Marble City Madness

We roll into Knoxville tired, smelly and on-edge from a day of numerous dog encounters. Through Warmshowers, Robert has provided us with a place to sleep for the night. We arrive at his house as he greets us, with a holler, from inside his house. Walking out to his front steps, he's around six foot, barefoot, with wavy brown hair, brown eyes and a hairy chest. Hairer than any 21-year-old I've ever met. Telling us to relax in whatever way we choose, he offers us a beer and strikes up conversation as we go through our "house arrival" routines. He's a bicycle tourer himself and therefore knows the routine very well. "Unload your panniers, sit down on the couch, collect your dirty clothes, or run straight to the shower first. Do whatever you guys need to do," with a tone of utmost hospitality. Wes seems to have a process, while I sporadically jump from one task to the next, often blankly staring at my panniers, without a plan. After little fight, I recline on the futon, putting all tasks off until a later hour. Sitting in the living room, there are three distinct sections. Speaker stacks, an amplifier and record player occupy one wall of the room. They must enjoy music and possibly dance. Next, a row of bicycles reach a few feet into the room. This must be a house of cyclists. In the far corner, and amongst the bicycles, are various musical instruments, including a piano. Musicians must reside here.

The roommates arrive at home, from a day of work, play or something in between. Kelsey, has big, round eyes, wavy red hair and is wearing a multicolored turtleneck, which I soon realize must be her favorite sweater. For some reason, she reminds me of Shirley Temple, with even redder hair. Jonathan walks in the room next and I instantly recognize his resemblance to my brother, Jerry. Complete with his height, build, demeanor, hair and facial features. Jonathan will later tell me he thought "brother?" when first seeing me. It really is astounding how similar we look. He wore a tank top during most of our visit, paired with shorts and sandals. This great man doesn't own a bed, but instead sleeps on his bare floor. He claims beds are difficult when one changes location often, but I think the only explanation is his stature of simplicity. He doesn't need one and therefore doesn't have one. I like it. I'll also be looking for a bed as soon as I finish this tour. Jonathan, I never received your phone number or email. Please send one to me!

Within an hour of arriving, Robert tells us about a group of friends putting together a mutual dinner at a nearby house. Considering our recent arrival, we don't have anything to contribute, but they assure us a shower, and resulting absence of bike tourer stench, will be enough. Our bicycle mob ensues. Six of us taking up a full lane, as is legal in Knoxville. Lights are blinking, while conversation is thrown back and forth across the lane. I ask how many people populate Knoxville and Jonathan tells me a couple hundred thousand, while Kelsey says a "dozen dozen". Neither Wes or I are used to using a full lane and take advantage of it by making long sweeping bends between the inside and outside lanes. Jonathan, the simple man he is, carries a pot of rice in his left hand. Dangling it as he leads the pack.

We arrive at the home of Rose and Elias, to find a stove covered with various dishes. Everybody is snugly close in their small kitchen, only a few arm lengths across. Walls hold shelves of dried spices, jars of tea and vegetables of unknown names, or origin, to me. I can tell this is a friendly group of people. Everybody shows interests in the doings of others and speaks little of themselves. Bubbles of comfort blend into a room of warmth. Dinner is amazing, especially with Elias' homemade fermented hot sauce. As my gullet rests, Robert's best friend, Mitchell, walks through the doorway. Average height, shorts above the knee, rolled up sleeves, impressionable eyes and an awesome mustache. We sit against the refrigerator and converse about bikes. I haven't geeked out about bikes in a while and it feels good to do so. Tangents are found, followed and next thing we know, Mitchell is talking about the book he's reading, about trench warfare. Trench foot, mass casualties to take out a single sniper and how the Germans always had the most tidy and ornate trenches, with wallpaper and placemats. As he speaks, he reminds me more and more of an old friend, Chema. Dresses like no other, loves bikes and climbing, carries a mustache, enjoys talking about literature and is know for throwing a hefty dance party. All the while, the remainder of the house is sitting out on the front porch, playing music together. Kelsey plays the guitar and sings country music, while the rest of the group grooves to her rhythm. Tired from a long day of descending the Smokies, we retire back to Robert's house early. Weaving through the slow streets and tucking down a large hill near his house.

After a night of needed rest, we meet up with Mitchell and Robert for coffee in an older part of town. Brick buildings, cracked asphalt, faded lines, yet there's still bike racks in front of every establishment. I like this place. Robert shows us bicycle touring blogs he follows and we end up talking about his cross-country trip. Starting in the Seattle area, he pedaled down to San Diego, then cut across to Nashville, stopping at various climbing destinations along the way. Essentially, he rode a mirrored "L" of how we're crossing the country. From Seattle to San Fransisco, Mitchell, Robert and other friends all rode together, until everybody flew home for school and Robert continued on alone. He shares his experiences with the Southwest and tells us where we can stop to watch dung beetle racing. Photos of the barren landscape make me appreciate all the trees we now take advantage of for hammocking. Mitchell bounces in his chair with each new discussion and explains how antsy he is to get back on a bike tour.

Mitchell manages the university bicycle shop, as part of the outdoor program. Though it's closed, he gives us permission to stop by and use the facilities for as long as we need. Roberts brings us there and lets me loose on the stands and tools. My Surly hadn't had a proper tune since it left Truckee, months and thousands of miles before. Wheels come off, rims are trued, pads are sanded, limits are set, all bolts are tightened, shifting is made buttery smooth. Both our derailleur hangers have bent in the past months and therefore we haven't been able to utilize 2-3 cogs. Everything is straightened out and, once again, the Surlys feel like brand new bikes.

Walking around the University of Tennessee Knoxville outdoor program (they call it UTOP), I'm overcome by nostalgia. There's a boat room, where all the kayaks and canoes are neatly organized, likely after years of trying out different storage methods. Across from the front desk are the coordinator offices. It reminds me of the supportive talks I had with my friend and mentor, Geoff. Frustratingly influential discussions with Merp. Lighthearted conversations with Nicole, about eating Phil's lunch. All conversations which helped pave my path through, and out of, college. Beyond the entrance area, lies a full service bike shop. It holds all the characteristics of a university bike shop. Labeled tools and organizational shelves, distinguished using a label maker. Tool box holding more specific tools. Dry erase laminate, keeping track of maintenance done on rentals. Truing stand with some missing spoke keys. Two mechanics working who know very little about repairs, but are eager to learn. While I'm there, I show the guy he's using the wrong crank puller, and teach the girl how to properly align a disc brake caliper. Past the repair area, a rental storage room is full of KHS and Ironhorse mountain bikes. There aren't any cheap university cruisers and, in that way, I envy the mechanics. I explain the cruisers to the mechanics and they think it's a great idea. If only they knew. Across the main room, lies UTOP's own set of industrial washers and driers. Wet sleeping bags hang from a metal cord and all I can think about is custom pink hanger boards.

Roughly 25 student employees make up UTOP and many of them seem to be here now. Whether they're working, hanging out, tinkering on bikes, talking about trips or simply flirting, each of them seem to enjoy being a part of the UTOP community. I can tell work is only one small part of the community's dynamic, as it was for me during my years with the Boise State OP. This building and the opportunities it creates, are what these students will remember most once they graduate. They tell me about how awesome my trip is, but I wish I could trade shoes with them and experience it all over again.

We're told we can, and should, stay another night, because Mitchell is having a dance party at his house. There's a constant urge to keep moving forward, but we realize there's certain episodes we shouldn't pass up. Rolling the bike gang back in action once again, we arrive at Mitchell's house. One group of people sit around a table on the softly lit porch. Soul and funk music is billowing from the windows and doorway, from large speakers in the dining room. There's a handful of lively individuals dancing on the hardwood floor. Some doing their crazy dance, while others exhibit their knowledge of true dance aesthetics. Robert makes me a whiskey sour and I move from one corner of the house to the next, chatting with the few people I've met. Zack, a genuine guy with a warm demeanor, works at a greenhouse which his family has owned and worked since the 1700s. Rose is a compact ball of energy, using the entire dance floor as her playground. Spencer, Mitchell's brother, is a peculiar (in the most positive sense) guy, with a killer mustache, an intriguing way of pivoting his feet across the floor and a passion for the banjo. Tori is able to provide the most random, yet interesting conversations, while sporting a shiny vest and delivering a perfect Blue Steel. Robert is getting what he calls "vegan, bike tourer crazy". Another way of saying he doesn't party much, but enjoys having a couple beers and chatting with people on a friendly porch. Hours go by as chatting, dancing and listening to music ensue. Numerous times, people try to teach me proper dance technique to pair with certain genres. Each time, I end up twirling away and doing my own ridiculous shoulder dance. I'm a solo dancer and dig it.

Eventually, it's time for most to go home. People give Mitchell high-fives as they walk out the door. Each person throws their helmet on, illuminates a blinking taillight and rides away on their bike. I love how this city is made up of so many bicycle commuters. As everybody winds down, either sitting on the living room couches or standing barefoot out in the damp front lawn, a group of five start playing music. Each of them multi-talented, but all having their instrument of choice. Francis, with his roughly clean clothing, Stetson hat and soft face, leads the group on his fiddle. This is how I pictured Tennessee. All the times I went out snowboarding or skating with friends, I pictured Tennessee kids growing up playing music together. Generalized, sure, but I liked the thought, and now here it is right in front of me. I relax on a sofa and delight in the collective atmosphere. I'd love to listen until my eyes droop away, but I should probably head back to Robert's. Mitchell and I make plans to mountain bike later in the morning, yet I ride away knowing sleep will probably trump any thought of spinning cranks.

I wake up to find my assumption completely false. Mitchell has breakfast and visiting friends to occupy his day, but all I have is Robert's bike staring at me. It's a single-speed Bianchi, with riser bars and some good knobbies. I swap my platform pedals onto it, plunge a peanut butter covered Clif bar down my throat, mentally trace a route on a map Robert has given me for the local trails, and head out down the road. I haven't ridden a hardtail or single-speed, let alone a mountain bike with platform pedals, in years. Regardless of the specifics, I haven't been on any mountain bike in months, and it's where my passion lies! Topping out at 14 mph makes getting to the trail take an unusually long amount of time. I plug in my headphones, bob up and down to the rhythm and become extremely excited. I'm riding a mountain bike!

I reach the trails and make turns based upon the names which stand out from my quick view of the map. Gently folded in my pocket, the map sits, but I can't fathom stopping my ride for anything. Each trail seems to take me to more riding and that's all that matters at this moment. Tennessee mountain biking is far different from anything I've ever ridden. I'm accustomed to a long ascent, followed by a steep descent. That's how our trails work in the west. In this trail system, it's a constant rhythm of up and down. I probably stayed within a 400 foot elevation range, but still seemed to be consistently climbing. With the terrain being fairly rocky and rooted, I bounce all over the place on the hardtail. Riding platforms, I'm constantly thrown off the pedals, with hopes of landing back on them. I feel as if I'm learning how to ride a bicycle again. It reminds me of the days when rides were more frustrating and painful, yet incredibly accomplishing. Ascents seem to pass by quickly, across well-built bridges, through tight tree gatherings, and occasional groves of bamboo. Victor Ashes trail is the least travelled, yet most fun ride I pedal upon. Smooth and flowy corners, dipping down into fast descents lined by vine-covered trees. I fall in love with mountain biking all over again. I've tried to pan over it, but it grips onto me, I miss my green beauty, mi esposa, my Enduro, my bike of the dirt. Riding a little over twenty miles, I relax near a quarry pool where the trails meet civilization. Knoxville used to be called 'Marble City' and was once the largest marble export community in the world. Now its remains are shown in massive blue quarries, throughout the Knoxville area, which creates a cool sense of serenity among giant walls of marble.

Stay another night? Don't mind if we do. We cook up remaining brussel sprouts and quinoa from the night before. The Tour de Knox is happening tonight and is said to be quite the spectacle. One large group of cyclist roams the city, from venue to venue, bar to bar, too see various local bands play at scheduled times. Jonathan is playing at one of the venues and therefore, the bike gang mounts up once again and rides across town, via the Gay Street bridge. We encounter the bridge as it's backdropped by an orange sunset, with other cyclists and pedestrians making their silhouettes more noticeable than they think. I love riding through sunsets and quirky events. Combine it all at once and I find myself producing a constant, smiling laugh.

Jonathan is playing bass for a band at a community house venue. Burgers and hotdogs are being sold, with all proceeds supporting the community house. This is how I justify eating more food than I need, as usual. There's a treehouse, without a ladder, in the yard, and a mural painted upon the side of the house. Inside is a free-exchange library. I sink into one of the foamy recliners and find myself within a photo book, which captures the unique esotericism created every year at the Gathering of the Juggalos festival. Leaving the library, I find Jonathan filling in as the bassist for his friends' French pop band. Tall, slender, and tapping his bare foot in the corner of the room, he plays the role perfectly. One light, shining upwards from the floor, expands his shadow across the back wall. Encountering unwarranted rudeness from the guitarist, the night before, I have to leave once he starts controlling the show.

We leave as the rest of the group does, in a mass of bicycles. Various riders have drums attached to their bicycles, filling the dim city streets with rhythm and pep. Walkers, passerby and food vendors dance as the procession rolls by. As the collective arrives at the next venue, we decide to call it a night and head back to the house, stopping first to get some Ben and Jerry's ice cream. Wes and I retire to the downstairs, which we've made our temporary home. For the first time in years, I'm able to stop watching a movie I've started, falling asleep under an itchy blanket.

Three days have passed and we must now give our farewell to Knoxville and all those who made it such a memorable experience. Hugs are passed between the roommates and us. In a short three days, we've shared enough time to create little sayings and jokes with each of them, and we spew them out a few last times. Wes hides Robert's "vegan cheese" under his pillow, to be found and incorporated into a dream.

 

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!