old growth

Had to end that last entry because I was writing outside, and it began to rain.

We woke up to a chilly morning in North Carolina. After dressing, we headed to Joyce Kilmer, where a 2-mile loop hike took us through the oldest old-growth forest East of the Mississippi. A few days ago my dad told me that The Last of the Mohicans was filmed in the area – since the film takes place in what is now upstate New York long before it was New York, only upstate New York no longer looks anything like it did before it was New York, the producers chose North Carolina and Tennessee, because it is one of the few Eastern forests largely untouched by man.

Edit: See photos related to this part of this entry here (Pictures 5: Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest).

Walking the trail at Joyce Kilmer, I almost laughed to myself a few times thinking, “Wow, this is just like the Bronx Zoo” or “Wow, this is just like Disneyland.” I had the same experience in parts of Santa Fe and the mountain town of Eze in the south of France – experiencing the real thing is just like an authentic experience of the fake thing. It would be like going to Egypt or Jordan and being entranced by how similar it is to the Indiana Jones ride at Disney.

At Joyce Kilmer there were various bridges over rocky streams, rhododendron bushes towering higher than any I’d ever seen before – and of course, trees so huge that most families couldn’t join hands all the way around. Information boards at the forest said that, when logging companies were in the area, even the logging employees were so wowed by the trees that they saved that area for last – and luckily, the portion of forest was chosen for preservation before the companies could get to it.

Leaving Joyce Kilmer, Pat knew his dad was fishing in northeast Tennessee for two weeks, so we decided to head toward where he was so Pat could fish and I could eat said fish.

We first drove down through Graham County (particularly Robbinsville), North Carolina, and a variety of other towns (Cherokee, Maggie Valley, and so on) where I stopped the car often to take pictures – where of ivied buildings, rusted train trestles, abandoned barns, that kind of stuff. The patina of old buildings never ceases to amaze me. Anyone who can walk by a rusty train track and not gasp just doesn’t see things correctly, I think.

Edit: See photos related to this part of this entry here (Pictures 6: North Carolina Countryside).

My favorite stop along the way was a bridge just outside Cherokee. As we wound down through the green hills, I saw the bridge and cried out – “Oh, god. Oh, god, right there! That!” Patrick cracked up at the Roadside Americana Orgasm and waited in the car while I grabbed the camera and trekked on down an old access road to the tracks over the river, not to mention an amazing abandoned building in the woods right next to the tracks.

Edit: See photos related to this part of this entry here (Pictures 7: North Carolina Bridge).

I love the smell of creosote. I love the smell of river water. I love the sound that old broken glass makes when you step on it with flip-flops. I love the kinds of things to find in the tall grass next to the road – old cars, cast-iron stoves on their sides, faded plastic rocking horses. I love when old houses have newspaper underneath the plywood on the walls. I love how you can see the ground way below when you walk on a train trestle over a river. I love the way the river runs over and around pilings. I love looking at the river underneath you and feeling like you’re moving when you’re not. I wish I didn’t ever have to get back into the car.

We drove through the evening in North Carolina and Tennessee and came to Patrick’s father’s campsite just outside Bristol, Tennessee. The town is small, and if you continue past the town center and turn onto Emmett Road and then Piney Hill Road, then River Bend Road, there is a farmer who allows fly fishermen to camp on his land on an honor system.

Edit: See photos related to this part of this entry here (Pictures 8: Tennessee Fishing Camp)

The land buts right up to the river in a beautiful little valley. There are cows in the field nearby. The farmer has a shower and an outhouse with a flush toilet (!), and Pat’s dad also has set up his own camp shower, the pump for which plugs into your car cigarette lighter. The second we arrived at the campsite we both took showers. It was Tuesday evening, and I hadn’t showered since Friday morning – possibly the longest I have gone without a shower since pre-adolescence. It was a glorious, glorious thing.

Patrick’s dad Darrell and his friend Brad showed up just before nightfall. We spent the evening talking and eating, and we turned in around 10:30.