Smokies Sights and Cite

Growing up, the Great Smoky Mountains were the distant, mystical mountains of another world. Across the country from where I was raised, they only existed in stories, movies and grand photographs. Always shrouded in fog, they were presented to me as a far-off land where Native Americans, cowboys, talking deer, and country singers all seemed to interact. When watching Bambi, I defaulted placing the setting in the Smokies. If country music was on the radio, I imagined the singer belting out their ballad over the rolling mountains of the Smokies, but only for a brief period before my dad would switch the radio to rock 'n' roll. When I daydreamed of mountains growing up, I pictured my version of the Smokies. They were what I pictured as all mountains of the unknown. Nearly two decades from my earliest imaginations of the Great Smoky Mountains, I'm now within their boundaries, laying in my hammock, as two fishermen cast their flies across the river, a couple hundred feet upstream.

There's normally three primary routes in which one can cross the Smokies. Unfortunately, due to the government shut down, only one of the routes remains open. Route 441 climbs up and over the very center of the park, passing by Clingman's Dome along the way. The Great Smoky Mountains are typically the most visited national park every year, with over 9 million visitors. While there are less people than would normally be in the park, due to the shut down, all those who still chose to visit are funneled through it on route 441. Approaching the base of it, we decide to pull over and eat lunch at a blocked off roadway. There's a sign on the closed gate, explaining why it's closed. I choose to read it in the tone of an extremely frustrated national park employee. As we sit down and eat lunch, with our deep food bags and mounds of gear, people drive by and stare at us as if wondering whether we're doing some sort of sit-in until the gate reopens. Some people even slow down, until almost rear ended or honked at. We gather up our food and slowly mosey up the grade.

Route 441 transects a gorgeous section of the park. Quite possibly the biggest trees we've encountered on the trip, looming over us and swaying back and forth. Leaves are fully showing their changing colors and blotches of red, yellow and orange mix in with the enduring greens. The stream to our right gives the ride a calming tone, even though we're inching along the shoulder of a very busy route. There aren't many pull offs on it and certainly aren't any represses. We ride along at different paces, creating and closing the gap between us at times. Eventually we arrive at the top, which straddles the North Carolina and Tennessee borders. It's the busiest parking lot area we've seen and therefore only sit at the primary view for a couple minutes. It overlooks North Carolina to the east, with all it's rolling hills and curving valleys. All the trees, as a whole, create a spongy blanket, which I wish I could lay on. Dense canopy, looking as if I could walk across it if only I were a great deal bigger. Paul Bunyan would have a blast walking on these trees. Our bicycles attract more conversation than I can ever explain and, while it was interesting in the beginning of the trip, we now purposely avoid eye contact with those individuals which we know are about to question us. It's always a new conversation for them, but a very repetitive one for us. We find a shady corner of the parking lot and sit down to enjoy our lunch. Many people walk by, but one, a man in his early 50s, made a permanent impression. Walking by, we tell him a couple just saw a black bear down the trail in which he's walking. He thanks us for letting him know and continues on. Upon walking back, I ask him if he saw the bear, but replies that he didn't. Instead, he gives us a smirky look and says, "I just pissed on Obama!" The expression on his face delivers the understanding in which he is so proud of what he just said. He understands the basis behind the shut down, how everything works in our political system and is so determined to share with us, the failing ability of Obama and his causing of the shut down. This man is an absolute idiot. I want to shake the ignorance out of him, but all I can do is jump on my bike and ride away. Not a bad alternative.

Dropping down the western side of the mountain into Tennessee, our descent is swift and winding. At the top it's a little brisk and still contains some fog, which hasn't burnt off the western slopes. Tucked down and gaining at over 40 mph, we pass over bridges and through tunnels. I alternate tunnels, doing a mating call in one and yelling "Whoop whoop!" in the next...repeat, repeat. One section does a full 360° spiral and wraps underneath the road we just descended. My face hurts from smiling. I catch a bug in my mouth while shouting to the world in excitement. The decent reminds me of the center of one in which I often did for work in Peru. From Abra Malaga (the snowy pass directly underneath a glacier called Veronica), I would take people down to a town called Santa Maria, where people could end the day picking bananas. This Smokies descent has the same dense encroachment of trees and bushes from both sides of the road. All the trees are covered in vines, which eventually overtake and kill the tree, due to constriction and lack of sunlight. Some of the trees are very straight and mighty, while others seem wiggly and goofy. They seem to have the same characteristics that determine many human traits. Many of the trees are covered in various mosses, lichen and fungi. We planned to camp after going through the next city and resupplying, but this is too breathtaking to pass up. We come across a closed camping area and duck off into it, indulging in having the whole area to ourselves.

This specific campground, is in the most beautiful section of the Smokies I've seen. All the characteristics previously mentioned, with the addition of a rocky river running through it. Hand-sized rocks and boulders the size of full-size trucks, all making up a gorgeous river bed. Connecting back to our childhood memories of boulder hopping, we agree to scramble up the river a ways, once we've set up camp. Everything is put together quickly, which is made much easier with the aid of tables, paved paths and trash cans, in which the campground offers.

We hold a safety meeting, leave all electronics behind and begin bounding upstream, one boulder after another. Each of the boulders hold a color between the ranges of white and grey. They stand out crisply against the exceptionally clear water at their base. Our pace starts out slow, but rapidly builds in parallel to our excitement. Different routes are chosen depending on prior choices and future steps. As I did as a child, the game of not looking more than two steps ahead, begins. Some steps are gracefully executed and seem to glide over the rocks, while others consist of chest-high drops, which create thuds. There are moments when everything feels at ease and others where I get a little ahead of myself.

After about an hour or so, we conceptualize how far we've actually travelled and still have to beat the sunset back. Working up quite a sweat and not having showered in a few days, I couldn't think of a better place to take a dip. Swim, then beat the sunset. We both jump in and the water temp saps a bit of our breath. I remain there, up to my neck, long enough for my body to relax and find comfort in the cold. Nothing feels better after a long day of riding. As I enjoy the water, I look around me to see only boulders, trees and the warm sunset hues smothering the sky above. I hear only occasional birds and the sounds of a waterfall above. Trudging through pools and up over boulders, now having the boundary of wetness out of my mind, I find a narrowly funneled waterfall, which is slighter taller than I. Standing under it, I roar with excitement, only hearing my words at times in which the waterfall parts water away from my ears. "YEEEESSSSSSSS!"

Making our way back to camp, we carry the same speed in which we did upstream. Although now our bodies feel a greater amount of impact. All 170 pounds of Clayton come down on my feet, lacking all grace I utilized on the way up. Thud, smack, thump, plop, thwack. We arrive at camp, as I feel my ankles and feet begin tightening up. Within minutes, my ankles are showing quite a bit of swelling, and I realize boulder hopping is a childhood memory for a reason. It's painful and not meant to be done, by anybody, after the age of roughly 18. At that age, one's able to buy cigarettes, gamble in most places, and claim all independence, but in exchange for boulder hopping pain and the ability to be drafted. It's quite the exchange. I lay in my hammock, which naturally elevates my feet without any effort on my end, and doze off into a potherous set of confusing dreams.

"Good morning. Could I please see some identification?" asks Ranger Rick.

I open my sticky eyes and peer through my hammock's bug mesh, to find Hueso being confronted by a park service ranger, about 30 feet away. Strangely, Ranger Rick walked right by my hammock in order to confront Hueso. He must have noted how incredibly cozy I was in my warm cocoon.

"I can't tell if I'm happy or upset to see you here." Hueso says to him, in an unsure nature.

"We'll see how happy you are when this is over."

At this point, with that response from Ranger Rick, I'm positive we're in more trouble than would seem reasonably acceptable. Surely, he stopped by earlier this morning to plant bricks of drugs in our panniers, and he's now busting us for smuggling. Regardless of what's happening, I already want this period of time to be in the past and therefore express the time by getting out of my hammock before he says anything to me. Nearly naked, wearing only boxers, I nod to Ranger Rick in the briskness of the morning, as I retrieve my wallet from my handlebar bag. After dressing, we sit at the picnic table and feel as I did while being reprimanded in elementary school. Taking my drivers license, he squints as his eyes fall upon my photo. Not a squint indicative of poor vision, but instead one that lacks understanding of reason. Black mustaches don't seem to grow on blonde boys round these parts. Shaking it off, my last name is butchered, for the first time in my life, as he calls it into the station. Having to say it twice, the first time comes out as "Wang-bitch-ler", the standard butcher. Repeating it, he trails off into a mumble after the first few letters, then resorts to spelling it. My last name has given me two things in life. First, a wonderful family. Second, the constant amusement provided when people are forced to approach it. Needless to say, he's relieved to see Hueso's cheery photo and phonetically pleasing name.

By this point, it's very clear we're receiving a ticket. We deserve it and we accept that. Congress has been unable to successfully show up, complete a days work, and go home accomplished...as every other employee in the country does. For every other employee in our nation is fired if they don't. Due to this, our national parks have shut down all services, including the area we're in. Therefore, we're in a closed national park area, which is illegal. Additionally, as it turns out, this isn't normally a campground. It is, in fact, actually a day-use picnic area. Consequently, we're camping in an illegal place regardless of closure. With the amenities offered at this place, I'm amazed it's all needed for a picnic, but that's beyond the point. We knowledgeably snuck into this gorgeous spot even though we knew it was closed, and acknowledge that.

Tables slightly turn at this point, with two key bits of information provided to us by Ranger Rick. Actually, I wouldn't say the whole table turns, but we, at minimum, switch placemats. Asking us all kinds of questions about our bikes and trip, we can tell he's genuinely interested. Not in a professional way, in which a person would carry out in order to get a full understanding of the situation. Instead, I can tell he truly cares and wonders about certain aspects of our trip. Somehow forgetting to mention it earlier, he informs us he's also a hammocker, and furthermore, crossed the country on his bicycle a few years ago. While his trip was far more based upon physical feats and accomplishments, we're still able to connect through similar experiences. We share our glorified views of hammocks and the situation loses a little of its initial tension.

Ranger Rick expresses a position which is hard to read. Bouncing back and forth between professionalism and personal interest, I feel as if he doesn't know which route to take. He tells us what we've done wrong, then asks us about the bikes, continues with paperwork, then tells us about camping and personal experiences on his trip. It's clear we're not getting out of this, and will be getting a ticket in the end, but it's the process towards it which is interesting. We try to get him to test out the Surlys, but he mentions how bad it would look if a video surfaced on YouTube of a uniformed ranger riding a bicycle and laughing while the government is shut down. He's right, for I would surely have snuck a video recording of it, just as I did with a photo.

Turns out, he arrived on the scene because a maintenance guy, testing water sources, saw us and called it in. Due to the call, he has to write us a ticket, or at least that's what I believe in order to feel better about getting a ticket from somebody who also stealth camped across the country. Maybe that's not the case and he really feels adamant about the laws of the park service. If so, more power to him. In the end, we should have received two tickets each. Instead, he writes out one ticket, total, and puts it in one of our names. Hueso volunteers. Thanks buddy. $50 ticket, with a $25 handling fee (which always baffles me). I think of it this way, $38 each is the cost an average bed & breakfast tourer will pay for lodging every day or so, yet we camped in possibly the most beautiful spot of our trip. We'll take it!