I’m headed west on Alabama State route 281 into the unknown. I’ve never traveled this path before. The scenery is new. Whatever is around the next curve or over the next hill is a mystery to me. Marion is my navigator.

As Dad used to say, “If I ever come down this road again, that’ll make twice.”

Our destination is Cheaha State Park, home to the highest elevation in Alabama.

You might be thinking that we’re in north Alabama. That would make sense. You want to see some of the Appalachian hill country? Fort Payne is surrounded by rocky bluffs and fault lines pushed up toward the sky. Lookout Mountain is not far. It’s just a hop, skip and a jump into the Great Smokey Mountains. All my life, getting to the mountains has meant a trip north.

Not so, on this trip. Cheaha is located in east central Alabama, only about 50 miles west of Carrollton, Georgia and maybe a 30-minute ride south of I-20. The state park is a gem of natural beauty that encompasses 3,000 acres right smack dab in the middle of the 400,000-acre Talladega National Forest.

Marion and I have done a lot of travelling together. It’s a retirement thing that we both enjoy. She has taken me to some of the places she has known and enjoyed. I have done the same for her. We call our trips adventures, because we never know what we might find or what we might get into.

Today defines that spirit. Neither one of us has ever been to Cheaha. The word, adventure, takes on a bolder meaning. We are riding into the great unknown.

The tires are humming on the pavement. I can feel the extra weight of the camper in tow behind us. The dark green canopy of the forest engulfs us like entering the mouth of a massive cave.

“You know what?” I say to her.

“What’s that?” she says.

“We’re on an adventure.”

The Creek nation lived here long before Alabama ever existed. They knew not the chants of Roll Tide or War Eagle. Duke’s mayonnaise was not on the shelves, and I doubt they ever enjoyed the simple pleasure of a mater-samich.

Cheaha (Chee-hah) is their word for “high place.” I don’t know what it is, but mankind has always sought out the view from the top of the mountain. From the rock outcropping at the peak, you see the world differently. Small becomes huge. Insignificant becomes magnificent. You make the climb and the impossible seems achievable.

Fortunately, we are riding, not walking. Our adventure is less strenuous.

Unfortunately, we only got to see that view from the top on the first day. Overnight the clouds moved in and settled over Cheaha like pea soup. The rain pelted the top of our camper like acorns on a tin roof. We ventured out into the fog in our rain gear and made the most of it. But it was not the adventure we had hoped for.

We’re killing time inside the Mountain Store at the entrance to the park. Refrigerator magnets. T-shirts. Hiking maps. We had plans to do the guided 2-mile hike up the mountain on Saturday. A 1,000-foot climb over rocks and up through the Mountain Laurels in full bloom. We were both secretly relieved that the rain cancelled the hike.

I’m looking at souvenirs when three fellas walk in dressed in Kevlar suits and riding boots. They have helmet hairdos, except for the one guy with no hair at all. Unshaven. Weary. They look like they’ve been ridden hard and put up wet.

I overhear one of them asking how much for a place to stay the night so they can get out of the rain.

I didn’t think much about it until we left the store and saw their bikes parked outside. Plenty of folks ride motorcycles all over. No big deal. But these were not Harleys. They didn’t glide into town on touring bikes. And the tags were from Maine.

I don’t know the make or model, but I know enough to tell you these were dirt bikes. Bikes made for off-road traveling. Probably European. Maybe 300cc or bigger. Mud spattered. Saddle racks on the back with bags and tents and gear.

We had to go back inside to ask about their story.

“I see you fellas are from Maine. You’ve been riding all the way from Maine?”

Russell, the big bald one smiles. He’s the friendly one of the bunch. Tod, his suit unzipped down to his waist, is the burly one. His New England accent is thicker than the fog outside. John is on his phone looking for other lodging options. Soft spoken. Square chin. Thick, short whiskers. He could be the model for the Marlboro man.

“No. We trailered the bikes down to West Virginia and rode from there.”

I’m digging for more. “I see the mud on your bikes. How’d you come?”

John never looks up from his phone. “We have an app for traveling back roads. We stay on the dirt as much as we can.”

“Where you headed?”

Russell gets excited. “We’re headed to Navarre Beach. We want to see the Gulf.”

Three guys from Maine riding the dirt roads of Alabama. And they’re no spring chickens. Tod and John are both 59 and have known each other since they were five years old. Veterans together. Russell is 67. He met Tod and John 30 years ago, dirt track racing, and the three of them have been riding buddies ever since.

“We went to Utah last year. Montana the year before. We decided to go south this year.”

“All on dirt bikes?” I’m fascinated.

“Yes sir. There’s no better way to see this country.”

“Well, we’re headed to Maine this fall. Never been. You got any advice for us.”

“Don’t go right after Labor Day. The #!*d tourists take over and the main roads are impassable.”

Good advice. “We’re going the end of September.”

“Good choice,” Todd says. “Be sure to take the back roads along the coast. Get into the small villages above Acadia. That’s the real Maine.”

More good advice.

We shake hands and bid each other farewell. From the sound of John’s conversation on the phone, they’re heading on down the road a piece to find a hotel with a hot shower.

As we headed back up the mountain to return to our fogged in camper, we talked about what an incredible adventure it must be for them. Riding the roads less traveled. Lifelong friendships. Seeing parts of this country in ways that few people ever see.

The thing is, life is an adventure if you choose to make it so. Amidst all the mundane, there are still mysteries to discover. Unfamiliar places to visit. Untried challenges to stretch the imagination and test the spirit.

I’m not saying I’m ready to ride motorcycles across the country. I’m just saying that life is better when you venture out into the unknown with the anticipation of finding something new. It could be a mountain. It could be a museum.

It might even be a foggy day at Cheaha.