Sitting in the back yard of my home away from home in Takoma Park, Maryland, on an spring-like April day, I watched with some trepidation and interest as the neighbors' dog Stella dug a huge hole under the house. Should I stop her I wondered? Or is she after a mole? Should I let her go?
   
After half-heartedly scolding her to stop digging, she brought me a present. It appeared to be a horseshoe all caked with red-clay mud and old enough to be from George Washington's horse.

I washed it off and hung it on the rearview mirror of the van before hitting the road to cowboy back from a foray into Washington politics and journalism to the full-blown spring blooming in Alabama.

The plan on Saturday was to take Highway 270 north from Silver Spring to 70 west, then 81 south, and cruise control down through West Virginia, Virginia and Kentucky to Tennessee to camp for the night.

Knowing about the Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest from my time at the University of Tennessee, I figured to find a campground around the Nantahla National Forest and visit the awesome site one more time on the way to Birmingham. It is not on many maps, certainly not the new Rand McNally from Wal-Mart. Even many locals who have lived around Maryville all their lives do not know about the unique spot in the North Carolina woods.

Alas, driving up the foggy, winding mountain section of Highway 129 was not advised at night, especially on the weekend when bikers from all over the country come to stay in the Motorcycle Motel, eat Trout sandwiches and ride up and down one of the best roads in the country for showing off a Harley.

So I stayed straight on 321 headed for the Great Smoky Mountains National Park entrance at Townsend and pulled into one of the camp grounds by the Little River.

When you are cowboying in a van with a bed in the back, there are times when you can find a place to camp for $5 to $20 a night. As I pulled in about 11:30 p.m., though, the office was closed. Luckily, the night watchman was a friendly fellow who said, when I asked if I could park to sleep for a few hours, "You can pull into number one. It's pretty dark, secluded. No one will mess with you there."

No mention of a fee, so I pulled in and pulled out the last beer in the cooler to help wind down from the trip. I cracked the back windows so I could hear the rippling brook and smell the wood smoke from a nearby camper's fire, then crashed - thinking of the lucky horseshoe.

When I came to about 4:50 a.m., it was still dark and no one else was awake. So before the office could open, I eased out and headed for coffee at the 24-hour gas station down the road. Since the Joyce Kilmer was out of the question for a morning hike, I studied the map and got some help from the waitress at the Huddle House.

It was decided a good morning trip on the way to Chattanooga would be to back track down 321 and take the back way down 441, which crosses Highway 64 near the Ocoee River, the spot where they held the white water races when the Olympics came South in 1996.

Choosing at random the Welcome Valley Village, I ran into some super nice guys from raft.com. They were training the new interns and staff for the summer, but advised me to head for the Sugar Loaf public recreation area, where a Tennessee Valley Authority dam controls the water level in the Ocoee.

"In about an hour and a half, there will be people everywhere on the river," one of the guides said, "when they release the water."

It was fascinating to see, but since my canoe with the logo LocustFork.Net painted upside down on both sides was not quite ready for the trip, I was without a boat. So I took in the scene for while and then headed back for the highway to make it to Birmingham in time for Sunday dinner.

One of the cool features on the new Chevy van is a computerized device mounted on the inside roof. It tells you the temperature, the direction you are headed, the average gas mileage you are getting and, among other things, the "range." This is supposed to indicate how many more miles you can travel without running out of gas and is based on the data collected by the computer from the rest of your trip.

Unfortunately, I had increased the cruise control speed by about 5 mph after hitting the smooth part of Interstate 59 in Alabama, the scenic stretch with very little traffic. I had also rolled the window down further so the breeze would keep me awake. Those actions must have fooled the computer. The gauge said I had a range of 71 miles left to go. With only 28 miles to go before hitting the Birmingham city limits, I figured I could make it without stopping for gas.

Big mistake. The engine sputtered to a stop. The good news was, it stopped right next to a state trooper median cut turn-around, about a quarter of a mile from an Alabama rest stop.

I crossed the highway with cell phone in hand and approached. A sign indicated an attendant was on duty 24 hours a day.

I found him and asked: "Hey man, you don't just happen to have a gas can out back with a gallon or two in it, do you?"

Robert Pierce looked up from his work and said, in a friendly North Alabama accent, "I believe we do."

He pulled around front in a 4-wheeler with a big red gas can and drove me back to the van.

"Now if I was you, I would turn around and head back to the Asheville exit and get some gas," he said. "The next exit is 13 miles, that away."

I thanked him and promised to write a nice letter to the governor. As I started the van, I patted the lucky horseshoe - and thanked Stella the dog.