Category: Fun

With not a whole lot going on, I decided to rerun a post from three years ago about a camping trip to the Cherokee National Forest, my favorite place in the entire world to recoup and regroup (and a place I plan to visit very soon). I was camping with my fishing club, the Appalachian Anglers Society.  I had to leave camp for one day and return to Knoxville for engagement I could not reschedule. An account of the events of that morning are in the following paragraphs.

The Appalachian Anglers Society had assembled in the McNabb Creek campground for its annual gathering, an event known as Camp II. I arrived on Wednesday, a bit earlier than most, to secure an optimal camping spot for Bertha (trailer) and Sophie (truck). In the days leading up to Camp II, weather reporters had been predicting heavy rain and high winds during the time we would be camping. Inclement weather has been a part of Camp II for most of the 39 years I have attended, and no prediction would prevent me or anyone else from attending this year.

The first night of camp was relatively uneventful insofar as the weather was concerned, and the handful of campers enjoyed a casual evening around the campfire. On Thursday morning, the weather reports proved to be accurate. High winds arrived around 6:30, and several tarps collapsed.

McNabb Creek campground sits near the bottom of a bowl-shaped valley that is bisected by the North River. I had just poured my first cup of coffee when I decided to step outside of the trailer for a breath mountain morning air. Once out, I could see the tops of the enormous pine and poplar trees surrounding our campground bending with the quickening winds coming across the upper reaches of the valley. In the distance, I could hear limbs cracking as they surrendered.

I had a few hours until it was time to load a few things into Sophie for the hour and a half trip back to Knoxville for an engagement I was unable to reschedule, but, with rain on the way, I decided to leave earlier than I intended rather than sit around and wait for it to arrive. As much as I hated to leave Bertha behind, I had positioned her well and felt sure that everything would be ok.

8:30 am: I left McNabb Creek. With a little time to spare, I turned left out of the campground amid a few sprinkles and drove a mile or so along North River to check out North River Campground. I wanted to see if it was suitable for a future trip with Bertha and Helen. The campground was empty, but even if it was full, I reasoned that it would be no problem to back Bertha into any of the campsites. Pleased with this discovery, I returned to the road, and within minutes Sophie was engulfed in torrential rainfall.

By the time I reached River Road, the main road back to the town of Tellico Plains, trees everywhere were swaying frantically in the gusting winds.  Leaves and small limbs covered the way. A large tree had fallen over the Tellico River. The crown of the tree rested on the entire left side of the road. As I rounded the next curve, a Forest Ranger was approaching from the opposite direction.  I flashed my lights to warn him of the impending danger.

I drove around several more trees before reaching Bald River Falls.  The rain had subsided somewhat, and I wanted to take a picture of the falls, now gushing from the earlier rainfall.  In hindsight, I could have made better use of my time.

Now, back behind the wheel of Sophie, I crossed the bridge at the falls, which placed the river on my right, and drove for another mile only to find a huge tree blocking the entire road. The root ball, a mass of dirt and twisted roots about as large as Sophie, was balanced precariously on the side of the mountain some twenty feet above the road. Resigned to the fact that I wasn’t going anywhere soon, I decided to return to McNabb Creek and hope that the Ranger I passed was meeting fellow Rangers, equipped with very sharp chainsaws. Once again, rain fell in buckets.

Driving back toward camp, I noticed that several more trees had come down since my earlier departure.  Turning left onto North River Road, I ran smack into a roadblock created by an oversized pine tree. I was now blocked in both directions as the wind gusts picked up in frequency and intensity.  My options at this point were to leave Sophie and walk the two miles back to camp in the driving rain and wait it out in Bertha or, turn around once again and drive a short distance down River Road to a small picnic area with the hope that a road clearing crew would come to our rescue. I chose the latter.

Barely a half a mile back down River Road, I witnessed a Birch tree drop from the right side of the road about 200 yards in front of me. I drove up to the trunk. Although the tree wasn’t substantial, it was too large for Sophie to climb, too large to move by hand, and I had no saw. I was stranded. I turned the key and shut Sophie down. By now, the winds were gusting hard, and, with each gust, I could hear another tree fall somewhere in the forest.

Just beyond the Birch tree, a crow flew in suddenly and landed on the road.  He was the curious sort and walked to and fro along the tree trunk as if inspecting the damage. Simultaneously with the crow’s arrival, a massive gust of wind shook Sophie, and, in the woods above me, I could hear the unmistakable sound of a very sizeable tree hitting the earth with a resounding thud.  I was startled, but the crow only moved enough to look straight at me. Recalling Poe’s epic poem The Raven, I named him “Nevermore.” Another limb hit the road. Nevermore flew to a small tree beside the road and waited there. For what I wondered? Perhaps he was sent to witness my demise. I trained my thoughts elsewhere.

10:00 am: I realized that I had no food, but I wasn’t hungry. I had no water either except for some melting ice still in my cooler. Next to the cooler was a box with five bottles of Perrier, a 750 ml bottle of Scotch, and two bottles of cheap red wine. Casting a glance toward the rising river, I had difficulty in deciding which to drink first.  I opted for the Perrier.

10:35 am: The rain had trailed off to a sprinkle, and the wind eased. I assumed that I was now in the eye of the storm as it was passing over the region.  Soon the winds and rain would begin again.  Taking advantage of the break, I moved Sophie to a new place on the road and out from under a tall pine that had been swaying wildly in the high winds. I don’t know that I was any safer, but somehow, I felt so. Nevermore remained on his perch…

11:00 am: About the time I needed a bathroom break, the rain returned. After ruling out the use of an empty Perrier bottle, I reluctantly decided it was time to get wet. I grabbed my raincoat and stepped outside. On the far side of the river, another tree fell.

11:30 am: No sign of anyone as of yet. I continued to believe that a crew of Rangers would arrive and remove the trees. Surely they were working by now and would reach me eventually. I also felt that some campers might come along soon.  Campers always have chainsaws…all campers except me. It’s been years since I was a seasoned camper.  I made a note to bring a saw with me when I returned from Knoxville.

11:45 am: I tried the cell phone, knowing that it was an exercise in futility.  There are no towers in the National Forest. I tried the CB radio I kept in Sophie, hearing nothing but static. A softly gurgled “croak” from Nevermore was barely audible from the tree above.

11:50 am: I started Sophie and turned on the radio.  I hoped that Garrison Keillor would keep me entertained for a few minutes, and then I could find some news somewhere.  I always listen to Writer’s Almanac from NPR. Garrison told the story of Peter Minuet’s arrival in New York in 1625. I was grateful for the distraction because the river had risen a few more inches, and no rocks were visible now.

Noon: A radio station in Knoxville came in sufficiently enough to hear the news, which was all about the wind gusts expected to reach 80 mph and the downpours that would follow. “Swell,” I thought. I refused to panic and kept the radio on, so Rush Limbaugh could ride out the storm with me. Sophie’s gas tank was two-thirds full, and I had probably three gallons in a gasoline container for my generator in the back. I opened another bottle of Perrier.  Thankfully, I was still not hungry.

12:30 pm, and I felt the need for another bathroom break.  I left the truck in the driving rain, hopeful that I would hear chainsaws in the distance, but no luck. Nevermore was hunkered down in the storm but watching my every move.

1:00 pm: By now, I was stranded for three hours and, while hopeful that help would arrive soon, I was beginning to resign myself to the fact that I would be spending the night somewhere in the forest.  I worried that Helen would be looking for me, and I had no way to contact her.  If the rain subsided, I would move Sophie to the side of the road (away from the river) and walk the now two and a half miles back to McNabb Creek, where there would be food and a dry bed inside Bertha. Thinking of food, I reached for another bottle of Perrier, opened it, and took a drink.  When I put down the bottle, I looked to my left and was staring straight into a pickup truck and the smiling faces of three men there to rescue me. I could have kissed all three.

These men were huge guys who lived on the mountain and had ventured out in the rain and wind, knowing there were people like me in need of help. Each had a large chainsaw and cut up the birch tree in less than a minute. I was so gleeful about being rescued that I neglected to take pictures of their work.  The photos here are not my rescue party, but readers will get the idea. I followed them down the road to the edge of the National Forest. 

In the three hours of waiting, many trees fell and, it took a while to pass through them.  One tree was lodged overhead between two other trees and stretched from one side of the road to the other. It was sitting low enough that there would be no way to get Bertha underneath.  Thankfully, all was clear when I left the area on Sunday.

At the edge of the forest, the line of cars pointed in the opposite direction stretched for almost a mile.  All expressed their gratitude to the timber cutters as they drove around some downed trees onto the freshly cleared roadway. Like me, several offered to pay them for their efforts, but these hearty souls only wanted to help and refused all offers.

Somehow, these men will be rewarded in some way someday, of that, I remain convinced. After thanking them once more, I left the area and made my way to Knoxville. I’m forever grateful that there are still good people in this world.

Nevertheless, I’m equally convinced that Nevermore left frustrated. While the Raven watched, my guardian angels arrived, denying him the opportunity to witness a perilous sequence of events. As he gave us a muted “croak,” Nevermore departed for places unknown.

Easin’ Along never felt better.

No, we’re not sick. Actually, we’re feeling pretty good. The same is true for our friends and family.  As of today, there is only one case of COVID-19 diagnosed in our county and not that many more in the State of Tennessee. We’re grateful for that and send thanks and best wishes to our health care workers and our state officials after taking swift, decisive action. However, this week the coronavirus outbreak removed two RVers from the road.

The fact that we’re in good health at the moment is what makes this situation so incredibly disappointing. Helen and I have spent the last month preparing for an RV trip to the west coast to deliver a new travel trailer to our son and our grandchildren. Ever since we won the trailer last October, we planned to take a slow trip to California and present our grandchildren with the opportunity to share the RV experience that we enjoy so much.

We didn’t cancel the trip.  The trip canceled us.  Beginning Monday of this week, the operators of campgrounds where we had reservations began sending out cancellation notices due to concerns over the spread of this virus. Cancellations from the California campgrounds were the first to arrive. Next came Oklahoma.  Finally, we received notice that our much-anticipated booking in Las Vegas was gone. It was like death from a thousand cuts.

I considered just going on the trip anyway but stopped short when I thought about being stranded somewhere with health, food, or road issues and no one to turn to for help. At that point, we both realized that the best thing to do was to postpone.  We called the family.  My granddaughter had just written a beautiful letter telling me how excited she was to meet Smoky (the name for trailer), and camp at Point Mugu, a military campground near Malibu Beach. She took the news in stride, and that helped. Everyone agreed that we would make this happen as soon as possible.

The next thing to do was to cancel the few reservations that were still open. I had devoted a lot of time to this task because RV reservations are often not easy to obtain on the dates you need them. After some tough navigating and remaining flexible, I was able to arrive at a very workable itinerary. Having to cancel them now was not at all easy.  Besides, I was so looking forward to seeing some Texas tumbleweeds and a few cowboys.  I was eager for some warm Arizona sun and a few of those stunning sunsets that we witnessed last year in Apache Junction. The timing for desert wildflowers was also going to be spot on, and that is an event that leaves one spellbound.

On trips like the one we planned, there are always fun surprises, and we look forward to those very much. One year ago this week, we visited San Antonio on St. Patrick’s Day and had a delightful time along the Riverwalk.  We enjoyed a food festival in El Centro, CA, and a street festival in Biloxi, MS.  I suppose that none of those events, or ones like them, will take place this year. That’s a shame but, it is what it is.

The only thing we can do is make the best of the time we have. I plan to view some webinars to improve my camera skills. There are always those home projects that get ignored or postponed while we take another road trip. My deck is in bad need of some attention. I have closets to clean out, a garage that needs organizing, and my tax return needs a thorough review. None of the above includes the lengthy “to-do” list that Helen adds to daily now that she has me somewhat confined and within arm’s reach.  I have pledged to convince her that she needs to get out more often.

All of this will pass in due course. I have to admit that my real concern is that, at our age, we never know how many opportunities like this we will have. Nevertheless, we have been so very blessed since we retired and have every expectation that opportunities like the ones we have enjoyed so much will continue.  If there is a silver lining arising from this most unusual time, it is that when those opportunities come again, we will cherish them even more.

Uh-oh…I hear footsteps. I’d better be Easin’ Along before another list finds its way into the man cave. Let’s talk again next week.

After an unexpected stopover in Titusville, Florida due to our frustrating and frightening experience with two blown tires on our fifth-wheel, Lucy, we canceled our reservation at Eagle Hammock RV Park at the Naval Submarine Base in King’s Bay, GA. The frightening part is understandable—blow-outs on a busy interstate highway are unsettling at best and downright scary at worst. The frustrating aspect of this experience came with the canceled reservation.  Helen and I looked forward to our first trip to Eagle Hammock because we visit that part of the country often and were eager to try out a new campground near the coast.

With one new tire and a spare mounted on Lucy, we decided to shorten our route to Knoxville because we had doubts about the lifespan of the two remaining tires on Lucy’s other side. Although the route we chose would take us through Atlanta’s heavy traffic, we would shave a few hundred miles off of our original plan and allow us to get home and replace the old tires. After checking out the options on the MilitaryLiving.com website, we placed a call to the Marine Logistics Base in Albany, GA and secured a campsite in the RV park for two nights. We arrived late in the afternoon and parked Lucy in a very spacious campsite under a large Live Oak tree. It wasn’t on the coast, but it wasn’t bad either.

The next morning, I received a call from a friend, and, in the course of our conversation, I told him we were in Albany. It turns out that my friend had visited the area many times in previous years to hunt quail on some prime hunting ground.  Albany, with its beautiful pine trees, numerous plantations, and pecan farms advertises itself as the quail hunting capital of the world. My friend told me of the many visits he made to those plantations and, he also told me about the best place to eat lunch in the entire State of Georgia—Abbott’s Grocery. Helen found it on Trip Advisor, accompanied with a high rating.

My friend described Abbott’s as a small country grocery with a hot food counter inside. The menu usually included such items as fried fish, fried chicken, smothered steak, collards, pinto beans, black-eyed peas and similar items all designed to fill up hungry southern boys during lunch after the morning hunting session.  Inside the store, it was usually standing-room-only during hunting season. Outside, the parking lot was just as full with hunters, bird dogs, and big pickup trucks.  As a return favor for sharing this gem with us, my friend asked us to pick up a sack of White Acre tiny peas for his wife’s Valentine Day present.  Assigned a mission now, we put Abbott’s on our busy schedule for lunch.

We found Abbott’s after a delightful drive through some of those plantations and pecan farms only to discover that Abbott’s was now Crossroads Market. Thinking that we might be in the wrong place, we drove around the building and spotted a sign for Abbott’s Meat Processing. We returned to the front of the market and went inside.  The market was no longer a small country store.  The shelves were full, the aisles well-lit, and there was a large butcher shop in the rear.

Around the corner from the butcher counter, a small dining area contained two or three tables and a counter for ordering food.  Today’s menu, a hand-written list of meals, lay next to a large tip jar. I had to order the vegetable soup and cornbread…so good. The number of customers was certainly not standing-room, but there was a steady crowd on hand to keep the kitchen staff busy. We finished our soup, tipped the cooks, and went in search of White Acre peas. We found them in the freezer on a shelf above the Mountain Oysters (don’t ask, but it’s a delicacy in these parts).

We bought two sacks of peas, including a sack for us, and some ham hocks to cook with them, then walked back outside.  As I stood in front of the market taking pictures for my friend, an elderly gentleman walked by.  We nodded at each other.  After walking ahead for about ten steps, he turned and came back to me and introduced himself as Mr. Abbott.

“I owned this store for 43 years,” he told me in a molasses-thick Georgia accent.

“I finally sold it, but I come in often to make sure they’re treating my customers right.  My son owns the meat plant in the rear. I taught him everything he knows and he’s making a killing,” he said with a slight chuckle.

I told him about the rave reviews my friend gave Abbott’s Grocery and all of the great meals he shared there with his hunting pals. Mr. Abbott seemed pleased to hear that.

“We served a lot of meals to those hunting fellas.  I got to be friends with a lot of them, and they came back every year. I miss those days, but I decided to let it go—not gettin’ any younger, you know.”

We chatted for a few more minutes before I asked him if he would pose for a picture. He accepted, but I’m not sure if he wanted the attention. We shook hands and he turned toward the store saying it was time to check on “things.” He glanced back once before going inside. Helen and I admired the yard art in front of the market, then took our peas back to the Marine Base and placed them in Lucy’s freezer.

We left Albany the next morning and drove back through Atlanta and beyond without incident. Although our trip to Florida and the Florida Keys had been a rousing success, it passed by too quickly. One month isn’t enough time in warm weather.  I understand snowbirds a bit better now. Hopefully, we can stay longer next year.  Retirement is such a good gig.