Backroads to Tennessee

Every night before a driving day, Bruce plots our route for the next day. He makes a little map on hotel notepaper, of which he is extremely fond, and somehow impresses the route to memory. This system of pure intellect has worked exceedingly well for most of this immense trip - and we have come 13,000 miles (20,000 KM) miles in the mystery green Rogue so far.

Today, we are foot down, humming confidently off through the magnificent Blue Ridge Mountains towards Tennessee when a big flashing highway sign throws a spanner in the works. It warns of the need for a detour. There’s been a road-closing accident ahead.

Bruce is furious and wonders if the warning is current. As we approach a chance to exit the expressway, we can see a plume of black smoke in the distance. Oh. A bad accident and the detour will be necessary. So, we get to see Christianburg, by default.

It’s a serviceable little Virginia town, white spires of churches, neatly mown lawns, lots of mowing, patriotic sculptures, a Christian school, a Dollar Store. Out of the town we pass a strange little valley of derelict buildings before the road delves us into the woods and along the Radford River valley.

And then we are in Radford, a university town. Famous. Where immense university buildings do not tower and sprawl, it seems an oddly squat little town, dominated by railway lines. Sports bar, gaming studio, a shop called Screamer, a drive-in burger joint with cars with trays on the windows. Oh, and look at that. Harris Climate-Controlled Mini Storage. Classy. How upmarket. Of course it is a Harris. Oh, I love mini storage.

We are now keeping track of the accident and detour situation on the local radio. Highway 81 is shut down. An articulated tractor trailer has overturned and caught fire on the median strip. The reports tell of miles of traffic backup. Our detour takes 30 minutes before we are back on 81 and heading towards Bristol, Tennessee.

We pause at Maccers for a quick Santa Fe salad and a clean rest room and head forth through rolling farmland. We are in cattle country interrupted by bits of minor commerce. Oddly, it features a vast acreage of used golf buggies. Ah, but there is one of those huge, mown, golf-course housing developments out there. Gee, they must thrash their buggies.

More cattle. Black Angus. Cornfields. Barns. Farms. Darling cornfields. A hoarding advises: Steer Yourself Towards Chicken. And so we do, as it happens, past a big chicken farm. Rolling land, fallow fields, more mature corn. No sign of tobacco.

We pass a lot of self-move vehicles, U-Hauls and rentals of all sizes. We wonder at their stories. Divorce? New job? Heading to college? America always had a very mobile population.

Here comes a steel welding factory with the sign Jesus is Lord. And a vast acreage of semi-trailer trailers.

And now Hungry Mother State Park. What a name. I Google and read out the story of Molly, who with her small child, escaped after being kidnapped by Indians, only to die of starvation in her flight to safety. All her child could say when she was found in the woods were the words “hungry mother". Oh, that is so touching. One can only imagine that poor Molly’s plight.

As is the cross-country way, the lovely landscape suddenly become utilitarian. Here’s a whole field of abandoned trailers. And now an elaborate log cabin alone in the centre of a spreading pasture. You never know.

Abingdon. Damascus. A big intersection with clusters of fast food joints, petrol stations and accommodation. And now we enter Tennessee - The Volunteer State.

A huge Confederate flag billows from the top of a hill. We spot deer at the roadside. Churches, churches - and mountains making pointy silhouettes on the horizon. Past miles of mown fields, falling-down barns, and forested slopes, we drive towards those rising beauties. On the radio a song choruses "dancing in the bed of my truck in the Tennessee moonlight”. It’s quite a cultural immersion.

And there’s more. A huge hoarding advertises The Holy Bible. Another touts Sweet Lips Diner - Home Cooking. And here comes the birthplace of Davy Crockett, the Davey Crockett State Park and the historic site of the Crockett Tavern.

The mountains are near now. A prettiness of blue ridges stretching in rows to the left of us. Bruce reminds me that some of his ancestors dwelt somewhere in them thar hills.

A distillery offers free tastings. We are amused but not tempted.

We take the Pigeon Forge turnoff and find ourselves on a multilane highway which will lead us right into the glorious Smoky Mountains. Oh, what a vast and spectacular backdrop they make. Beautiful mountains indeed. But this is a main road and soon it brings us big signs and an increasing density of commerce. We run a gauntlet of ticky-tack tourist shops: moccasin shops, trading posts, antique shops, vape shops, a pawn shop, carvings...

And our destination.

It is the road into Pigeon Forge. A bling church with golden spires and cupolas glitters among buildings ahead . A huge statue of Dolly Parton greets us.

Dollywood, here we come.

But wait. It won’t be fast. It seems we’ve hit a big Dolly traffic jam.