Zoom Flume

One of my favorite rides this winter was one of those that didn't even seem to have much potential when it was conceived or as it began. Like so many things in life, you don't know until you go. Ron and I parked at the east end of Hickory Ridge Trail #19, also known as the Nathan Avery Trail. The trails were soaked with a combination of snow melt and late winter rain. Only the truly ambitious (or completely insane) were out on bicycles on this particular evening. It could be said with certainty and fortitude that we were most likely the only souls on two-wheeled human propulsion machines within the National Forest boundaries. The solitude lent to the different feeling of this ride. On rides like these, you feel something deep, something good. Something that just might separate you from those poor saps sitting at home. The tires made that soft rush of sound that can only be created by large, knobby tires on a cold, lonely gravel road. After a few miles the sound begins to lull you to sleep. No other noises exist in the trees on a wintry night such as this. We traversed west on Tower Ridge Road. When we reached 446 we headed north down to Lake Monroe. This was not a planned diversion, but it seems as if we decided to do it without speech or discussion. Sometimes decisions are made on a ride through an unspoken telepathy. The decision is so obvious it just presents itself. We made our way to the lake, and the water had a consistency of chrome. Not an imperfection could be seen across the huge expanse of its volume. As we made our way back up the road climb to retrace our steps, Ron turned immediately in front of me and dodged down an abandoned driveway of some sort. All the while exclaiming, "Zoom Flume, Zoom Flume!" In my morbid curiousity I followed him, and we came upon a relic of Indiana summers past. It was a dilapidated, extinct water slide that ran in a meandering fashion towards the shore of the lake. Ron had spent days there with his brother many years ago, and the rememberance had injected itself into his brain at the moment we rode by. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied the run-down ticket booth just off to the side of the road amidst the dumped appliances and underbrush. I hope that someday, a long time from now I will struggle up that climb again. My legs may tremble a bit, not quite so strong as they were that evening long ago. I'll meander by that long-forgotten relic, and I'll remember Ron and his stories of the place. I'll also remember that night where we shared memories without even knowing that we were creating new ones.