A final North Carolina week
October 22, 2009

I have determined to write a bit while we are enroute to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Chris’ chosen destination that has continually been shunted to the bottom of the list. It’s a longish drive from here, perhaps 70 miles. The prospect of additional driving was not all that exciting to me, but C held out the strong possibility of spotting bears to entice me to agree to the journey.

Speaking of bears, I saw a news article recently about a llama being mauled by a bear. Seems its owners raised sheep and kept the llama as a guard animal, a practice I had not heard of, but which seems to be common in these parts. Obviously, the llama protects against coyotes and dogs, but a bear is an entirely different matter.

In the course of the article, I learned that bears are thriving in western North Carolina (WNC is the common reference to this geographic region. North Carolina encompasses a wide and diverse area, thus the major three sections - WNC or mountains, the Piedmont and coastal - are referred to separately.) At any rate, WNC purportedly shelters approximately 10,000 bears, a figure that gives me pause. Even in such a vast area, it seems that I should be seeing bears all around me.

I have not, although they have been in Mom and Dad’s back yard, but today’s the day for my bear sightings.

Tarheels . . .

North Carolinians, and later their sports teams, have been called Tarheels, a moniker that seemed so obscure it caused me to do a bit of research. Sad to say, the research enlightened me very little in that regard. Evidently, the true origin of the name is lost in antiquity, leaving the arena wide open for speculation. I have copied a bit of Wikipedia’s take on it.

“The exact etymology of the nickname is unknown, but most experts believe its roots come from the fact that tar, pitch and turpentine created from the vast pine forests were one of North Carolina's most important exports early in the state's history.

Because the exact history of the term is unknown, many legends have developed to explain it. Many believe it to be a nickname given during the U.S. Civil War, because of the state's importance on the Confederate side, and the fact that the troops "stuck to their ranks like they had tar on their heels.

The earliest surviving written use of the term can be found in the diary of 2nd Lieutenant Jackson B. A. Lowrance who wrote the following on February 6, 1863 while in Pender County in southeastern North Carolina. "I know now what is meant by the Piney Woods of North Carolina and the idea occurs to me that it is no wonder we are called 'Tar Heels.”

There was much more; it all kinda made me wish I hadn’t been curious . . . I have dubbed North Carolina "the rocking chair state". There are few front porches that do not sport at least two rocking chairs. They are literally everywhere, even in institutional and commercial settings. I love the feeling that sight evokes: welcoming and relaxing with family and friends.

Weather, visiting, dogs . . .

We have been a bit stymied by the weather while we have been in Tryon and Flat Rock. Unseasonable cold, wind and rain have been the norm, but we are now relieved of weather worries for a couple of days. We broke out the coats and were required to turn off our water at night, lest Jack Frost do damage to the spigot. Mr. Frost did deposit ice, but only lightly, and has now departed the region for a spell.

We have spent most of our time with Mom & Dad W., of course, and enjoyed every minute of it. We’ve dined out some, Mom has cooked, we have cooked, and we’ve just generally had a bang-up time visiting, once with friend Rick joining us. One of the meals out, at The Hungry Fox, rewarded me with such a great meal that I shall add the dish to my repertoire. It was chicken breast glazed with hot wings sauce and topped by sautéed onions and bleu cheese - superb combination!

Their two new rescue dogs - Yorkshire terriers named Apache and Cheyenne - have added great amusement to the scene, especially “Pache” who is quite the clown.

The Beacon . . .

We were treated to lunch out in Spartanburg at The Beacon, established 1946 (a very good year, I might add), a place demanding mention. The iconic drive-in can seat 350 people, and is visited by national notables including presidents.

A description from their website: “Fast, loud, and big, The Beacon is the most intense restaurant you will ever visit. The moment you enter and approach the serving line, you are virtually accosted by an order-taker – J.C. Strobel, the senior man, if you’re lucky – who will demand, “CALL IT OUT!” (If you don’t arrive knowing what you want, sheaves of printed menus are available for study or as souvenirs near the door.) Say what you want to eat and say it quickly, or else JC will tell you to stand back and allow other, swifter customers to say their piece. On a good weekend day, The Beacon will serve five thousand people.

Once you manage to convey your order, J.C. or a comrade will shout it back to the huge open kitchen, then ask you in no uncertain terms to “MOVE ON DOWN THE LINE!” Grab a tray and by the time you have moved twenty paces forward, there your order will be – miraculously, exactly as you ordered it, with or without extra barbecue sauce, double bacon on the burger. A bit farther down the line, you get your tea, lemonade, or milk shake and pay the cashier, then find a seat. Total time from entering to digging in – maybe two minutes.”

We explored a couple of motor homes on the way home and did some Costco shopping.

John & Melissa, Mast General Store, Sunday drive . . .

Chris and I froze our buns off while on a short trip to the Mast General Store in historic Hendersonville. While there, I was thrilled to find a tree face of the type I admired at a Kansas RV park. We managed to fill a shopping bag there; what a fun place it is. They have an online presence, but you can’t beat wandering through there perusing everything from shoes and clothing to candy, kitchen ware, jelly and tools - a true general emporium and a very popular one.

Mom and I enjoyed a girls’ talk morning while Dad and Chris golfed.



























We brunched out with our friends John and Melissa on Sunday at a great pancake house - The Fireside. I miss having J&M in Prescott, but acknowledge that they are in their element in Melissa’s native North Carolina. It was fun, as always, to have time with them, and to hear about their new, first grandbaby.

We enjoyed one small Sunday drive on Tuesday, wandering alongside the Pacolet River, having no idea where the road would lead us. It was through a softly wooded area as the river wound around hills and skirted horse farms. It was fun to spot a flock of wild turkeys. We stopped to watch them climb a steep road cut, all except one that couldn’t manage the climb. In danger of being left behind, he did what seems like the obvious and flew.

Cowpens, Cooley Farm . . .

One day, C and I went to the Cowpens National Battlefield, a Revolutionary War site we have wanted to visit. That battle was pivotal in turning the tide in favor of the Colonials. General Daniel Morgan’s strategy in luring the Brit’s General Banastre Tarleton into a trap was well planned and executed, resulting in the American forces taking many prisoners in less than an hour with very little loss of life.

The visitor center showed a film that did a nice job of explaining the encounter. The battlefield is accessed by a walking trail with interpretative signs at each place Morgan posted his regulars, cavalry and militia as they awaited Tarleton’s approach, making it easy to visualize exactly what transpired. Various things we read indicated that the area was basically open woods with little underbrush, often utilized to pasture cattle before they were shipped to market in Charleston. Restoration is taking place; the area seems close to the 1781 descriptions.

The site’s trail is a section of the historic Green River Road, and so continues on past the actual battlefield. The sun was out, the birds were flitting and the air was comfortably hikable, so we extended our walk to and past the Robert Scruggs house, an 1828 log cabin that was in its early years part of a small settlement. We enjoyed talking to the volunteer who was manning the place; he is a retired Charleston police officer. Seeing him sitting alone on the front porch as we approached made it seem as if we had walked back in time.

As we wandered here and there, we added two birds to our trip list: yellow-bellied sapsucker and cedar waxwing. I also picked a small fruit left hanging on a leafless tree and carried it until we located a local to identify it. It was a persimmon, which Chris had ventured to guess. How does one reach the venerable age of 63 without knowing what a persimmon is???






















On our way back from Cowpens (it’s in South Carolina), we were astounded at the vast peach orchards and strawberry fields along the way. In the midst of it, we stopped at Cooley’s farm stand and got some information about it, in addition to some great pecan cinnamon bread and apple butter. They have under cultivation a whopping 800 acres of peaches, 80 acres of strawberries and 40 acres of blackberries. My mind balks at the thought of organizing those harvests. The strawberries were in orderly plastic-mulched fields with American flags proudly waving at the ends of rows. A billboard proclaimed it “Strawberry Hill, U.S.A.” Surprisingly, they replant the entire strawberry crop every year.

Boiled peanuts, haircuts . . .

At Cooley’s, we experienced an “event”. Throughout the South, one sees sign after sign offering boiled peanuts. For years, I have been saying I wanted to sample that fare, so when we spotted said legume being placed out for sale, we requested a trial. What an incredible mistake that was! What are those people thinking to pay real money and eat that horror? It was hours before I erased the taste and thought of it. I would describe it if I were able; however, words fail me. To say that they taste like horrid salty mush does not come close.

Back in Tryon, we shaggy two got our hairs cut by Paula as recommended by Mom & Dad - what a relief - we were looking pretty disreputable and she did a nice job while imparting lots of helpful information about great RVing destinations in the South, primarily North Carolina and Florida. I made notes to use on a return trip.

Dad enabled us to get our flu shots, another necessary that is complicated by being away from home.

More Blue Ridge Parkway, Great Smoky Mountains . . .






















We are returning from our big day in the Smoky Mountains. We got there via a part of the Blue Ridge Parkway that was new to us and returned through the Cherokee Reservation, a traffic congestion nightmare in its commercial center. Of course we made only the slightest dent in seeing the park, another of those “must returns” for sure.

The Blue Ridge Parkway afforded many beautiful stops along the approach. We climbed to somewhere around 6,000 feet elevation: doesn’t sound like much compared to our western heights but it was spectacular here to look out across the autumn-hued Appalachians with one hazy blue range following another into the distance.

At one overlook, we were startled to see included on the interpretative sign a quote from a book authored by Rita Cantu, a fellow Prescottonian and a member of our church. I didn't even know she wrote, for crying out pete's sake, and of course she sings beautifully too.






















We loved the Oconaluftee River that rushed along the canyon bottom through Cherokee country - a great trout stream for sure. Interesting places we saw on another section of the Parkway were the Altapass Orchard - centenarian orchard turned cultural center - and the bed and information about the Clinchfield Railroad that brought the outside world to much of the Appalachians. Difficult and slow to traverse even now, it’s plainly evident why the mountain people remained so isolated. It was quite simply nearly impossible to move around for any distance at all within the confines of the seemingly-forever steep slopes.

Mingus Mill, Clingman’s Dome . . .

Our first non-scenery stop was at the Mingus Mill, a fascinating restored 19th century gristmill that is busy gristing away. It is powered by a turbine that is fed water dropped down a wooden chute after being transported from the creek via a long hillside flume and another supported on something like a railroad trestle.

Extremely fascinating to see the operation and to examine both floors of the mill, watching the corn being ground.

Our big exertion was to climb to the top of Clingman’s Dome. The sign says it is a half-mile climb, but I know for sure that’s a big fat lie. I would have stopped at about halfway, but seeing the people returning from up top who were some of the most unlikely hikers you ever saw caused me too much shame to give it up. I may have overstated the case just a bit, but not by much.

Anyway, it was pretty cool up there with a stupendous lookout tower that allows absolutely knockout 360-degree views for many, many miles across the mountains. Actually, everything up there is just gorgeous - just one awesome sight after another.

At one point, I spotted a UO, unidentified object, below the road so there was nothing for it but to force my weary legs out of the Toter to see what was what. Down in the canyon, we found a spring and accompanying spring house and an old road that required we strike off along it. It was quietly beautiful down there and a welcome walk after the crowds at Clingman’s Dome. C says Smoky Mountain Park is the most visited in the country with 9 million visitors per year - twice the volume of Grand Canyon. This is one of Chris’ pronouncements that makes me say, “No way”, but as usual, he turns out to be correct.

Historic trails and roads . . .






















We walked a bit on the Appalachian Trail so as to find a quiet place to picnic. We snacked and I spent even more time trying to get our self-portrait. Of course, the handy dandy little twistable tripod that Suzie gave me was stowed carefully back in the truck, so I spent considerable time semi-reclining in the damp forest duff while willing the camera to remain in whatever semi-sliding position I placed it, requiring a large number of attempts to get it balanced, push the timer shutter button without dislodging the camera, climb over logs, slip and slide down the slimy leafy slope to gain my position beside C in time to plaster a smile on my face. Quite a few feeble attempts before a satisfactory solution was reached. One can only wonder what urges me on to these convoluted charades or even why the thought arrives unchecked into my mind. . .

We came across another interesting place, Indian Gap Road, or at least a remnant of the former Indian trail that was later enlarged only slightly to become the major north/south route through the Great Smokies in 1830 until the Newfound Gap Road was developed in the 1850s. Seems the Indian Gap was long thought to be the lowest pass through the mountains until Newfound was explored, thus its name is the description of its discovery.






















We saw a fascinating photo of a long-ago endeavor on the road, men utilizing a sled to transport a load. Evidently, that was a common way to transport through there, possibly because of the rough rocky surface. Obviously, a sled would be far easier to construct and to repair.

Alas, despite extensive time in WNC’s mountains, nary a bear ventured into our sight.

This ‘n that . . .

Remnants of Halley’s Comet, the Orionids meteor shower, has come and gone without my venturing out to view the show. I hate to miss anything excitingly celestial (for that matter, I hate to miss anything excitingly earthbound). Note to self: kick self for forgetting the meteor shower.

I nominate Harris Teeter as my favorite grocery store ever. They abound in this area; perhaps they will branch out to Prescott? Wonderfully and attractively stocked, they are a pleasure to shop in, and besides, I love the name; it has a certain presence.

Most unexpected mailbox display spotted in North Carolina: A mailbox with an impressive prickly pear cactus guarding it.

Thursday: I’ve been trying not to dwell on this being our last day with Mom & Dad, but departure looms. Very sad to be so far away. The good news is that we will soon be in Florida visiting son Darren, who is sadly also a great distance from us. This is not how families are supposed to be, methinks. And to top it off, brother David who has been in our home area for quite a while departed for Minnesota today. Oh well, one more place to run around to (right after we upgrade to a larger RV - hint, hint).

As guilt tugs on my heartstrings, I end this episode: Chris is washing the outside of the trailer and here I sit enjoying my little journal - must clean . . .