It is a symbol of our times that the gateway to one of the few unspoiled wilderness areas in the Eastern United States is in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee.

Last Food for 500 feet

Have you ever been behind someone in the snack line at the movies, and overheard an order so large that it seemed more like the food supply of a Himalayan expedition than a night at the movies: “Yes, I’d like two large popcorns… no, not that one, the bucket sized ones, with extra extra butter, and two large nachos with extra cheese and jalapenos on the side, and two dove bars, and a box of snowcaps. And two big gulp Diet Cokes with extra ice.”

Often times these individuals have clearly just come from the All American Buffet, and aren’t feeling any hunger pains. I suspect the reason that some people order all that crap is the same reason that some Americans feel compelled to drive Hummers: Just In Case.

They know that they are going to be in a dark theatre with no immediate food or drink supply for 2 hours (3 and a half hours for Oliver Stone movies and historical epics). 2 hours! If they get hungry and don’t prepare ahead of time, they might have to eat their own children.

The ‘Just in Case’ maximum preparation imperative is the only way I can explain the vast and overwhelming orgy of capitalism that presents itself in Pigeon Forge and Gatlinburg. Given how Americans prepare to go the movies, you can imagine how they might prepare to go into the honest to goodness woods.

The path less traveled

Goofy golf, go-karts, laser tag, flying rolls, singing bears, the ‘Fabulous Wallendas’, restaurants with names like the “Great American Beef Steak All you can Eat Buffet” that run promotions like “Eat 40 pounds of beef get a FREE Big Gulp Icee with souvenir Smoky Mountain cup” – this is Pigeon Forge. An outlet to gorge yourself on any inane need, urge, or impulse you might have before you enter the woods and have to do without.It’s made even more funny by the fact that the vast majority of the visitors to the Park never lose sight of their car. They crawl along the scenic drive in bumper to bumper traffic, hop out of the car at a scenic vista or two to take a picture, and then hop right back into the car. Though the roadways can be a bit busy in the park, the hiking trails are practically abandoned. What they hell are these people bulking up on calories for. If you drive the whole way through the park the next Applebee’s is less than three hours away. Maybe they’re afraid the Ford Expedition will break down that they’ll have to push it out.

Luckily, the strip mall cacophony outside the park only serves to highlight the splendor within. The boundary between the outside chaos and inside serenity is so distinct it provokes an almost involuntary sigh of contentment.

They really are smoky - go figure

Though it shouldn’t have, it came as a surprise when I discovered just how ‘smoky’ the Great Smoky Mountains are. According to my guidebook, the mist is caused by a combination of air pollution and the ‘water and hydrocarbons emitted by a closely packed array of air breathing leaves’. Whatever it’s caused by, the majesty of it is apparent. The landscape feels timeless and primordial – and though I’ve seen many mountain ranges before, the lushness of the mountainscape here was foreign to my experience.

We took the Newfound Gap Road through the park, taking time out for the Chimney Tops Overlooks (which provided a good overview of the entire park) and the Alum Cave Bluffs hiking trail. The Bluff’s trail ran directly through an absolutely striking passageway in Arch Rock carved by eons of erosion.

Authentic Indian Gambling

After that we headed over to the Cherokee Indian Reservation (located within the park), imagining that the place would be an even more pristine park within the park. Instead we a miniature Indian style Pigeon Forge, complete with a mechanical bull, Indian Casino, and ‘authentic’ Indian Village that we didn’t get to see because it closed at 6. Surprisingly, I didn’t begrudge the commercial presence within the park – probably because I couldn’t fault Native Americans for trying to make a living on the few resources that weren’t stolen from them outright. Plus, we found a decent ‘Authentic Native American’ pizza parlor there just in time for dinner.

This freaked me out

Throughout the park (near every visitor center) we saw signs that proclaimed ‘Designated First Amendment Expression Area’ that seemed to us to be a disturbing and Orwellian intepretation of our Freedom of Speech: “Each man is endowed with certain inalienable rights, which may be exercised in areas designated by the proper authority”. I couldn’t help but wander if these designated areas were setup by George W – it seems like him.

Orwellian overtones and commercial exploitation aside, the park was sublime.

If only we knew what was coming

After another night at the Raccoon Mountain Campground (we just couldn’t resist the stunning physiques of our fellow campers), we made our way over to Sunshine Rafting for whitewater on the Ocoee river.After signing several waivers which stated that even if our river guide were to lodge an oar irretrievably up our butt Sunshine Rafting would be absolutely free of any and all liability, we took a perfunctory lesson in whitewater fundamentals. We learned where to sit (crack on crack), where to stick our feet (in the gunnel), how to paddle, and what to do when our guide yells hit the deck (guess).

As is my habit, I closely examined the fellow occupants of our raft to determine who I’d eat first in the event we all became stranded in the wilderness. Thankfully, there were no obvious frontrunners.

Shiny Helmet = Good Guide (we hope)

It was just us, our guide Phil (who wore an incredibly shiny glittered helmet that suggested he might raft for queer eye in the off season), and a middle aged couple with questionable dental work and a playful new couple demeanor that for some reason suggested to me that they were having an affair.

We had a practice session directly above the Ocoee Dam, and I was both disappointed and relieved to discover that we wouldn’t actually be rafting over the dam. Instead, we ‘portaged’ (French for ‘carried the damn boat’) our raft to below the dam and started our trip.

Wonderful though it certainly was, it couldn’t quite escape the shadow of an earlier whitewater expedition on the Nolichucky that I’d had with my mom when I was 12. I strongly suspect that the Ocoee was in fact the wilder river, but the vivid impressions of danger and excitement conjured up by my 12 year old mind on that earlier expedition made the Ocoee seem tame in comparison. Even so, we certainly whet our appetite.

Dayna wasn’t sure she’d like whitewater rafting, primarily because of an epic and soggy 3 day canoe trip we’d taken in Big Bend. The Colorado River was rougher that we’d anticipated, and we flipped the canoe 14 times. By the end of the trip our dogs had decided it would be safer to swim, and wouldn’t get back into the canoe with us.

I’m happy to say that Dayna found this experience much more pleasant (it’s amazing what a competent guide can do), and we both resolved to hit more whitewater in West Virginia.

That night we stayed in a high altitude campground within the nearby Cherokee National Forest. The cool mountain air caught us by surprise. It may in fact have starved our brains of vital oxygen, because it was at this point that we decided to take a brisk skate around the campground. This despite the fact that (1) we’d rafted all day, (2) the camp was on the side of a mountain, and (3) Dayna had skated only once before and hadn’t quite mastered the art of stopping.

In my defense, I did anticipate the possibility of an accident, and so taught Dayna how to fall on her knee pads properly before we started. In retrospect, the time might have been better invested teaching her how to stop.

The only cure was ‘Sex in the City’

Dayna put on her wrist and knee pads, but left her elbow pads behind because she couldn’t imagine how she’d end up on her elbows. She discovered how soon enough.

Going down a particularly long downhill stretch, Dayna became uncomfortable with her rate of speed (approximately 55 mph), and decided to slow down by breaking with her entire body. She slid two feet before she stopped, and cracked a knee pad in the process.

When she started laughing hysterically, I stopped worrying. I started worrying again when I saw her elbows and arms. Covered in blood and road rash, I knew that the laughing would be short lived.

By the time we’d limped back to Gypsy with skates in hand, she’d stopped laughing and a geriatric that looked remarkably like Wilfred Brimley had offered us the use of his medicine cabinet.

I kept her distracted from the pain through the generous application of Diet Coke, Sex & the City, and painkillers. Even so, it was a hard night. I’d never realized how much we bump up against one another in the van until that night, when every bump was accompanied by a yelp of pain. And that was just the start of a two-week healing process.

Atlanta left us with a profound need to escape the pervasive heat and humanity that is the deep south, and Chattanooga, with it’s promise of mountain breezes and whitewater, seemed a good place to start.

Our first impression wasn’t a good one. Our GPS is a beloved yet simple creature, and in its single minded dedication to minimize the distance between point a and point b often steers us onto the path less traveled.

In this case, we took an interstate exit that led us straight into in the ‘keeping in real’ industrial heart of Chattanooga – an area that more than validated the first half of the first sentence in our happy-go-lucky Lonely Planet guidebook:

One a polluted industrial burg…

Clearly, we’d gotten off in the ‘before’ section of town, and we couldn’t help but wonder why we’d come. After the GPS then led us directly into a brick wall, we decided to temporarily disregard it’s advice, and got ourselves back onto the interstate. 3 exits later we were in the ‘revitalized downtown’ and feeling much better about our destination.

At night in Chattanoogs

Between the brightly colored Children’s Discovery Center and the ultra modern triangular glass façade of the Tennessee Aquarium (the world’s largest freshwater aquarium), it was clear that we’d arrived somewhere. At which point it occurred to us that we’d made no provisions for actually staying there.

We ended up at a campground our guidebook described as “less lovely, but closer…”. The world famous Raccoon Mountain RV Park was both of these things, but pleasant enough, and included free wifi access. What they didn’t mention was that the wifi access was limited to a very small portion of the campground around the central office, and that portion of the campground had a very high density of Protruding Hairy Belliess (PHB’s). E-mail junkie though I am, the close proximity to those profoundly hairy protuberances just wasn’t worth it.

After a bit of surprisingly satisfying gem panning at the nearby and completely random Raccoon Mountain gem panning exhibit, we made an early night of it.

The next day brought with a pleasant stroll through downtown and the Tennessee Aquarium.

The Tennessee Aquarium

I generally pay little attention to global superlatives like “world’s largest” because they typically indicate little of the actual quality of an attraction and are often based on arcane extenuating criteria that’s enumerated in very small type if at all. For example:

But in the case of the world’s largest freshwater aquarium, I’m pleased to say that the superlative wasn’t misleading at all.

One enters the Aquarium like a spawning salmon, through an extremely tall escalator (world’s largest in Chattanooga) that runs through a tunnel bedecked with TV displays that emulate an upstream journey.

The aquarium exhibit are arrayed Guggenheim like on a single ramp that descends around an open atrium. The techniques may in fact be better suited to the aquarium’s exhibits that it is to artwork.

The exhibits are cleverly presented in a way that mimics both the downstream journey of the Tennessee river and a dive into the increasing depths of a freshwater ecosystem. As you descend from one level to another you also descend in latitude and water depth. An otter terrarium on the upper level transforms into a mid and deepwater tank on the lower levels.

Jellylicious

The primary strength of the aquarium lies in the way all of its diverse exhibits are integrated into a single ecosystem. Well, that plus the fact that is has some fairyland beautiful jellyfishes and seahorses on display.

After the aquarium we caught ‘Into the Deep 3D’ on Imax, which surprisingly was not narrated by Tom Cruise. It was narrated by somebody famous, but I can’t remember who. The 3D crabs were more impressive.

The new ‘Dirty’ South

The night before we were to leave Athens, and knowing that a full day at Six Flags lay ahead, I decided that it was absolutely vital to write a hip-hop ballad with my boyz, and that taking an Adderall would be of vital utility in such an endeavor. I took it at 8, thinking it would last about 4 hours, greatly facilitate my inevitable hip hop super stardom, and still leave room for a full night’s sleep that would leave me recharged and rested for Six Flags in the morning.

I did take it, and did pursue laying down ‘phat rhymes’ with a manic intensity until around 11. We wrote notes on napkins, paper, and whatever else was handy, but I’m afraid a later lost every trace of that inspirational jam session. In point of fact, the only lyric I can actually remember at this time is the following one:

They call him Big Dick Brown cause he knows how to live
But the ladies all love him cause he’s so sensitive.

I think that one fragment speaks volumes about the genius that transpired and was lost that evening. Perhaps we can recreate the magic again at some other point, but my heart fears that the creative critical mass may never come again.

At 11 we took an inspirational break to watch the excellent blaxploitation film “Dolemite: The Human Tornano”, which featured two of the most memorable scenes in all of cinematic history. The first involved Dolemite rolling down a very large hill completely naked. Quite clearly no stunt double and very few safety protocols were involved, and the visceral intensity of the scene was better for it. The second was a sort of art neavoue dream sequence to illustrate the ravenous sexual appetites of the villain’s wife, which involved her pulling various men out of a toy box in a surreal doll house like bedroom.

After the movies my friends retired, knowing that we all had to get up in the morning and that we’d already laid a strong foundation for our genre defining single. I tried to retire as well, but once in bed found myself idly daydreaming about my Grammy acceptance speech. It seemed I’d daydreamed for about half an hour when I noticed birds singing and daylight all around, and realized it was 8 in the morning. Remarkably, I felt rested and alert, though I was a little concerned about what might happen later.

Stone Mountain

I broke camp, let Dayna sleep on in the back, and made way to Six Flags in Atlanta. By the time we got there Dayna was awake and very very excited, and I was a little worried but felt well enough.

We entered the park, blew a large chunk of change on season passes and “don’t wait in line” passes, and had a great time for about 2 hours. Then, finally, the aderrall wore off. I don’t know if anyone else has ever tried riding a roller coaster while sleep deprived, but I can tell you from experience that it is remarkably unpleasant.
I tried to persevere, but Dayna could tell from my unsteady gait and the green pallor in the face that I was no longer having fun. I ended up taking a 3 hour nap in the van in the lot while she rode on. By the time we met back up we were both at the same relative levels of fatigue. After one more circuit of the good rides, we left.

After the park, we quickly realized that we had no idea where we were going to stay (a trip theme). The only campground listed in the Guide Book was at ‘Stone Mountain’, so we went there.

Stone Mountain turned out to be a sort of Confederate Theme Park. We ended up hanging out there the next day, but it was so oppressively hot and the site of black staff dressed in ‘period costumes’ so offputting that we didn’t really enjoy ourself.

Phenalalinine Bling

The one highlight of the day came that evening when we met with Jill (another old friend of mine) for dinner. When Jill had asked what we felt like eating earlier, I said “like a sort of soul vegetarian”. That’s not an easy combo, and to Jill lasting credit and my complete surprise, she actually found us a restaurant called “Soul Vegetarian”.

Run by a New Orleans ex-patriot, it was quite good (though Jill, being a die hard carnivore, didn’t particularly enjoy her faux-burger).

That evening, we made big plans for Atlanta. But when we awoke the next morning, the heat seemed alive and malicious, and our plans winnowed and wiltered under the glare, until all that was left was a quick trip to the Underground and the Coke Museum.

Our first stop, Athens GA – a town chosen primarily because (1) of it’s proximity to Six Flags over Georgia, and (2) the fact that two old high school buddies lived there and had offered up a free place to park the van and a free toilet in which to relieve ourselves.

It was a pleasant surprise to find that the town had a value bey ond what it was near and who it contained. We arrived, due to a glitch in the space / time continuum which rendered Athen further away than it should be, sometime around 4am.

Our Athens shelter – the home of ‘Big Dick Topher’ and the ‘Reverend Dirty’ (nicknames have been used to protect the culpable). It was a house I’d never been to before, and knew only by address. In the early morning twilight it looked Camper Van perfect – on a shady street, in a quiet neighborhood, with secluded parking in the back.

As I prowled around the residence with a flashlight looking for an external power source to plug the van into, I found myself fervently hoping that I was at the right house. Stepping out of a van and looking around a stranger’s house with a flashlight is more than enough to get you shot in some places, and getting shot would make many of our vacation plans implausible.

Halfway through the search I checked the mailbox for mail, hoping to discover some proof of my friends’ residency. No luck, and if there was a stranger waiting inside with a gun, looking through his mailbox probably didn’t help my case.

The search for an external power supply ended fruitlessly, and we parked in the back and made camp. After a quick debate it was decided air conditioning was worth the risk of carbon monoxide poisoning, and we left the car running.

At some point in the mid-nineties someone (presumably the same guy that invented automatically retracting seat belts) decided ‘day-time running lights’ was a good idea, and our Eurovan Gypsy had been so equipped.

The problem with day time running lights (other than the fact that they are completely useless) is that you can’t turn them off. Whenever the car is running, the headlights are on.

So now the hypothetical gun owning resident stranger, after having watched me steal his mail and search his house, observes me idling in the back in a van, with the engine running and the lights on. I figured if he hadn’t shot us yet he never would, but just to make sure I went and urinated in a corner of the lot. Un-shot, I went to bed.

Dayna and I unfurled ourselves the next morning around eleven, and commenced our morning rituals in a sort of hygienic ballet. Living in a van means taking turns. I brushed my teeth – she brushed her teeth – I put deodorant on – she put moisturizer on – I sneezed – she ducked. When each participant is alert, empathetic to their partner’s motions, and well practiced, the dance is successful. However, when the two participants are not alert and focused (like after just waking up for example), the dance is more like a series of minor fender benders.

After applying Dayna’s moisturizer to my underarms and almost knocking her unconscious with an ill-timed sneeze, we emerged from our van cocoon like butterflies with big hair and toothpaste drool, eager to greet the day and reunite with old friends.

But after repeated knocking on various doors and windows about the house elicited no response, it became clear that either Big Dick Topher (henceforth refered to as BDT) & the Reverend Dirty (henceforth RD) weren’t home, or we weren’t actually at their home. When their cell phones rang unanswered, we somewhat sheepishly broke camp and left.

I’d like to say that we went to the Georgia Museum of Art to further cultivate our long standing appreciation of Afghan Tribal Rugs (they were having an exhibit), but the truth is we just picked the first place in the guidebook that was both (1) free and (2) air conditioned. I suspect that many of our future travel decisions will be made through the application of that calculus.

The Afghan tribal rugs were … rugs. Some of them were quite pretty, and I definitely became more impressed when I read an informational placard that described the arduous process necessary to make the wool required to make the rugs. But even keeping that in mind it was hard to be impressed after about five minutes by something that often looking a lot like something I could buy in Wal-Mart for $15.99

But then I came to the Martial room. Within the martial room were what looked very much like children’s rugs – brightly colored and illustrated with cartoon like iconography. The iconography may have looked cartoon like, but there were no cartoons. Dancing AK-47’s, Russian attack helicopters, camouflaged snipers, oh my…

Looking at it, I realized that they didn’t give their kids ‘toy’ guns in Afghanistan. Then I become very sorry for US troops in the region.

We caught up with BDT and RD later that day at a bar showing the last match of the World Cup.
They looked the same, but different, in the way that old friends do after a long absence. BDT looks like the missing Owens brother – he’s got the same playful yet sensitive air that drives the ladies wild. Not to mention the source of his nickname. RD was sporting a new beard, and with his classic Nordic features and EMO glasses it made him look like a cross between Woody Allen and Dolph Lundren… in a good way.

I was eager to catch up, but the acoustics of over one hundred ‘FUTBOL’ fans in a crowded bar made that impossible. Instead, we yelled unintelligibly at each other and nodded in a friendly manner.

We didn’t get to exchange complete sentences until we got back to the house, which was thankfully the place I’d parked next to the night before.

I found out RD was working in social services and looking at grad schools. BDT had enjoyed a varied and storied employment at pretty much every single Athens restaurant since I’d last seen him, and will be going be to UG to finish up his Physics degree shortly.

Platonic Groove

Talking with BDT requires a bit more focus that talking with most people, because BDT uses verbal ellipses in a powerful and focused way (I know only one other person who can say as much with silence as he does). It was like that line from ‘Diamond of the Souls of her shoes’ by Paul Simon: “And he would say ‘Oooaoaoaoaoaoaoooh’ – and everyone knew what he was talking about…”And talking with RD was as it ever was – a lesson in how to use grammatically perfect English to describe the most lewd, laviscious, and humorous things you can possibly imagine. Being with RD is like watching an uncensored debate in the House of Lords. I think RD can get away with saying dirtier things than I can because he can always find the appropriate facial expression to use with a joke. I can’t tell his jokes, because without his facial expressions I end up seeming like a dirty old man.

In short we had a grand ole time, and I couldn’t have asked for two more hospitable, gracious, & knowledgeable hosts to start the trip (thanks again guys).

They showed us where to eat, BDT gave us an excellent walking tour of Athens, and they introduced us to everyone. There was literally not a person they did not know (though they did seem to know the ladies a bit better), including a random homeless guy who free-styled on the street for us some phat rhymes about how big his dick was and how hard he rode.