Occasionally I get the itch to leave my dirty hiking boots behind and strap on the ol' mountain bike. Camping from the saddle of a mountain bike offers many different challenges not encountered while plodding along with just your feet and back supporting and transporting you. On a mountain bike (one preferably with front shocks) you move much faster, are prone to more injuries and have to readjust your center of balance.

Along with the normal hiking supplies (food, shelter, clothes) you'll probably need some panniers (side racks) to carry bulky items on the back of your bike and a smaller backpack to help distribute your supplies - it's much more exhilarating to race down a rocky mountain path with a fully loaded bike threatening to make your face meet the hard, hard ground. Helmets are optional, I've never worn one except for difficult, high-speed descents. I probably should wear one more regularly, but I, luckily, haven't had the need. (A friend of mine who swears by helmet use recently wrecked going slowly uphill on slick terrain - his helmet didn't protect him from the big rock that clowned him in middle of his back.)

OK, so you're off to mountain bike the steepest hills in your area. First thing, be sure to only ride on trails allowed for bike use - or, at least don't get caught on one - for militant hikers and angry rangers do not smile kindly upon biking interlopers. Next, choose your trails and terrain well. Don't get too far in over your head. That broken leg and mouthful of loose teeth don't help the ride back down 5,000 vertical feet of gnarled roots and slippery, slimy logs... speaking of getting too far over your head, my second-to-last mountain biking trip featured a large amount of getting-in-over-your-headiness.

It was one of my earlier mountain bike excursions and Yo and I decided to tackle the Pisgah National Forest region of Western North Carolina. Leaving the flat Piedmont of N.C. behind, Yo and I packed up all the essentials, including bike repair tools, extra inner tubes and a fat sack o' weed. Now this weed was generally considered a great friend maker among our pot smoking pals. It was dark green with hundreds of vermilion hairs weaving in and out of a cacophony of crystals.

One small bowl and a couple of people would be zooted out of their gourd. You know the scene (or maybe you don't), hopeful eyes glancing nervously at you while you pack the bud into the bowl, followed by fits of coughing and hacking after a spark is produced and touched to the material, quickly followed by vacant stares framed by wide grins punctuated with a single strand of drool. Instant friendifier. Needless to say, we packed a nice healthy sack and headed off to the woods.

We made it in decent time, checked our map and started pedaling. At first, the path was an old fire road just right for a easy, meandering ascent to the top of a bald. The last few miles, however, turned into a mad, rock-hopping scramble to the top. A few skinned knees and scrapped knuckles later and we made it to the first campsite. Unbeknownst to us, it was to become the only campsite. After we burst out of a thick rhododendron thicket and slowly pedaled down a service road, we came upon the Blue Ridge Parkway.

The campsite we had chosen for our first night was located right off the scenic road. At the time it seemed mildly acceptable since our next two campsites were located deep within the forest and away from sightseers. Yo and I rubbed sore thighs out and pitched the tent and cooked some grub and hit the sack (both sacks, actually, the weed and the bed). Little did we know that all hell was going to break lose at 5:45 a.m.

The bikers rolled into the campsite real early. By bikers I mean rough, leathery, road-stained, bearded, Harley-Davidson (of course) riding freaks. I said rolled, but I really mean roared. These bikers rode stripped, customized and chopped motorcycles. Not a Japanese bike to be seen and not a factory-equipped Harley around. The ruckus woke us up instantly. Yo bolted up with a shout after a particular loud blat from a straight pipe erupted just outside the tent wall. I was up already, huddled in my sleeping bag, stiff with momentary fright.

"What the fuck is going on, dude!" Yo exclaimed mightily.

"I think we're being invaded by metal monsters from Mars," I weakly retorted the haze of early morning eye crusts.

Then, all of the sudden, the bikes screamed into a deafening crescendo and abruptly quit. Deep mutterings from undoubtedly stout men with planet-sized beer bellies replaced the loud engine rumblings in the dewy air. Snatches of conversations drifted into our eager, yet trepidation ears.

"Wot you want fer breakfast, Slim... fucking bicyclers... park yer hog here... wot the fuck... g'me a brew, faggot... wake those pussies in that damn purple tent up, Crutch!"

The last remark cut through all mutter and made my ears literally stand up (or the hairs on my ears, at least).

The tent shook violently and a gruff rasp said, "Get outta tha tent, you mountain bikin' faggots!"

Yo and I glanced into each other's darting eyes and gulped. We quickly kicked our sleeping bags off and slipped into some clothes and cautiously unzipped the flimsy tent door. We were greeted by a greasy, bearded scowl from a skinny gentleman clothed in dirty denim covered in patches and worn leather covered in holes. "Don't ya'll know that this here campground is the official meeting place for the Western N.C. chapter of Hogs in Hell?"

"Ummm, no sir, we weren't aware of that fact," sputtered Yo in his best talking-to-a-cop voice.

"Damn boy," the burly biker spat, "You don't haffa call me sir! I hated when my daddy made me talk that way, with all them formalities and such."

"OK," Yo managed.

We slowly stumbled out of the tent, taken a little off guard by the biker's semi-friendly response, and stood blinkingly in the dawn's light surrounded by about 30 bikers, their bitches and their gleaming bikes. The biker who rousted us out of the tent, Clutch we presumed, slapped us on the back and just giggled. The small crowd parted and a short, totally hairless man in all blue leather with no patches, save for the large "Hogs in Hell" patch on the back of his jacket, stepped forward.

"You guys some of those health nuts who don't smoke, drink or whore around?" he asked. "I see you're riding those fancy smancy mountainous bikes that cost about a grand each, eh?"

I replied in as steady a voice as I could muster, "Yeah... I mean no, we aren't health nuts, we just like to enjoy the woods, you know. Usually we hike but this time we decided to try some mountain biking while we camp and, you know, we just decided to come up here..." I trailed off at noticing the blue man's booted (blue-booted, I might add) foot tapping away faster and faster.

"All right, you pussies, you say you aren't stuck up, then what kind of drugs you got in that faggoty tent of yours?"

"Marijuana?" I ventured.

"Maryeewanuh, huh? Well it just so happens that we are just plumb out of weed. I was just commenting to Big Bill last night while we was refueling at truck stop outside of Asheville that he'd better find some righteous weed for this little shindig. He just shrugged his shoulders, like he always does, and grunted. It's good we found you guys then, if you're up to partying with the Hogs, that is. I really hope so, you know the last guys who refused to party with us ended up naked, real sore and trembling on the floor of a Wendy's bathroom. Or was that the couple that decided to party with us? Hell, I don't know. Well, what's it gonna be?" the small leader shouted.

Yo looked at me and shrugged.

"Sure thing... what was your name?" I stuttered.

"Just Blue. Blue," he said.

"Ummm, yeah, I think we can dole out some of our weed and party with you guys," I responded.

"Allll right then! But there won't be any "doling" out of any drugs. It all goes in Big Bill's saddlebags here and we don't quit until the shit is empty. You still up for it?" Blue queried.

"Hell, yeah!" shouted Yo. He had always been the more adventurous drug user.

"It's about nine o'clock now. We've got a whole day to get really fucked up! Gentlemen, start your engines!" Blue bellowed. Three or four bikes sputtered to life. "No, no, no!" screamed Blue. "Not yer damn motorcycle engines, yer drug consuming engines!"

A few sheepish grins later and Big Bill's saddlebags were produced. It was big. So was Bill.

"OK, bikers," Bill said sarcastically, "throw the grass in here... wait, lemme check it out."

Bill unrolled the chunky sack and looked at it with a jewelers appraising eye.

"Looks mighty nice, Blue," he chuckled, "should go well with our stash."

Yo and I peered into the open saddlebags and our mouths dropped open. I didn't think Blue was lying, but it looked like that had large amounts of every drug I had known or heard about, except no weed. Our heads slowly turned and our eyes locked again. A huge, shit-eating grin was plastered across Yo's face. I could only guess mine looked suspiciously the same.

The day? night? was long and forgotten quickly. Vague snippets of memories hit us the next morning when we woke up - screaming down a dark and twising road with a skanky ho on the back of purple chopper, flames from a huge bonfire licking tree branches and spreading down the trunk, Yo with his face covered in white powder laughing hysterically, beer and liquor spurting uncontrollably from the hairy mouth of a 400-pound wild man.

Yo woke up in the fire pit, naked from the waist up and black as tar with soot and I woke up under a picnic table with ants and flies fighting to get a taste of the sticky liquid that covered my hands and feet. I was thankfully clothed, although not in my clothes. My tent was gone, the mountain bikes were there.