By the late afternoon I have more or less descended the mountain. I drive for several miles winding my way through deep valleys with small towns and villages which all sit precariously squashed up against the roadside, between cliff and rivers edge. Mining and Mill towns where every other house is either empty or derelict. Scary looking gas stations which I am worried about pulling over into with beat up, rusting trucks parked up in lines with wild looking bearded guys in dungarees sitting outside - barking dogs and peeling signs from the 60s advertising things no longer in existence. A few miles down the road I pull over to take photos and quickly attract the locals, who seem to drive out of no-where, pulling over and asking questions with their shocking, but actually quite friendly southern accents. They ask about my New Jersey number plates and lump England in with the rest of the world in their long musing loosely based outside the U.S. stories. They all think I am seriously lost and well off the beaten path and want to point me to the Interstate giving incoherent directions and don't understand my reluctance to use it. Confused when I explain what I am doing. I feel in no way threatened either, the fear being only in my mind, fed by movies and other horror stories. If anything they were nervous and a little frightened of me. I think that if I was in trouble or needed any assistance at all, they would have done anything for me to help in any way possible.
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