It’s like a second spring for us in the mountains of Western North Carolina. The leaves on the trees here are that bright, vibrant green like what we had back home about a month ago. The trees just coming alive from their long winter’s nap. In fact, the trees on top of the tallest ridges still look brown. Spring has not yet made it to some of the higher elevations.

The air is brisk, too. As soon as we rolled into the campground, backed into our spot, and opened the truck doors we looked at each other, eyes wide open. We both had the same idea at the exact same moment.

“I’m putting on my jacket.”

Hidden Waters Campground is a quiet little spot just a few hundred yards off State Route 129, about 4 miles south of Robbinsville, North Carolina. The campground gets its name honestly. A lot of internet campground PR is misleading, but not here.

Tulula Creek runs like a horseshoe around the perimeter of the campground. Thirty foot wide. A rapid descent through an ancient granite corridor. Right now I’m sitting about 15 foot from the edge of the water, and I can barely hear the world around me over the thunder of the water as it tumbles downhill.

I’m surrounded by Black Gum, Sassafras, Poplar, American Hornbeam, Maple, and Oak. The creek banks are dripping with Mountain Laurel in bloom, and large masses of Rhododendron bending down to touch the ripples of the creek that race on around the next boulder.

On our first evening here, our neighbor from the camper next door came down the edge of the creek with his fly rod in hand. Terry is a Baptist preacher from Gainesville, Georgia. The low limbs were making it hard to cast, so I invited him down to our spot where there was an opening in the canopy.

“We usually don’t go much farther from home than Hiawassee. It’s kinda hard for a preacher to get very far from home when Sunday is breathing down his neck.”

There are no strangers in a campground. Tom, from St. Louis walked down to the creek by our site. We talked like old friends. Lane, the campground host, is from Ocala, Florida and good friends with the owner of Hidden Creek.

“Anything you folks need, you just let me know,” he said.

And I could tell he meant it.

Today was our first full day in these mountains. We decided to head north, up Hwy 129. My navigator is in the right seat. The road is turning circles up the side of the mountain and down through the river valley. We can see Lake Santeetlah off through the woods to our left.

“Take this next left,” says the navigator. “Let’s go see if we can get a good view of the lake.”

We ended up wandering through Cheoah Point Park, a primitive campground of the Nantahala National Forest. The parking spots were few and tight. Tents mostly at Cheoah. No power. No water. No flushy, flushy.

The grade down to the lake was steep but timber steps had been cut into the hillside. When the lake finally came into full view, it was drop-dead gorgeous. Mountain peaks in every direction. The water was crystal clear 50 feet out from the shoreline, turning a deep emerald as the earth sloped away to deeper water.

The little creek from our campsite flows to this lake.

Back on the road, it’s not long before we are passed by fast motorcycles with young riders who feed off the adrenalin of each curve in the road. Hwy 129 is the gateway to The Tail of the Dragon. The Tail is an 11 mile stretch that goes through Deal’s Gap into Tennessee. No intersections. 318 curves that set you on your side. Switchbacks that climb some of the steepest grades in the Appalachians.

We are riding in a full-size truck and have no need for an adrenalin rush. We hang a hard right on Hwy 28 right where The Tail of the Dragon begins.

The next destination turned out to be Fontana Lake, a gift of the TVA system that boasts of the highest dam in the Eastern US. We stopped at Fontana Village, aka bathroom stop. The porch was littered with backpacks of the poor souls making their way along the Appalachian Trail, which crosses Fontana Dam.

One guy was digging through his pack. “I guess you’re hiking the AT?” I asked. Seemed like an obvious conversation starter to me.

“Yes sir,” he said.

I introduced myself. Jack looked worn and weary. I couldn’t help my next comment.

“I hiked from Amicalola Falls to Franklin, NC about a hundred years ago. That was enough for me.”

He grinned. “I wouldn’t have thought you were anywhere near a hundred.”

Jack was there to catch his breath. Call his family. Get a shower. Eat a real meal. Then head back to the trail. He plans to make it to the Katahdin Mountains, Baxter State Park (Maine) by early fall. We were just there last September. So I gave him a word of encouragement.

“That last climb up Baxter Peak looks like a killer.”

From Fontana Village we rode down to Fontana Dam. The lake level is low due to the drought, but water still flows through the big pipes and drops 480 feet down to the Little Tennessee River below. We’re standing on top of the dam taking pics in every direction.

Inside the visitors center we were all alone with Allen and Gina, who sat behind the information desk. They’re from Tellico and are a couple of adventurous retirees. They’ll spend two weeks here at Fontana working the desk, then in June they’ll be at another visitors center somewhere up in Kentucky.

“Where y’all from,” they asked.

Turns out they know exactly where Newnan, Georgia is, and their very first camping trip ever they spent at FDR in Pine Mountain.

“We got there and realized we didn’t have any chairs, or almost nothing we needed. We were so excited to have the camper that we just hooked up and hit the road.”

Allen took the time to get out a map for us. GPS is next to useless in these mountains. They told us how to get over to Bryson City, where we got a bite to eat and shopped some of the antique stores before heading back to our campground.

It was a full first day. Everywhere we went, we met the nicest folks.

“You’ll talk to anybody won’t you?” Marion says to me as we walk back to the truck.

Truth is, we both enjoy meeting people no matter where we go. We love seeing this country. We love the adventure of new places. But meeting the folks along the way is what makes the journey a story. And even though we likely won’t ever see any of them again, we are richer for having met them.

The sun is setting. We’ve got a campfire going right next to the creek bank. I’ve got my jacket on again, and the water in Tulula Creek is still rumbling.

I love camping.