Day 3: And on a Thursday, They Rested
This is a simple post about the day we thought we might do and what we actually did.
In my mind, the goal for today was to road trip to Cummings Falls State Park (about 1h45m from Decatur), swim around for a couple of hours, drive back. Get some late lunch, and paddle for a couple of hours. Here’s why none of that happened.
Accuweather had said that it might rain around 2 near the park, and the park said that the hike was far more dangerous if it rained. Having already endured one rainy hike, I didn’t feel like subjecting Red to this; so if we were going, we would need to get up early. I first looked at the clock at 7:20, realized that I needed to get out of bed if we were going to hike today, then went back to sleep for another two hours. I generally say that if your body makes you sleep, you should take it.
I got up and texted Marcie. She was already in town, but would come back and meet us. By the time Red finally got out of bed, we both agreed it was time to get some real breakfast after yesterday’s oatmeal debacle. She comes to pick us up, and we roll into Decatur listening to Willie’s Roadhouse on the radio. Red seems a bit grumpy and half asleep. It could be that she’s usually a rap and pop fan, so this music isn’t her thing, but to be honest, we’re both kind of shot after the long hike and drive.

The local diner had breakfast all day. Marcie had already eaten, so she had a mid-morning snack of pie and ice cream. (Don’t worry, Marcie: Olive loves ice cream for breakfast , too)
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=ehkoxac4gdM

The pancakes were nice and had a cake like quality. The grits, however, were an affront to Southern Culture everywhere, and when a transplanted Northerner knows that, it’s obvious. These were not magic grits. Even Vinny had more respect for grits than this soupy mess. Take pride in your grits. Usually, I put them on my eggs to mash them up, but that was impossible with this soup, so the eggs went in the bowl in a sloppy mess.
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=pWC0sKCS5oA&t=26s
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=_T24lHnB7N8&t=25s
After breakfast, we hit the Piggly Wiggly to get some boating snacks and Red is limping around the store like The Walking Dead because of her sting. We don’t find a bone saw and local anesthetic at The Pig, so Red is content to have ice packs on her ankle. I’ve been reading up on wasp stings all morning, and it seems that cold compression, allergy meds, and patience are all we need, and Red is holding up like a trooper.
We head back to the cabin and agree to chill. It’s supposed to rain around 2, and once it stops, we’ll get ready to hit the lake. So, we spend a relaxing couple of hours in complete sloth, starting by the intense study of a goose swimming around the pond: Red then tries to teach me Phase 10 on a regular set of cards; I go on the porch to write for a bit, and she joins me. The predicted afternoon shower rolls in as we idly muse on the eating and social habits of North American cattle across the road.
Around 3:30 the shower has subsided and we begin to put the boats on Marcie’s truck. Our plan is to drop off my Honda at the Blythe Ferry Rd. boat ramp, drive back up the southern bank of the river and paddle 8 miles on the Class 1A portion of the Hiawassee River, ending up at the Hiawassee Nature Preserve where the Tennessee and the Hiawassee meet. We’d take out at Blythe Ferry, call Marcie, then get some dinner. It will be the first time I’ve taken Red on a river paddle after two short lake trips, but it seems calm enough and she seems up for it.


The skies were beautiful at the farm, and our timing of the weather seems to have worked. But when we crossed the river the first time, the clouds sat ponderously and grey on the river to our right, a thick fog. It’s not uncommon to wait out a storm, but the weather definitely now has my attention. As we come off the river, we got some sprinkles, but then came into sun again. As we turned back toward the river, the rain returned, this time more seriously. Then the thunder. Then the lighting—thick, violent strands heading straight down. We returned to the river at Blythe Ferry, and the lake’s choppy waves over the vast expanse where the Tennessee and Hiawassee meet seems more a violent ocean with white caps than a calm, mountain river.

Red says, “Uncle Mark, I don’t want to paddle in the rain.” And while I have paddled in the rain, this was not how I wanted to give Red her first river trip.
“Me either.”
My hope had held out that the storm would blow over, but I wasn’t going to put us in that position just because I want to get on the water, just because I’ve taken these stupid boats over 500 miles, making sure they don’t fall off, just because I don’t want that to be for nothing. As time was bearing down on us, where we would have to put in or abort due to the time to make it down the river, we pulled the string, headed back to the farm. This idyllic mountain paddle down the river would have to be shelved for another road trip.
We cleaned up and went into Athens for dinner, surveying the small town Tennessee life, cruising around listening to old country music. The local diner, the Wal-Mart for a deck of Phase 10 so Alyssa can teach us all to play, the local Dairy Barn where all the cool kids come to hang out on the weekends like a scene out of Dazed and Confused. I think Red is starting to get into some of the music (if at least, mockingly) as Marcie and I bellow it out. She asks me about “Don’t Take Your Guns to Town” and I tell her we can hear it tomorrow on the ride home. Back down the road through the mountains to the farm, the sun sets in majesty.
“You’ve chosen a really beautiful corner of the word to retire in,” I tell Marcie.
“Isn’t it?”


Back at the farm, John and I talked guitars, then we migrated to the kitchen table. Red taught us how to play Phase 10. Under our feet, a trio of canines–Bella, Gracie Boston Terriers), and Pickles McGee, the undisputed star of the show–scurried, nosing up for scratches and belly rubs. There were no epic outdoor adventures today; there was no sorrow over this fact. Around 11, we called the game, as we all had to rise in the morning.
When we returned to the cabin, I reached in my back seat to get something out of the dry sack and couldn’t find it. I went inside the cabin to see it staring at me on the table. Even if I had gotten my boat to the water, I would’ve realized that I would be doing it without provisions. Possible? Yes. Optimal? No. I texted Marcie to let her know the cruel joke.
“Guess it wasn’t meant to be,” she quipped. I usually don’t believe in that fatalistic sentiment , but as we went to bed, I had to admit that the slow pace of the day was just as nice as anything else we could’ve done. I played a little guitar, then headed to bed.
Day 4: The Road that Goes Home and Hopefully Returns
We’re out the door to meet John and Marcie at Cracker Barrel in Athens. I’m truly blessed to have them in my family, and I always love visiting them, even if I don’t always get to go kayaking in the rivers near their house. Last night, we simply around the table– playing cards with them, scratching the dogs, being goofy–it fills me with love The added bonus that I’ve found so many places near them that I’d like to explore ensures that I’ll make my way back here soon. Friday was all about heading home with one detour, but it was a day that added many possible spots to the “Future Road Trips” file.
We leave Athens around 10 and are near Knoxville close to 11. A slight turn on 140 and on to 321 puts us in the direction of Townshend, one of quite a few towns on the border of the Great Smoky Mtns National Park. From here, our trip will take us up 321, which is a combination of back roads taking us through Pigeon Forge and Gatlinburg before re-emerging on 40 east to take us home. All three towns skirt the National Park offering access to the natural recreation (rafting, hiking) while also offering plenty of kitschy touristy crap.

Our destination today, however, is the Townsend Wye. Just outside the town limits, it’s a local swimming hole where a creek splits at two large pools. People frequently begin a tubing trip here and float all the way back into town, stopping at restaurants or campground along the way. For us, it’s an hour or so for a swim, then back on the road.

Because of its easy accessibility, the beach is full. I put up a hammock in the trees and proceed to jump in. Red is a bit more reticent to make acquaintance with the cold water. She’s got goosebumps on her goosebumps. I try to tell her it’s not so bad once you jump in, but she’s climbing on me like Marion and Indy in the Well of Souls. So, we get out and walk to the upper pool, where a rock ledge provides the swimmers with a launching point. I finally get her to dunk all the way in. Then she suns herself like a lizard on a rock while I swim a few more times. The sky is perfect. The trees sway. Despite all the people, it is a beautiful place to be on a summer afternoon. We walk back down to the hammock and take about ten minutes to loll in the sun.


As we’re heading back to the car, I ask Red if she wants to go see The Sinks, another set of waterfalls, of she just wants to grab some lunch and head home. It’s about 1:30, so if we leave now, we’ll get home around 7.
“Is it okay if we just head home?”
It sure is. There’s plenty to see in this area that we haven’t. The Sinks; Cades Cove, where it’s apparently super easy to spot black bears; The Tuckaleechee Caverns, with a cave the size of a football field; The entirety of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, with all its potential hiking. All these get filed away for future trips when we’re not trying to get home. There’s no need to rush. Perhaps when we plan our next road trip, we can consider all these as their own destinations, not just quick afterthoughts on the road home. In exploration, you often make new discoveries about the world. We have discovered plenty more to explore in road trips to come.
But for now, it’s time for the last part of the road trip. Back in town. Grab lunch, where Red gets her burger and fries and I get a chicken sandwich and a smoothie. Then it’s onward and eastward and homeward. We skirt Pigeon Forge, then through Gatlinburg–in mid-July: we just hit town, but our throats weren’t dry– just enough to see the mini-Golf courses and go-kart tracks. No saloons. No streets of mud. We drive slowly through two-lane roads through RV campground after RV campground. Soon, a glisten appears to the right, as we ride parallel the wide and massive Pigeon River (definitely to be added to the list to explore), then turn east on 40
Red is in and out of sleep most of the way home. But her head pops up from time to time in fascination. Riding with her over four days is seeing the world through a twelve-year-old’s eyes—a mixture of childlike wonder and surprising wisdom. We cross into NC, and through the two tunnels on 40, and her wonder is as palpable as when she first saw the valley—after all, she’s never been through tunnels before. I put Johnny Cash on the CD changer (an absolute must for any road trip), trying to keep my promises. She sings along, warning young Billy not to take his guns to town as we roll back closer to the city. A Ray Charles cover of “Ring of Fire” comes on, and after the chorus starts she declares that she likes the original much, much better. I’m often caught off guard by her seeing something for the first time; I’m equally often amazed at all the things she knows. She seems happy despite the obstacles; she rolls with the punches; and as I take her guns back to town, she can be my road-trip shotgun anytime. I’m already planning the next one in my mind.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=WZExIPu5WTo