Tennessee

The Great Smoky Mountains National Park is 500,000 acres of Tennessee and North Carolina, divided about equally between the two. It is the world's most popular national park wth an estimated 15 million visitors per year. To lend some perspective, our second most popular park is Grand Canyon with seven million. Both parks are seriously overcrowded in high season and face the difficult prospect of having to limit visitation.

The road to Cherokee, on the Carolina side, is a long corridor of cheap motels, fast-food restaurants, trailer parks, and junky gas stations, perched on the edge of a perfect stream. It must have been a beautiful valley once, before the indelible stamp of man arrived.

And the town is worse, centerpiece of the largest Indian reservation in the east and a gauntlet of shops selling cheap souvenirs. For sale are moccasins, tomahawks, and other Indian paraphernalia. But to top it off, and for a few bucks, you can have a photo made with a genuine, hung-over, pot-bellied Cherokee Indian in war dress. I pass on the golden opportunity. And apparently so do most other vistors as the warriors are mostly slumped and asleep in front of their respective emporia.

But driving out of Cherokee and into the Smokies is something else. The tacky town ends abruptly, as if by decree, and the park begins. There is little left of the hand of man in these half million acres, finally something to be thankful for. There has to be some respite from tawdry billboards and caged black bears strategically placed to swindle hard earned tourist dollars.

The Oconaluftee Highway across the mountains is 30 miles and several hours of pure joy. It winds through a dappled broad-leaved forest, some of it still virgin, under singing skies, across dancing waters, just like the brochure said. Every so often are lookout points so I can pull over and yodel at the views. The mountains fade to a distant horizon, colored in green and blue under the famed smoky haze for which this park is named. In the rolling vastness of trees there is not one sign of humanity, not a single house or road spoils my view. My only companions are silence and the crystalline sky, clear but for a far-off puff of cumulus, drifting along and casting a shadow on some unnamed peak.

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The Great Smoky Mountains National Park is 500,000 acres of Tennessee and North Carolina, divided about equally between the two. It is the world's most popular national park wth an estimated 15 million visitors per year. To lend some perspective, our second most popular park is Grand Canyon with seven million. Both parks are seriously overcrowded in high season and face the difficult prospect of having to limit visitation. The road to Cherokee, on the Carolina side, is a long corridor of cheap motels, fast-food restaurants, trailer parks, and junky gas stations, perched on the edge of a perfect stream. It must have been a beautiful valley once, before the indelible stamp of man arrived. And the town is worse, centerpiece of the largest Indian reservation in the east and a gauntlet of shops selling cheap souvenirs. For sale are moccasins, tomahawks, and other Indian paraphernalia. But to top it off, and for a few bucks, you can have a photo made with a genuine, hung-over, pot-bellied Cherokee Indian in war dress. I pass on the golden opportunity. And apparently so do most other vistors as the warriors are mostly slumped and asleep in front of their respective emporia. But driving out of Cherokee and into the Smokies is something else. The tacky town ends abruptly, as if by decree, and the park begins. There is little left of the hand of man in these half million acres, finally something to be thankful for. There has to be some respite from tawdry billboards and caged black bears strategically placed to swindle hard earned tourist dollars. The Oconaluftee Highway across the mountains is 30 miles and several hours of pure joy. It winds through a dappled broad-leaved forest, some of it still virgin, under singing skies, across dancing waters, just like the brochure said. Every so often are lookout points so I can pull over and yodel at the views. The mountains fade to a distant horizon, colored in green and blue under the famed smoky haze for which this park is named. In the rolling vastness of trees there is not one sign of humanity, not a single house or road spoils my view. My only companions are silence and the crystalline sky, clear but for a far-off puff of cumulus, drifting along and casting a shadow on some unnamed peak.

© Danny Kimberlin 2015