Monday, April 14, 2008
Smoky Mountain memories
Ray Stubblefield
Recent columns
- A summer spent on repairs
- From enemies to allies
- The trip of a lifetime
- Have you hugged your philosopher lately?
From the RoundTable blog
I was waiting for the light to change. The wipers were working on a cold rain that had come for the day and stayed a week. The grass couldn't be greener, and everything was in full bloom.
The presets on my radio mark a couple of classical stations, an oldies, one hard rock and two country, and I was impatiently surfing through them all.
Nothing seemed to suit me.
I landed on the country station out of Galax. Galax, for those of you who don't know, is world-renowned for its annual Fiddler's Convention. What Nashville is to country, Galax is to bluegrass.
It's a small town with a big reputation, and its radio station, WBRF, is tops when it comes to country. It plays classic country, and its archives reach back to the 1930s.
When Larry Spraks started singing "Smoky Mountain Memories," I was transported back to a time when the Smoky Mountains were my home. My parents' house is only 30 miles from the Smokies, so when most teens went to the mall, cruised the local McDonalds and generally raised Cain on Friday and Saturday nights, I hiked, biked, fished, kayaked and rappelled in the valleys, streams, ridgetops and cliff tops of the Great Smokies.
This is what I did with every spare minute. The Smokies were in my blood, and time and miles have never been able to wash them out. Because I've visited each more than once in every season and in all sorts of weather, there's not a ridge or peak I can't name.
But with Larry singing on the radio and seeing everything in bloom, my memories on this day weren't of past backpacking trips, but springtime bicycle rides made into the shadows of these great and ancient mountains.
I got my first 10-speed in 1972. At that time the only people who made serious touring bikes were the French and Italians, and $120 was a serious chunk of change to spend on a bike when Kmart and Sears had bikes for $35.
When I couldn't hike, I biked. All through college I commuted the 10 miles from home to the University of Tennessee on my bicycle, all year long, regardless of the weather.
There were times I would go more than a month without ever getting into a car.
But in all the years, and in all the places I have ridden, there is no finer place to ride than the country back roads of East Tennessee. And there is one ride that stands above them all, the road to Townsend.
Forty miles round trip, 60 if you go all the way to the national park boundary. And if you're really feeling strong, you haul it over to Cades Cove.
Two-lane back roads wind past small family farms, white frame Baptist churches and country stores. That's the first half of the trip.
The second half finds you in the foothills of the Great Smokies. Five thousand-foot peaks tower in the distance, and you know in a few hours, you will be at their feet.
But before you get there, there are lesser ridges and gaps to climb. And then, finally, you come to the Little River Road, where the riding becomes gentle and easy, just like the river that meanders along that road that flows out into a gentle, easy land.
On hot summer days we would stop and cool off, playing on tire swings and jumping off limbs that defied gravity as they hung out over deep, dark pools of crystal clear water. When I wasn't swimming and playing in these waters, I fished and kayaked in them.
On my first rides through the remote hills and hollers of this sweet land, a water-powered gristmill operated on the banks of The Little River. The dam still stands in testament, but all that remains of this little red mill by the river is the foundation and its reflection in the waters of my mind.
I've made this ride I know at least 100 times, in every season, alone and in groups as large as 10. Even today, I can close my eyes and make the ride to Townsend, seeing every rise and twist and turn along the way.
A lot has changed in 35 years, certainly I have, and my bicycle, but not as much as this sweet land. In some areas suburbia has killed paradise, and where cows once grazed, subdivisions sprout ticky-tacky little boxes that all look the same.
But not all the land has been gobbled up by developers, so I may just head down to Knoxville and visit my sister in a few weeks, and this time bring my bike.
Stubblefield, who teaches earth science at Franklin County High School, is a Roanoke Times columnist.
