Postcard: Early Morning Mist in the Great Smoky Mountains

I rode my Honda 175 from the upper Midwest to my new home in North Carolina. This was day two of the longest motorcycle journey I have attempted. It might be over 800 miles when I total up the legs. The 10.5 cubic inch powered motorcycle did its best to climb these steep mountain roads. I am still saddle sore.

There were no high speed interstate routes to take. I used gas station maps to find my way through the backcountry. Legible road signs indicating upcoming turns or intersecting roads in the mountains were few or non-existent. Sometimes, consulting the sun’s position was my best option for deciding which way to take.

A West Virginia mountain pass log cabin motel unit whose hand painted billboard advertised “Clean Sheets – $5” was where I stopped to sleep the first night after the dark, damp cold had made continued travel impossible. There was little gravel left visible in its parking lot — the afternoon rains had turned it into a muddy water pond. There was no TV, ice or soda machines, shower, or in room phone available, but Gideon had thoughtfully left me his good book to read.

I crossed into Virginia the next morning via a gap in an Appalachian ridge. As I passed through Fancy Gap, mountain ridges below me were emerging from a blue morning mist. This portion of the Smoky Mountains was great to behold. I pulled off at the top of the next cut to have a smoke and enjoy the view.

At the end of another long hill climb I slowly rode into an unnamed small town with very little going on. I stopped to stretch, consult my map and have a smoke. There were idle young men across the street out front of a worn, wooden house’s long porch with tall walking sticks made from various tree woods. They wore overalls but were shirtless. Now and then, one of them would twirl his stick but not in a band director or threatening manner. It was an odd movement that showed great skill and could easily be converted into something more powerful and lethal.

It became odder still, when a small ball appeared that was then smacked about — up, up, up, side to side, and between the men as they leaned against the porch.

Hill people field hockey?

When one of them missed the ball, they all would howl like dogs. They may not have had jobs but their spirit, almost a kinship, was evident. There was no despair there at all just deep still water.

Remounting my bike, I putted out of town. Just down the road from the stick men in a back lot, a large smoker was billowing, which by scent had some fine Carolina pig on its way to BBQ pork platters that night.

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