Gatlinburg was crazy. Imagine Disney World covered in camo, $6 parking and Ripley’s Believe It or Not. But my stomach was empty and my camera batteries were dead and I just wanted a quick recharge at a fast food place where I wouldn’t bother anyone or be bothered, so I ventured down from a long sunset at Clingmans Dome in Great Smoky Mountains National Park through the dark twisting mountain path into the bright lights of the valley. A gas station and big sign proclaiming “GATLINBURG: Gateway to the Smoky Mountains” bedazzled me when I emerged from the forest and it took me several minutes to get my wits together.
My first solo hike - from Rock Gap to Wayah Shelter and back on the Appalachian Trail - was a search for solitude and the perfect quiet campsite.
Morning broke clear and crisp. There was no shelter from the light on top of the bald, so as soon as the sun crested the eastern ridge and blazed full and harsh on our campsite I was awake. Despite the brightness, there was a bitter chill and I wrestled with my sleeping bag before finally unzipping myself from its warm cocoon and stumbling out of the tent.
As a little girl I used to run out to the old horse pasture in front of my parents’ house and gaze up at the stars. Johnston County wasn’t quite so built up back then: there wasn’t a mega Walmart with its theme park-sized parking lot a couple miles away, or a Game Stop wedged between chain restaurants, and there wasn’t a long row of gas stations at an unremarkable truck stop with some fast food annexes haphazardly built on. When I was little there was an abyssal night sky visible, and I could count meteors and satellites and name planets and stars, and feel humbled beneath the enormity of it all.
Sometimes a wild ache falls upon me and I find myself compelled to go, just go. Such was the case in late September when McCrae and I packed up our gear and our dog into the little Mazda hatchback and headed west to the Balsam Mountains near Asheville. One weekend after another had become booked up so that we were afraid our October schedules would be impossibly full and we would miss the fall foliage entirely unless we went immediately. We didn’t hesitate, and it was suddenly that easy to leave for a few days.
Traffic was awful. I had no idea that Labor Day weekend sees some of the busiest traffic of the year, but I had already committed to driving to Atlanta on Friday evening, so I gritted my teeth and pushed through the frustratingly slow drive. First there were delays leaving Chapel Hill, and then there were slowdowns along I-85 south in Greensboro and Charlotte, and inexplicable stop-and-go traffic along random stretches through South Carolina.
After the Blue Ridge Parkway, Durham seemed...flat. Geographically flat, emotionally flat: just flat. It was an opened can of sweet Dr. Pepper left out while I was away. The nectar was the same, but the appeal had waned.
For the past few weeks I’ve made it a habit to take a “Sunday stroll,” though as my mother was quick to point out, “You call that a STROLL?!” Apparently several miles up a rocky path around places that are optimistically named "something-something bluff," "blah-blah ridge" and "so-and-so mountain" is not considered by the majority of the population to be a “stroll.” But while I’ve been consistently getting out and exploring I’ve been abjectly derelict in documenting it, so let me catch up.
