Yard sale
August 11, 2015

"Are you here for the yard sale?"  That question was posed to us as we checked into our RV park near Crossville, Tennessee, and left us feeling quizzical.

Our confusion about the idea of coming to camp because of a yard sale was allayed when we ventured out Saturday morning to go fishing.  Turned the corner and came to a stop . . . in the highway . . . for a long time, finally proceeding in stop-and-stop traffic for miles.  We had arrived unsuspectingly smack-dab in the midst of what is billed as the world's longest yard sale (Eat your heart out, Shannon).

For two decades, this has been happening along the US 127 corridor, now expanded from 450 miles by an additional 180 miles, it now stretches from the Ohio/Michigan border to Gadsden, Alabama, in a serpentine route.  For four days in August, the route is lined with roadside sale after sale, bazaars, commercial encampments, all in a fair-like atmosphere - from modest residential offerings to packed parking lots filled with vendors, thousands of people vying for parking places.

So that was why it was hard to find an RV space . . . and why the place cleared out afterward.

Fishing, hopefully . . .

After exhibiting the utmost in patience by creeping slowly along whilst all those erstwhile shoppers inched their vehicles in and out of their niches along the road and carted their bags and boxes of finds through traffic (it's not like we could extricate ourselves from the car conga line), we made our way to the Cumberland State Park office to purchase fishing licenses, our big splurge to celebrate staying in one state long enough to justify it.

Sorry, so sorry, but the computer went down before our permits could be issued.  Just go on down the road to the sawmill market, the clerk suggested; our licenses could be bought there.  

Sorry, so sorry, said the Sawmill Market man: I don't sell fishing licenses.  Head over to the corner market.

Sorry, so sorry, said the corner market lady after working hard to remove a lot of detrius from atop the license machine hidden on a back shelf; the printer won't work.  Hmmm. . . maybe we weren't supposed to fish?

Unable to help ourselves, we inquired at a convenience store miles away that was on a river road.  Sorry, so sorry, they don't sell them.

Persistence does pay off, though - the fifth place we tried not only sold licenses, their computer worked, their printer worked and they presented us with 10-day fishing permits, which we utilized in several lakes, rivers and creeks.

Cumberland Plateau . . .

Truth be told, I have stood on the bank of so many bodies of water in the past few days that one might as well be the next one.  There was the Obed Wild & Scenic, the Emory, Clear Creek, Watt's Bar, Fall Creek Falls Lake, to name a very few.  We caught fish in some, others not so much, but all were interesting in their own way.

We wandered back roads through the Catoosa Wildlife Management Area and a multitude of other Tennessee backwoods regions, sometimes going in circles, but always marveling at the beauty of the landscape.  We did quite an explore of the Cumberland Plateau, an intriguing region that will surely draw us back.

 

 Fall Creek Falls . . .

A couple of days later, my legs are still sore from our waterfall quest on Fall Creek.  The initial stretch was moderate, although rough enough over webs of tree roots and rocks that I was astounded when we met a blind woman and her companions returning from their hike.  She utilized her cane ably and followed directions as she slowly and smilingly made her way.  I told her she was my hero for making that trek.

A blind woman makes her way back from a hike to "see" a waterfall.

When we gained our vantage point of the primary waterfall, a spectacular sight, we realized that the trail continued to the base of the cascade; therefore onward we must.  The climb was steep, as it needed to be, and bouldery, a clamber that was rewarded as we enjoyed a different perspective, downside up.

I photographed several waterfalls, beautiful every one, from upside, downside, every side I could, and not a one of them begins to convey the sight.  At 256 feet, Fall Creek Falls is the highest free-falling waterfall east of the Mississippi.

Our reverie was interrupted by a Tennessee gully-washer that had been threatening for a while.  Taking shelter under a large rock overhang, our intention was to wait it out, but patience grew thin and we ventured out as the storm lightened.  

Chris' prophetic words, "It's getting darker; I hope it doesn't rain again before we get out", were scarcely uttered before it commenced to downpour, continuing for the remainder of the hike.  I tried to shelter the camera under my shirt and by hunching over it slightly; somehow, it came through unscathed despite we two bedraggled beings becoming drenched.

It soon became clear that soaked clothing does not dry quickly in environments such as that as it does in more arid climes.  Our (dis)comfort level precipitated by being clad in sodden clammy clinging clothing precluded much more in the way of sightseeing on that afternoon.

 Somewhere during that day, there occurred a crossing, two actually, of a suspension bridge swaying precariously over a deep gorge, a very long bridge that insisted upon acting as if unseen persons of villainous intent were jumping up and down somewhere along its length, causing it to feel as if it were about to loosen from its anchors and plunge anyone upon its unsteady span to be dashed upon the rocks far below.

I accused Chris of such activity; however, it was obvious he was innocent (then, at least).  The bridge was bad enough that some of higher intelligence who began a crossing turned back before proceeding very far.  We, however, ventured across the entire span, necessitating our return the same way, except that on the return, we were in the midst of a thunder storm, thus stuck out in the middle of a gorge while lightning flashed overhead.

Even with only two on the bridge, it felt as it were about to buck us off, no matter how carefully we trod.

 Spring Lake, a swan? . . .

The Spring Lake RV park was a nice surprise with its pleasant sites on the pond banks and swings, tables and grills at each site.  I was immediately lulled into a nap by the fountain after watching a kingfisher repeatedly diving into the water.  Three resident wood ducks were fun to watch, although the one with three young soon became the mother of only two.

And that swan out there . . . not moving . . . was disappointingly fake, a ploy to warn off geese that might want to hang out there.  I was told by a fellow camper that nesting swans are known to be aggressively territorial, thus deterring geese from choosing those places to raise their ruckuses.

 Seals . . .

We were not ancestor hunting at that spot; our many Tennessee forebears resided primarily in other sections of the state, but I called a halt to our forward movement nevertheless when I spotted a turnoff for a Seals cemetery, that being the name of my three greats grandmother who was from Tennessee and whose ancestry I know little about.

We saw no markers that could be ancestral, but I have little doubt that kin are buried there. 

As is absurdly obvious to anyone who knows me, I am passionate about knowing my ancestors (and everyone else's, for that matter).  To locate historical records relating to the relatives is interesting; however, actually being in the places where they lived is positively transporting for me.  Seeing names on a map and reading about the locations is one thing - being there and seeing the landscape they saw brings a whole new perspective and understanding.

Bunting! . . .

During our wanderings there, we added several birds to the trip list: eastern kingbird and Savannah sparrow, but by far, my favorite was the indigo bunting.  What a startlingly beautiful bird it is!  As we left a non-productive fishing spot, we stopped to see what exciting finds might be on an island rookery we were passing.  Nothing new out yonder, but the bunting landed on vegetation in the forefront of my line of sight.

Adventures with Petey . . .

Just before we left North Carolina for the second time, we fulfilled an earlier promise to Petey, Dad's caregiver, to troop off in the woods with her to fish in a mill pond.  That was a fun couple of hours: I was the only one willing to go out on the dilapidated collapsing dock and I was the only one who caught fish.  Chris got hooked up with a monstrously huge snapping turtle that was too heavy to land, and Petey carted home a nice stringer of bream to fry up for supper.

Many a fine, some not so fine, abode has been abandoned in those Tennessee hills.

Gasoline, the non-ethanol type, was down to $2.01 before prices began to climb again.  The ethanol additive is definitely frowned upon in those parts.