Smoke 'em If You Got 'em

Daddy, why do they call them The Smokies?
You do favor your mother's side of the family, don't you son?

We took very different routes, coming and going, on our foray into the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Going in, we drove around the north side, through Hillbilly Vegas, Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, and we despaired. It's a permanent carnival at the feet of the great tract, a carbuncle of the toe of the foothills, gaudy and neon, even on an overcast afternoon. Hatfield and McCoy tacky. Dinner show after side show after sho' 'nuff. Mind-reading pigs and talking dogs and Jesus Saves; the backwoods Holy Trinity.

Side note: If a pig could read your mind, how would you know? Perhaps all pigs can read our minds and this one was nothing special. Would the dog tell us if he knew (bein' our best friend and all)? Pigeon Forge drags you down to this level.

Coming home, we took the slow route, through the park, and our faith was restored. Here, it was easy to fall under the spell of Marc's Zen Baptist philosophy; the proof spread out before us in all it's uncultivated glory.

And in between the two, the coming and the going, we did a little fishin'.

We stepped out of the Townsend breakfast joint (two over-easy with a side of grits and biscuits, please) and the bottom dropped out. Rain in buckets. We'd have gotten good drifts in the seam running down the center of the two-row parking lot, if we'd cared to try. A trio of motorcycle riders (real bikes, with two wheels, not three), dressed head-to-toe in glossy black, also waited under the cover.

Wet ride ahead? They shrugged, nodded, then noticed our fishing gear and asked if we were going out in this stuff. We confirmed and they shook their heads.

You're nuts.

When the bikers think you're crazy...

Rain in the deep woods makes spring greens pop with color and with life. Rich, ancient earth smells, borne within the thick mists, Smoky Mountain namesakes, seep deep into your core; a fresh, moist presence penetrating impossibly through waders and shell, Gore-Tex is no match, going straight to the soul, undeterred and welcomed at a primal level.

Though I must admit there were times when I wasn't quite sure whether the drifting haze was mountain mist or blowdown from Steve's upstream cigar.

The Sunday morning downpour stopped as we arrived at the turnout and by the time we'd slickered up there were traces of Smoky mountain blue sneaking through the canopy; mercy from the heavens, probably undeserved, but appreciated nonetheless.

The trout were as small as the surroundings were grand and I suppose there's a certain symmetry to that. Nature is balance, after all. For every small trout there's a majestic ridge. For every downpour there's a bluebird sky.

For every Pigeon Forge there's a Great Smoky Mountain National Park.

Let's do everything we can to keep it that way.

Thanks, boys, for a great weekend.

Note: I don't recall if the "Holy Trinity" line came out of Steve's mouth or mine, but we arrived at it together as we turned off Pigeon Forge's main drag onto US321, away from the insanity. I guess, then, that this is an apology, if necessary.

If nothing else, I'm an honest plagiarist.