Date: 2016-04-10
From: Damascus

To: Turtle Island
Miles today: 0.0
Weather: clear sky

Before I came out here to hike, a friend of mine gave me a book to read. The Last American Man is the story of Eustace Conway and his primitive/rogue lifestyle. The story tells of all of his adventures from hiking the AT with almost no gear or clothing, to floating down the Mississippi River in a handmade canoe, and setting a record for the fastest Atlantic to Pacific crossing of America by horse and buggy. This man had lived his life by chasing adventure and existing as one with what the natural world provided to him. He was not just surviving through all of this, he was coexisting. All of his adventures were made possible by simply making use of all that the earth provided to him. I soon found out that this man was the subject of a History Channel series entitled, "Mountain Men." I was intrigued by this man and his perspective on life, so I decided to look into arranging to meeting him.While on my extended stay in Hot Springs, I had sent an email to his homestead, Turtle Island, to inquire about a visit to the property. Eustace has dedicated his life to living off of his own intellect, and sharing that information with anyone interested in learning more about that lifestyle. His homestead is settled in the hills of Boone, North Carolina away from the modern world. During my stay at Crazy Larry's, Eustace called me and told me that if I was willing to put in the work necessary, he would teach me to live as he has for the majority of his life. With this opportunity available to me, there was no way I could refuse. So the next day, I arranged for a ride to bring me 45 miles east to Boone.The ride through the Blue Ridge mountains offered panoramic views not too different from home. There were rolling hills of green covered in old homes, fields filled with livestock and country stores speckled along the roadside. Snow had fallen the night before and dusted the tops of the higher hills off in the distance. My driver, also named Larry, shared with me a little about his life. He had married a Cherokee woman and they settled on the banks of a creek filled with clean mountain water and enough brook trout to feed him and his family. They grew peach trees to make jellies and gardened their preferred vegetables to sustain themselves. It was an appropriate segue into the philosophy of Turtle Island. After driving through the tiny main street of Boone and down the main drag, we pulled off onto a long country road called Little Laurel. We followed this road for 5 miles through the country arriving at a dirt road with a "dead end" sign posted to a tree. A large, handmade wooden sign hanging over the road read, "Turtle Island Preserve." There was other official signage stating that visitors must pre schedule their visit in order to respect the privacy of the preserve. Larry and I made our way down the steep dirt road in his old Jeep Cherokee. The road was bumpy and infinitely steep. As we dropped down into the wooded valley, the hills grew taller on our sides. Rivers and water falls surged not too far from the road and had carved out steep cliffs alongside of us.It was as if the Jeep had allowed us to travel back in time, to a simpler America. Numerous buildings constructed from full sized trees and covered with thick wooden shingles lined the dirt road. Fields covered in lush green fields were filled with chickens roaming freely. Among the other livestock were goats, horses and ponies. High up in a tree in the middle of this village, was an old and weathered boat shaped treehouse. This is where I was instructed to meet Eustace. The first of many instructions I was intended to receive.Larry helped me unload my gear and expressed his concern for climbing back up the dirt road out of the preserve. We said our goodbyes and I watched as the dust clouds poured off the back of his vehicle. Once the hum of his engine, and the crunching of his tires faded into the distance, I was engulfed in silence. Silence of the modern world at least. The roosters called out and echoed off the landscape. A babbling stream flowed below various wooden bridges leading to an outdoor kitchen. There was a large stone chimney at the center and a large roof along the entire stretch. Jars filled with pastas, boxes of potatoes and onions filled the shelves along with various cooking utensils. There were large cast iron cauldrons hanging from wooden tripods over open fire pits. The stoves were fueled by burning wood rather than gas or electricity. In all of the time I had spent working in food service, a kitchen like this had never crossed my path. All of the tools were there, but the methods were clearly different. I looked across the field and saw an old red Toyota pickup with a wooden bed barreling down the road. It rattled and knocked as it worked over the bumps. The truck came to a skidding halt and the door opened. A man with long grayish blonde braids and a matching beard emerged. He worked his way swiftly around the back of truck to greet me.Eustace Conway stretched out his arms to hug me. "Andy! My brother! So glad to have you!" Eustace explained to me that we would be headed over to a property of his that he was renovating. As we drove back up the hill I couldn't help but wonder how he managed to make it up this hill. On the ride into town, we started bond about the trail. He shared a few stories with me about his southbound journey and how it had changed his life. We pulled up to a gas station and as he got out, the guys in the car across the pump came over. They were elated that it was actually "The Mountain Man" in person. As they took turns snapping photos with my new friend, I took the time to feed the little white baby goat sitting at my feet. Jenkins was a little white baby goat, only a few weeks old. He had been harassed by the other baby goats and rejected by the mother, so he had been isolated to give him a chance to grow. My first duty given to me was to periodically feed him with a baby bottle filled with goat's milk. As the goat sat on my lap drinking the bottle, I couldn't help but feel completely enthralled by my exit from my comfort zone. We drove together down the scenic Blue Ridge Parkway where I could catch a great third party glimpse of the hills I had been walking over the past week or so. Eustace pulled the truck off down a little dirt road leading to the old house we were to be working at for the day.The house, newly purchased by Eustace, was the definition of a "fixer upper." I could tell that he had already put a good amount of work into the little building. We unloaded a few old pieces of lumber that we were going to use for the porch. I helped to build a larger frame around the outside of the wooden porch and we laid out about 150 bricks over the top. We also used big beams of raw Locus wood, still with the bark on it, to replace the old supports for the roof of the porch. Over the course of this 6 hour project I learned the fine details of what we were doing. I was the right and wrong ways to use the different tools and the theory behind each piece of wood and its importance to the structure. Eustace was incredible thorough and left no detail out. I was assigned different small tasks as well. We pulled every single nail out of the old boards we were using, and recycled the non bent ones for later use. As we worked together, the two of us began joking about his tv show. I poked fun at him for the incident at the gas station and called him "superstar." I personally have only seen the show once. But it was intriguing to me to see how this man was outside of the tv persona. I think he appreciated my perspective and the fact that I knew him from a biography about him rather than a reality tv show. When we returned to Turtle Island, I was given a set of everyday chores. It was how I was to start my day, and how I was to end it. These chores consisted of feeding the various animals around the property. I was given my own little Toyota, similar to Eustace's for the job. The first order of duty was to relocate the pony on his stake around the grassy parts between the buildings at "base camp." He explained to me that the pony, Little Joe, was basically a big, hungry lawn mower, and the goal was to keep him eating grass that we wanted to be shorter. After the pony, we moved onto the horses. I was lead up to the top of the browsing shed where there were about a dozen large hay bails stored. We grabbed our pitchforks and began tossing hay into the holes positioned over the top of the trough. As I set my pitchfork back on the hook I saw a chicken sitting on eggs nestled in the hay. The next order of business was to move the billy goat, Charles. It was the same concept with the goat as it was the pony. We had to keep moving him around on the stake so that he had grass to eat. The black and white goat had a large curly set of horns that made him look more devilish than he actually was. In all reality, the goat was quite unshaded by me and just wanted to be moved to more food.We jumped in the truck together and drove down the dirt road to the hog pen. I had heard of hogs this big, but never actually seen one in person. She was roughly the size of a relationship riding lawn mower, but more solid and rounded. A little footbridge led over a stream where there were buckets of compost from local restaurants. I was told to pour in a buckets worth and watched while the hog devoured this tear inducing stench. We moved further down the road passing the lumber shed, a three story building filled with homemade lumber. There was a sawmill off to the right with a saw blade bigger than a kitchen table. Piles of drying, fresh cut lumber were neatly stacked around this entire section of the property. Eventually we came to the goat pasture. There were 4 white adults, a darker pigmy adult and 7 babies all scattering in different directions as we walked in through the wooden gates. In the middle of the goat dwelling was a roofed area with milking stations and a large rusted ice box. There were old horse buggies under which all of the baby goats would hide. The ice box was filled with all of the feed and vitamins I was to give the goats each day, along with their share of hay. The fences around this area allowed them to go down to the stream and drink as they pleased so watering wasn't necessary. This entire property was clearly designed around the benefits of the various streams flowing through.