That night I camped out in Cherokee National Forest. Have you ever felt like you were on a road to nowhere? If not, and you’d like to try it, take a drive in the Cherokee National Forest.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s absolutely beautiful. The trees stand taller than any I’ve ever seen, and driving into the canopy feels like stepping back into the pioneer days. The ground drops off sharply right at the edge of the road and through the trees you can see flashes of gorgeous valleys with more foothills beyond them. But the roads are all gravel, with hairpin that wind around the mountains for miles. There are no signs, no signs of life for that matter, and 25 mph is the fastest you can go. I followed a sign for a state campground 3.8 miles away which ended up actually being about 11 miles away. Even then it took me about half an hour to get to it. I almost gave up and turned back, but I wanted to find that campsite - it was FREE. It’s what is called a "primitive campsite" - just some fire rings and an outhouse. That was good enough for me, but I was still stinky and needed ice, which meant I had to drive another half-hour back to the gas station on the road, then another half-hour back into the forest. It was very dark by the time I got back and picked up Patrick, my classical guitar.
While at the gas station, I figured out some of the social structure of the Cherokee National Forest. There is an influx of tourists during the summer because the forest’s river is one of the foremost spots for whitewater rafting in the world. This means that there’s also an influx of young, twenty-something guys who come for the summer to work as rafting guides. The year-round residents - the farmers, the ranchers, the horsebreeders - resent this guiding crowd a bit, their care-free attitudes and hippie-dippie lifestyle, but realize that they’re a vital part of the economy as well. All this I deduced after twenty minutes at a gas station. It’s amazing what you can tell just by people-watching at the only open store in a small town.
These raft guides are pretty crazy. Personally, I find them hilarious; they’re the Tennessee equivalent of surfers. Obsessed with the rapids, hippies trading rides for pot, just basically acting like fools on a small-town Friday night. They were having a poker night that night and were all in the gas station buying dark sunglasses. After they had all purchased them, the little Hindu guy behind the counter said, "You know these are all reflective, right? And everyone will be able to see your cards in your glasses."
"Awwwwwww, DUDE! No way! Like, I didn’t even think of that!"
One guy with huge green eyes and a blonde faux-hawk saw me pull up in my car, Maryland tags and 18 loads of crap in the backseat, and shouted, "Hey, you live in your car too!"
"Yep, sure do! Where’s yours?"
"At the outpost. I mean, well, I don’t really live in my car, but I live out of it."
"Ah. Well, I pretty much live in mine. Been on the road four months now."
"Jesus! You could write a book about that!"
I laughed. "That’s the plan."
"Whoa. Like, totally. Well, see ya around!"
I took a cold sponge bath in the tiny bathroom - it felt so good. The heat was just unbearable and my left arm had been sticking to my car door when I rested it in the window. Afterward, I bought a small Slush-Puppie and wanted to crawl into the cup. Did you know that Slush-Puppie Ice, the plain ice, is flavored? I didn’t, but I needed ice and the gas station only sold 8-lb bags. I don’t need that much, so I convinced the guy to let me take a huge cup of Slush-Puppie ice instead, to chill my water with back at the campsite. Well, it’s flavored. Just thought you may find that interesting.
Coming out of the station, I saw the same blonde, faux-hawked raft-guide guy. He was leaning on a silver Nissan truck, waiting for me, smiling peacefully. "I write, too. I write poems. It’s cool what you’re doing. I write poems about nature. Here, I’ll lay some on ya. I wrote this one about clouds...."
He proceeded to recite a poem that at first I thought would be really bad, judging from the first line: "Fluffy fluffy puffy cloud!" But actually, it ended up being really good! He recited some more, about stars and sun and earth and his ex-girlfriend. "Some day I’m gonna put them all in a book and call it ‘Rhythmical Wisdom’. Then I’ll have a million dollars and soak it up on a beach for the rest of my life! Like, totally."
"Hey, are you going rafting?" he asked.
"Wasn’t planning on it, really."
"Awwww, girl! You gotta go rafting! These are the best rapids in the country! Come on, I’ll get you a reduced ticket! Just go to the place tomorrow around 8 and tell them you want to be on my boat." He handed me a card with his name and the rafting office number.
"Domenic Stickney?" I read.
"That’s me! Smile, girl, we’re gonna go rafting!" He threw me a huge high-five hug. "You stoked?"
"Um, yeah! I’ll see you tomorrow!"
I didn’t see him tomorrow. I beat him to the office, where I was told, "No free-friend rides on Saturdays, we’re all full." I left him a note that said, "Thanks anyway," and continued on to North Carolina.
At one point, getting fuel, my flip-flop broke. The strap broke off from the base of the shoe, so I stepped into the station to ask for the best remedy. The three sweet ladies behind the counter -
I’ve noticed that many gas stations have at least three women behind the counter at any given time because they do more than sell gas. In small towns, these places are the equivalent of a food court at a large mall, serving all sorts of hot food, and somebody has to cook it! So it follows that there will be three or more ladies standing behind the counter of a gas station, pecking at each other at any given time over the number of chicken thighs in the heat drawer. It’s pretty funny.
Anyway, I asked these ladies their cure for broken American Eagle leather flip-flops and they looked at me like I was insane (perhaps rightly so) and said, in a thick Southern accent, "You gone hafta git Krazy Glue, suga’plum!"
I found it in the school supplies and motor oil aisle, paid for it, and set up shop at a table right in the back of the store, by the window. Everyone walking in saw the grimy little blonde trying desperately to glue a shoe back together and they all offered their sympathies as they picked out their soda. It was very nice of them! I liked all the people in eastern Tennessee, just as I had loved the people in east South Dakota. What is it about the east that makes people so much nicer? Maybe someday I’ll figure that one out.
I got to North Carolina in the afternoon, following signs for Hendersonville. But another sign caught my interest, and suddenly my life was hereto meaningless unless I stayed the night in that town - Bat Cave, North Carolina.
Yes, Bat Cave, North Carolina. I saw that sign and yelled - to nobody - "Quick! To the Bat Cave!" Then I laughed hysterically because I thought I was hilarious. I looked at my stuffed moose to see if he agreed but his head was smushed between my suitcase and my laundry bag.
I found Bat Cave - a perfectly unassuming, small, adorable town that sits right on the river beneath Chimney Rock. There are no statues of Batman, no Batmobile collectibles at the general store. In fact, there are no bat caves in Bat Cave! There is one cave with no bats, and bats that live in trees but not caves. The Bat Cave Cave-Exploration Adventure actually has a disclaimer - "This is not a real cave dive and you will not see any bats!" Honestly, I did my damndest to figure out why the town is named Bat Cave but no one would tell me.
I stayed at a $25 campground again, the only one in town that would take a tent camper. Most are Rv’s only. (Old people have more money than dirty girls with broken shoes.) Still, it was right on the river and allowed swimming, as much swimming as one can do in Class 3 rapids. I treated it like my own personal hot tub, or ice tub, rather, soaking in the frigid water and letting it freeze out the clinging heat. It was heaven. Heaven with a current that kept trying to push you down river. If the rocks hadn’t been so treacherous, I was half-tempted to let it carry me away.
Once camp was set up, I took a drive to the Bat Cave Apple House, a little farmer’s market. Baskets of locally grown apples, peaches, and cucumbers were lined up on card tables in front of the open-air market structure, along with homemade jams and pickles. Inside were more jars, every kind of preserve and pickle imaginable, all made by local ladies. There was also homemade cider, peach, apple, and raspberry, and peanuts, both roasted and fried. I bought 5 apples, 5 cucumbers, a bag of peanuts, and splurged on a peach cider. Along with the loaf of bread in my car that I got for 50 cents, there was my food for the week. Well, I was meeting up with my family, so I didn’t really have to worry about for that week, but on the new budget that would ordinarily be my food for the week. (And then every other day I am allowed to have one Dollar Menu double-cheeseburger from McDonald’s.)
That night was fairly low-key. I was the only tent camper for awhile, until two single moms and four 10-year-old boys pulled up next to me. I offered to help the moms pitch the tents. "Thanks," they said, "but we have four strapping young men here to help us!"
Of course the boys and I were like peas in a pod in a matter of minutes. Their names were Austin, Devon, AJ, and Tommy. We went down to the river together, climbing the big rocks on the bank and double-dog-daring each other to jump in. None of us did. We tried skipping stones on the rapids, and when that didn’t work we switched to throwing big rocks in the water, seeing who could make the biggest splash. Back up at the campsite, the boys built a fire using a starter log they bought at the convinience store for 50 cents. While they roasted marshmallows, I had a chance to chat with their moms, Betsy and Valerie. Austin belonged to Betsy, AJ to Valerie. Devon and Tommy were friends along for the trip.
"We used to have a photography business together, doing family portraits on the shore," Betsy said. Her curly brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her wide smile was lit up by the campfire. "Have you seen the kind where the people where similar colors? Well, that’s what we did, but it was so seasonal we couldn’t keep it up. We sold the business to another photographer and she said she would keep us on. ‘Oh, you’ll be making more money than you were before!’ she said. Yeah, right. So we quit. Now we’re back to doing family shots in the summer and odd jobs in the winter."
Valerie spoke up. "Between that and raising the boys, we stay pretty busy."
Betsy told a story about bringing Austin to the mountains the pervious summer. "The way you’re traveling around makes me think of last year," she told me. "I had all this stuff planned out, what we could do, where we could go. It was the last week of August. I didn’t bother reserving a hotel, I figured we could take care of the details when we got here. But I forgot that the colleges were back in session. All the parents filled up the hotels and most of the attractions were closed for the season. I literally freaked out, I thought ‘What am I going to do?’ But then I just said, ‘Y’know, we’re gonna wing it!’ and it was the greatest vacation ever! We went fishing and camping and swimming in the river, just a lot of free, ‘outdoors’ stuff. And Austin had an awesome time! And we’ve been trying to continue that tradition every year now, just come up to the mountains and wing it. That’s what we’re doing now. I just called Valerie this afternoon and said, ‘Let’s take the boys to the mountains!’
Valerie laughed. "Yeah! I was at work and I was sort of like, ‘Okaaaaaay?’ I have to go back tomorrow, I’ve got the last family portraits of the season scheduled."
Betsy continued, "So you’ve got the right idea. Sometimes the best way to do something, especially travel, is to just get up and go!"
It got very dark suddenly as we heard the hiss of steam, followed by high-pitched shouts of, "DUDE! Why did you do that?!" Tommy, the ADHD one, thought it would be funny to pour water on the fire. He shrugged an answer. "I don’t know."
"That was so not cool!" the boys kept yelling. Betsy and Valerie took charge, calming them down and gently scolding Tommy. I took that as my cue to go to bed. Before zipping up my tent I asked the boys, "If I’m not awake by seven could you wake me up, please?"
Betsy and Valerie laughed. "Oh, I’m sure they’ll have you up way before seven!"
But seven it was that Sunday morning. The boys were eating cereal at the picnic table when I stepped out into the morning sun and we all took a walk, boys, moms, and me, to the river. The moms and I sat on the large rocks drinking coffee, watching the kids jump around. Then we took a walk up to the office/bathroom/laundry area/recreation area, where a small Sunday service was being sponsored by a local Baptist church. The fliers in the office said it would only last 15 minutes. I wanted to go, just to see what it was like. "I’ve never been to a Baptist service!" I told Betsy and Val.
It was very laid-back. How could it not be laid back with porch swings and cedar rocking chairs serving as seating and a pool table acting as an altar? The two people leading the service were a young blonde girl with the thickest Southern accent I’d ever heard, and a squirrely, young EMT who was actually on duty, with his uniform and walkie-talkie on. Using a boombox, they played a CD of a New Age Christian band, The Newsboys, and handed out sheets with the lyrics printed on them. Besides Betsy, Val, the boys and myself, there were a few older couples, the woman who owned the campsite and her two young granddaughters. We sat in a semi-circle on the swings and rocking chairs, singing softly along to the song, called "Strong Tower". Then the girl read a passage from a dog-eared Bible, the story of David and Goliath. Her accent made it sound like, "Dayve-id and Go-laaath." She would stop every now and then to explain the meaning of certain sentences, trying to apply it to everyday life. I really liked listening to her. For some reason, it was very soothing.
And the story, just like she said, is easy to modernize. "Maybe you have someone in your life who you feel is like Golaaaaath," she said. "Maybe a bully at school or a boss or a co-worker. And you don’t think you can stand up to them, but just like David, you can." When she was done reading and explaining, she handed the floor to the EMT guy, stretched out in a rocking chair, for a blessing. He prayed a short prayer, and that was it.
I thought the service would be nice, but I wasn’t expecting to enjoy it as much as I did. I really did feel very peaceful - probably relieved that the sermon wasn’t on the evils of homosexuality or feminism. I put my baseball cap back on - I didn’t feel right wearing it in "church" - and grabbed my shower stuff. I was out of the campsite by 10:30.
I did the southern thing and went straight to the town Waffle House. Okay, what I say next may come as a shock to you: I had never been to a Waffle House prior to that morning. Or eaten grits. But I conquered two firsts in one day, isn’t that awesome? I walked in an took a seat at the counter, which were the only seats available that Sunday morning. The women rushing around behind the counter shouted out to me. "Hey, sugar! Come on in! Grab a seat!"
I asked the curly-haired one with the bright green eyes, "What’s good here? It’s my first time."
The needle scratched across the record of the Waffle House and every spoon, every coffee cup in the building stopped clinking. The bacon on the grill stopped its hissing for a moment. People at the counter turned around. The waitresses looked at one another and then back at me. "You never been to a Waffle House?"
"Um, no."
They all started laughing. "Where you from, sweet baby?" the curly-haired one asked. Her name tag said Connie.
I picked one of the cities I used to live in. "New York City." Depending on my mood, I sometimes say, "DC", "LA", or "Baltimore". The waitresses all looked at each other again, impressed. I blushed.
"You’re a long way from home, ain’tcha sweetie?"
"Yeaaaah..." I answered, ordering coffee and looking over the hellaciously huge menu.
I ordered eggs, toast, bacon, and grits. "You lahk greeeits?" Connie asked, jotting my order on a green pad that matched her eyes.
"I don’t know yet."
She looked up at me again, wide-eyed. "You ain’t never done nothin’ round here, have ya?"
"Not really," I giggled.
"Well, welcome to the South, suga’plum!"
I didn’t realize that every Waffle House has a juke box well-stocked with hip-hop, country, and a plethora of songs actually about the Waffle House, recorded by "The Waffle House Singers". I was tempted to play those tracks, but didn’t want to cause more of a scene than I did by admitting that I was a Waffle House virgin. Or did I?
That Sunday morning, the place was filled with....how do I say this without sounding racist?.... um, white people. Countrified, big-belt-buckle, Confederate-flag sporting white people. I was feeling frisky, so I called my friend Max and asked him to dare me to play Fat Joe. He didn’t pick up. I finished my coffee and left.
I set up my laptop at the Atlanta Bread Company in Hendersonville and wrote, waiting until 4:30 when I could call my aunt. I was meeting up with my Aunt Helen and Uncle Roy, along with their kids, Bryce and Emery - the same family I had stayed with in New Hampshire back in May, the ones that took me to downtown Portsmouth. While waiting, I was accosted by a middle-aged guy who was there to meet someone. He was apparently involved in some sort of work-from-home internet pyramid scheme and wanted to get me "in on the action!" I was so proud of myself for sitting through the spiel with a smile the whole time, before politely declining. Later, an older man sitting with his wife struck up a conversation. "I can’t believe they got them things now where you can just be anywhere and get on the internet. Are you on the internet right now?"
"Yes, sir!"
He proceeded to tell me a story about his granddaughter who went to Kenya and wrote emails to them from Africa. "I would get lost in her stories!" he said. His wife agreed. Then he told me a story about his wife growing up in Montana, how she would be picked up in a hay wagon and taken to a one-room schoolhouse. At first I thought he was kidding.
"No, I’m serious!" he insisted. "Back in them farm towns in the 1940's, they didn’t have enough kids to make a two-room school. And they lived out in the country, so they didn’t have buses or anything!"
His wife looked at me and nodded. "This is only about 50 years ago," she said.
It really is amazing when you think of the advances that society has made over the last 50 years. When you really sit down and think about it, only 50 years ago the polio vaccine was brand-new, segregation was still common practice, and Communists were the enemy, not Arabs. People barely cared about Viet Nam and Big Macs cost a nickel. Only 50 years ago!
Helen and Roy called at about 4:30 and I met them at the Quality Inn and Suites, which would be our homebase for the next week or so. It was nice to know that I didn’t have to worry about where I was going to stay come 5:00 every night. Seeing them and the kids was just great, like a homecoming in a place that wasn’t even home. We ate out at a Mexican place and then got in the indoor pool. Emery’s little feet can’t touch beyond 3'8", so we were tethered to the shallow end for most of the time. I taught the kids how to play Marco Polo and we made up a game where they would "dunk" me - I would pick them up, they put their hands on my head, and I would sink into the water, taking them with me. It was a blast.
The whole five days was a blast, actually. We went hiking in the National Forest and saw two different waterfalls. The next day we hiked Chimney Rock, which also has gorgeous waterfalls, which was more challenging but we all made it. Everyone laughed at the way my legs were shaking when we were done - I was tired! Helen and Roy spent one of the days with a real estate agent, leaving me with Bryce and Emery. The only complaint we really had during our stay at the hotel was that, except for the first day, the indoor pool was closed. The day we left, it opened again. Bryce and Emery are both little waterbugs, so the closed pool was a big deal, but I managed to sweet-talk the concierge at the hotel next door to let us swim in that pool. It was really fun!
Helen, Roy, and I sat up late nights in the indoor courtyard, by the fish pond, drinking wine and telling stories. Helen told me lots of stories about my dad and my uncles I’d never heard, it was just fantastic. The only thing that made me anxious about being down there was how little money I had left. I didn’t know what I would do once the five days were up. I had a couple of little panic attacks, to be quite honest. I was scared I would have to go home.
I didn’t - and still don’t - want to go home for a number of reasons. When I left I made a vow to myself, no coming home like a dog with my tail between my legs. No admitting failure. And when I made that vow, I was so vocal about it, I told everyone. So I wasn’t about to sneak back into Laurel and give everyone a chance to say "I told you so". I had plans to be in Cincinnati to see April and couldn’t find it in my heart to break them, given certain circumstances.
I agonized for a few days over what to do, cried my eyes out, and ended up calling in a favor from Ohio. Earl, Lisa and Chris in Sandusky had always told me they would wire me money if need be. Sobbing, I dialed the phone, wanting to get it over with as soon as possible. I didn’t want to talk to Chris. I didn’t want to talk to Lisa. I just wanted to talk to Earl and be done with it. So, of course, Chris picked up the phone. "Is this Jessica?" he asked when he heard me sniffle, even before I could say hello.
"Can I please just talk to your dad?"
"What’s wrong?"
"Can I please just talk to your dad?"
"Here, hold on." I heard him say, "It’s Jessica and she’s CRYING!"
Lisa took the phone. "Jess, what’s wrong?"
"Can I please just talk to Earl?"
"Jessica, tell me what’s wrong."
"DAMMIT! I just want to talk to Earl!"
Earl came to the phone. I admitted that I was broke and asked if he still would wire me some cash.
"Of course, Jess. Anytime. How much do you need?"
Okay, for the record, lovely readers, "How much do you need?" is probably the hardest question you could ask someone who lives like I do. I don’t want to quote too high and seem like a mooch. I don’t want to quote too low and then be just as stuck as I was before once that money is gone.
