Cat Stevens versus Dr. Mike's atomic bread

While most folks flocked to the beach Labor Day weekend, my best friend Kris and I chose another, more winding route.

“This album’s appropriate,” I laughed, while my Cat Stevens’ CD blinked “Track 6” in our Ford F-150.

“Miles from nowhere,
I guess I’ll take my time,
Oh yeah, to reach there.

Look up at the mountain,
I have to climb,
Oh yeah, to reach there.”

Bidding the flatlands farewell, we rolled down our Ford’s windows and breathed in the freedom known only to those 30-year-olds fleeing their parents for the weekend. And with radio roaring, we sang along with Cat Stevens.

“I creep through the valleys,
And I grope through the woods,
‘Cause I know when I find it my honey,
It’s gonna make me feel good.”

And as we belted the nature-loving lyrics of the popular 70’s musician, we indeed felt good.

Several album tracks later, we pulled onto a Statesville exit ramp to fuel up on gasoline and Starbuck’s coffee. Two cups of Grande Skinny Vanilla Latte’s later, the Blue Ridge mountains peaked above I-40’s horizon. Our truck twisted among the coiled western Carolina roadways and eventually parallel parked in historic downtown Saluda.

“Doctor Mike!” Kris and I cheered to our mountain friend, after bumping our way through the crowded Purple Onion, a Saluda favorite, popular for its organic menu and Friday evening entertainment.

The pluck and bow of an electric fiddle roused the locals while we chatted over our meal.

That’s when Dr. Mike mentioned his gift.

“I made you some bread,” he smiled, while I savored a rainbow medley of peppers that dangled over a forkful of orzo.

“Fantastic!” Kris and I cheered, clinking our glasses of Malbec wine in appreciation.

“Oh, and about the bread …” Dr. Mike hesitated as he handed over the heavy loaf. “Some folks say it’s atomic,” he cackled.

“What do you think Dr. Mike meant by atomic?” I asked Kris later that evening, as we drove to our weekend mountain house.

“I’m really not sure,” she replied, as the truck turned toward Etowah. “But I bet we’re going to find out!”

Pajama-clad and curious, Kris and I settled onto a sofa with two slices of Dr. Mike’s bread. And with a few chomps of the homemade loaf, we understood why the bread was defined atomic.

“This is pure fiber!” I cried, as Dr. Mike’s chuckles echoed in my mind.

And then we both shared an expletive, all too familiar with the ramifications that awaited us come digestion.

The next day, Kris and I journeyed the Blue Ridge Parkway for a morning hike up Mount Pisgah. After ascending its peak and beholding the majestic mountain view, we awarded ourselves two apples and a brief respite before our descent.

And then, it hit. Dr. Mike’s bread, that is.

“It’s time to get down this mountain!” I hollered, accompanied by Kris’ likewise atomic shock.

Our mountainous descent was a series of skids and falls, bypassing other hikers as we hurled ourselves in a fast and furious fashion downward. The never-ending stick and stone trail was a miserable reminder of Cat Stevens’ lyrics:

“Miles from nowhere,
I guess I’ll take my time,
Oh yeah, to reach there.”

I’m not sure how we made it down Mount Pisgah that afternoon, or to the Pisgah National Forest’s public restrooms for that matter. But by the grace of God, we did. And although I was thankful for a mountain weekend “miles from nowhere,” Dr. Mike’s bread reminded me that sometimes it’s good to get back to modern conveniences as well.

Or at least indoor plumbing.