Autumn followed us Home

By all accounts this Fall color season was disappointing.  “A three out of ten” we heard, and “too early” “too Hot “too Dry” blah, blah, blah.
We Liked it   and when we got back to Montgomery, we found some more…
 

RICHOCHET

Tuesday—rolling home.
SO, I was doing a really thorough scrubbing of the tanks at the Alabama border Rest Area.  We were, after all, going to settle in for a couple months, look for a new tow vehicle and visit New Jersey – long overdue. 
“Look,” she says, “The Athens Alabama Storytelling Festival is this weekend.”
There was a volleyball game at seven thirty, so we unloaded the essentials and went to cheer. Wednesday morning, more chores. Then,
“See if we can get a campsite near Athens for the weekend.”
“Yes, Miss,” thinking All things are possible in Patty world.
So Thursday we are refueled, rearmed and refitted and rolling North.
The Storytelling was great fun.  Much smaller than Jonesborough and with a strong small town feel. Athens has a great courthouse square with abundant restaurants and “cute shops”.  The single tent was on the square.
Thursday night we honored Kathryn Tucker Windham. We were early and looking for warm bodies to snuggle with; Charlie Lucas, Kathryn’s close friend and neighbor, looked a little adrift and we waved him over to sit with us.  We had a grand time until the committee folks needed him to sit with the other dignitaries. Each teller had stories of their friendship with Kathryn, but Charlie’s simple rambling tales were the most touching.



Donald Davis and Bill Lepp were the favorites at Jonesborough but many regretted that Carmen Deedy wasn’t there.  She came to Athens and brought her husband, world class folksinger and teller John McCutchen. Nobody knows how they get this premier lineup except that they “treat them like royalty.”
It was rainy, windy and cold for Thursday and Friday.  We dressed in layers but were glad to get back to our cozy ‘stream at Mallard Point Campground. Each night we wrestled with the AM radio until we heard the last two games of the World Series, hot mugs of Ovaltine in our hands.

Saturday was glorious sunny weather, and the performances seemed to shine as well.  John had Patty leading a standing ovation, tears streaming down her cheeks, as he sung about forgiveness and the Amish response to the horrific slaughter of their little schoolgirls. Donald had us in stitches recounting his mule ride into the Grand Canyon.
One of the stories mentioned “toys that only grandparents buy” and featured the balloon boat. Looks were exchanged as Pat had nearly purchased one earlier.  Sure, we went back to the Mercantile and snatched one, and our new friends there even got her to spring for a new chapeau.














There was, of course, food. The reviews for the Village Pizza sounded like they may have written them themselves, but it WAS the best pizza between here and Chicago. (We tried it three times!) And one cold evening, Joanie, we spent in a cozy booth inside a bookstore. Only a few of us found this refuge and we lingered over hot chili and croissant sandwiches. 

Lost Highways

Frost was blanketing the ground and ice fog lifting in the sun as we pulled past the “Elk Fields” leaving the GSMNP. There was a huge bull grazing close to the road in the shady corner of the field giving the “Bugle Corps” volunteers a problem -- this guy obviously didn’t want  a  respectful margin, he wanted that tall untrampled green the mower missed.

We were heading home.  For a couple days it had seemed we were lingering here too long.  There were clear signs -- Pat squeezing in one more session with her nemesis, the big brown trout under the ledged rock “RIGHT IN THE CAMPGROUND” , Al  doing housework and making lists of  trailer tasks to do before winterizing.
The route had been carefully crafted to avoid tall hills, Atlanta and Chattanooga.  Is that Possible?  Why, Yes it is.  There are thousands of miles of perfectly adequate two lanes called Blue Highways which wanderers turn to when the scenery, human and pastoral,  is preferred to interstate blandness and thruway sprawl.  EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT. We discovered this afternoon that there are also major arteries called US Highways that proceed directly and independently of the Interstates with broad, sometimes multilane tracks, right where we want to go – mostly.  US 441 and US 27 were without traffic, moved directly down the valleys and beside railroads choosing the “route of least resistance”.  The speeds were pleasingly moderate, the occasional traffic stop actually welcomed as a chance to look around.  Bypasses were in place around most larger towns, but we didn’t have to guess which attractions and opportunities lay beyond exit signs.
We wheeled into the only restaurant in White, Georgia, and found that Willie Nelson stops here. Was it for their chicken fried chicken, deep fried mac and cheese or deep fried cheese cake? Or was it to see the old car yard across the highway, “photographers paradise” spray painted on a car body near the gate?
We took on a month's worth of cholesterol, and proceeded  on. When we did tag the Interstate, the contrast was apparent.  Big trucks in a hurry, compacts with impatient adolescents and debris everywhere.  We sped up unconsciously and tightened our grip on the wheel.  NEVER AGAIN.  We have found our new route to the mountains and will be searching for the yellow and red highways each  time we must make time slowly.

Smokemont Campground GSMNP

Monday we made the short tow to Smokemont at the Southern edge of GSMNP, near Cherokee.  The drive was easy and the last few miles on the Blue Ridge Parkway were downhill through the lower elevations where the colors were still grand – rich yellows and a nice mix of reds from the black gum and maples. 
We settled into our site and quickly introduced ourselves to the other Airstream couple, Richard and Judy Messer. Great folks and lots of fun.   Both have lived near the park all their lives and have great stories. 
We fished the first night with no success; the water is really low.  The next day we hiked Bradley Fork Trail, but passed so much likely water that Pat wanted to get back early and fish.  Better success with “the black foam beetle.”

Then the rain, and then the COLD with ominous warnings about high winds and perhaps snow flurries.  We have been reading and making up excuses to drive somewhere and “shop”. In Gatlinburg we found that the Nantahala Outdoor Center (NOC) has become another North Face/Life is Good haberdashery and had little we needed.  Sadly the Happy Hiker Shop is no more. We did find an old friend managing the Wesser NOC store and had a nice time catching up.


We visited Ken Jenkins’ Gallery “Beneath the Mist” to look at all the wonderful nature photographs.  I wish we had a large space to hang some of these, but we now have a few notecards hanging in the Stream. Yes we did walk the entire length of Gatlinburg’s sidewalks IN THE RAIN and, yes, it is even worse in so many, many ways when afoot. There are, however, some pleasant eddies in the stream of tackiness.  We took a table by the fire at Legends and had a sandwich and glorious warm bread pudding.  It was the best we had ever had until the next day when we dined Riverside at the NOC (and wondered why we never had been there before.) The desert offering there was Cranberry/Walnut Bread Pudding served in a large ramekin heaped with premium ice cream.

Each night we (and a select hundred or more passing cars) watch the Elk at the Oconaluftee Fields. Pat hasn’t  finished naming them all yet, but work is progressing. The turkeys which guard our generator behind the trailer are “Albert” & “The guy who bats after him.”  Go Cards.

Staying close to Home, at Roan Mountain

 

48 degrees, sunny and still windy.  We talked a while with our neighbors and then hiked part of the park nature trail.


















After lunch and some chores,  we visited the Miller Farmstead (1840-1960) near the mountaintop in the park.  We had a nice talk with Meg, the park interpreter and her chocolate lab Santeetlah.

Carver Gap–Elk River Falls

Carver Gap is a very popular place on the Appalachian Trail.  Not only can you drive to one of the premier “balds” in the  Southern Appalachians, but in season it is the closest approach to the rhododendron “gardens” of Roan Mountain.  Today it wasn’t too crowded, SINCE IT WAS 41 DEGREES AND WIND GUSTING TO 50MPH!!!  Seriously folks, a ice axe might have been helpful just to hold your place on the trail.  Clouds were scooting overhead at warp speed, blinking the sunlight off and on like a disco; a single yellow leaf could be traced as it shot UP from below and coasted across the bald twenty feet in the air like a canary with its tail afire.













Rhodies starting to curl up –Brrrrr.





View from Grassy Bald ---also Brrrrr

We retreated to lower altitude, thinking that this sustained wind may just spell the end of the fall colors.  There were times when sheets of yellow leaves were crossing the road horizontally.  We drove to Elk River Falls thinking last night’s rain would swell it’s volume.  Oh Yes, and the Kodak people had left just one more brilliant red limb for your photographic enjoyment. 

We had heard about the Valle Crucis County Fair and the Wooly Worm Festival in Banner Elk; We planned our weekend to take them in, but our little drive over highway 194 (“one lane, road work” “road closed. local traffic only” ) convinced us that the festival traffic would be an unqualified nightmare. We will be seeking amusement nearer the campsite.
 
On the way “home”, Pat bravely went where we were forbidden to go and neatly bypassed the blasting zone at the Watauga River bridge.  To celebrate, we dined at the Captain’s Table, a fifty year old Marina restaurant overlooking the lake.  From our cozy perch, we watched whirls of wind whip the lake surface into whitecaps while a steady stream of puffy flat bottomed clouds pushed toward an impact with the mountains behind us.  We are happy to be back in our snug campsite in the hollow, electric blanket on high and a little hot chocolate steaming..

Roan Mountain

Jonesborough and Kingsport Tennessee are in a huge bowl.   (Declarations  that emissions from the Eastman (Kodak) Chemical complex dissolved the surrounding  limestone are apocryphal.) 

Whichever way we proceed from there it is into the folds of steep, soaring mountains cloaked in yellows, gold and some few vibrant reds. We were routed through winding two lanes in flat green valleys with the mountains overhanging, then on to graceful 19E sweeping around and into the folds, always climbing. The sunshine was intermittent. Spots of  light would illuminate a hillside or a valley farm while puffy little white clouds eddied into the corners and lay on ridges.


It was an easy, BEAUTIFUL fifty miles to Roan Mountain State Park where we took a leaf covered site clinging to the hillside. We’re told that this Color season rates only a 3 of 10, but we are pleased to be here and burning these sights into memory even if the photos never seem to do it justice.