old at the time.
Today, the students walked into this conference holding hands, sporting pink hair, piercings, leather leggings, and all manner of funky out-of-the-closet attitude. But the best part was that they were really smart, curious, and thrilled to be learning about all things literarily Queer (see, I’m getting used to the word).
Well, I had a blast. In addition to the academic endeavors, we saw wonderful comic Jennie McNulty perform (she’s here in Rehoboth, April 9!), had an evening at an eclectic downtown bar called Tressa’s (the ethnic mix and combo of gay and straight rocked), and I learned that Asheville is often spelled with the first A dropped, as in SHEVILLE. It seems it’s a fantastic city for lesbians. Much as Rehoboth sports a mighty contingent of lesbian retirees, Sheville has the younger ones. It stands to reason, as it’s a city, and there are jobs there.
We were sad to say goodbye to our weekend home, leaving our turkey friends behind (No, I did not mean you, Jennie McNulty!) and rolling up and down the rolling hills toward home. At least we thought we were going home. I pushed the button for home on the GPS and about ten minutes down the road saw the sign Welcome to Tennessee. Recalculating? Hope the bitch on the dashboard didn’t think we said Dollywood instead of Delaware.
Turns out we took a new route, through banjo territory, toward Virginia and home. We did not stop to buy fireworks, attend one of a dozen mega-church Sunday gatherings, or purchase Raw Peanuts along the roadside.
But it was all very queer, as in “adj, odd from my conventional viewpoint.” I loved it. Camping Out, wild turkeys, mountainsides, queer conferences, and all. Even at my age, I’m recalculating.
Fay Jacobs is the author of As I Lay Frying—a Rehoboth Beach Memoir, and Fried & True—Tales from Rehoboth Beach, and For Frying Out Loud—Rehoboth Beach Diaries.