October 28, 2019

Yesteryear
One year ago today: October 28, 2018, early hotdog plans.
Five years ago today: October 28, 2014, I’m glad it’s gone.
Nine years ago today: October 28, 2010, movie editing, the career.
Random years ago today: October 28, 2011, professional, my eye.

           An early start from Athens, a town I found difficult to navigate. The GPS kept sending me around ring roads to what I’m sure were just blocks away from where I started. I am unfamiliar with the mountain weather and my scenic route was covered in deep fog most of the morning. Too bad, as I had passed into terrirtory with lots of shedding deciduous trees. On the map, Route 441 is just another highway, but as I got into Georgia, the road became more of a divided highway that bypassed almost every town and city.

           I’d wanted a snack but did not see a grocery store in 320 miles. Before I forget, forgive any repetition, either prose or pictures, as I’m recovering from another Google lockout. When this happens during travels, I’m least equipped to play catch-up with that situation. It remains a universal mystery how stupid people always seem to know the worst times to barge into your life. (I join the ranks of every scientist, emperor, admiral, inventor, or every person who ever tried to get ahead in wondering about this. Asking were they born that stupid, or did they take lessons. Either way, Google takes the cake.)

           I stopped every couple of hours for a stretch, and found another annoyance. Advertising is the thorn in the American paw because most of it is misleading and untruthful. I saw many road signs that indicated I was a some place on the map, such as Talaulah Falls. Then you discover it is a fakeout, the real town is some ten miles further. I followed one sign and found the Tallulah Gorge. Sort of, the road is not marked and I first too the wrong fork. Way to go, TallulahFalls. It is a spectacular river valley, but hard to see.
           All the good viewpoints are taken by restaurants and such that advertise the view is free. The compulsory meal is probably priced in the stratosphere, however. The area seems on an Indian reservation, since it has all the earmarks. Souvenir shops of wallets and blankets, lots of boiled peanuts. I seem to have arrived off season. When I got back on the highway, I arrived in Tallulah Falls miles later.

           It’s promoting itself as a honeymoon destination and cabin rentals were a dominant business presence. A cute town by the looks. I was heading for Franklin, where I arrived in a bright morning sunshine after the fog cleared. The map showed Route 28, which I wanted to see. Problem, neither the road or the way points appear on the Garmin GPS. It kept trying o route where it thought I should go, another masterpiece of millennial coding. I finally found a VA hall and asked people in the parking lot. Oh they said, you want Harrison Street
           That began the morning adventure. I had skipped breakfast hoping to stop in Bryson City. Careul, a lot of the locals pronounce it like “Broy-sun”. Not that long a road, it is solid double lines and no straight parts enough to pass. You are stuck behind whoever is ahead of you and so on for the people behind you. And if they are locals who use this only road to commute, they are bumper humpers. I wonder if they really think tailgating is going to make you speed on a mountain road with no guard rails?

Picture of the day.
Canada’s worst driver finalists.
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           Arriving in Bryson City, I discover it is wedged in the mountains and the sun is still not up. It was chilly and the fog lingered in patches. I thought I had just got off the winding road but the locals said no, I had missed it. The road called “the dragon’s tail” was back the way I came and consisted of 312 hairpin turns and switchbacks in just a few miles. I would have lovd to take that, but I had been on the road four hours just to get this far. You’ll have to accept any phots I have until I set up the main computer.

           I got more directions from another vet and found another road the GPS would not locate. Strange, how you can search by city name, but not get the name of the next city from this machine. Yet it displays highway numbers but you cannot search for highways by number. I got on Highway 19 and that began the best part of the trip. Back to Route 441 (the roadsigns are in very bad shape and misleading anyway), I stopped at place apparently called Cherokee. A prosperous area so the only parking I could find was at the museum. I would have gone, but they wanted $12 admission and from what I could see t hrough the windows, was not worth it.

           Route 441 west through the Smokeys to Gatlinburg. Don’t miss it if you ever get the chance. The road is wisely closed to commercial traffic, although that does not apply to people with monster motorhomes and fifth wheels. It is scenic the entire length of around 30 miles. This is the road everybody told me was dangerous, but I found it quite tame. Then again, I’ve driven in Thailand and the Venezuelan wings of the Andes.

           The pass is storybook perfect, with a rain of falling leaves. The colors are tame compared to maple trees, but the mountains are eroded down smooth enough to have a complete covering of new growth forest. I stopped just the once to see the best view. I thought it would be late in the season for tourists. Instead, the road was completely full, dragging traffic down to 15 mph.

           There were stretches where cars were parked, some of them rather precariously, for miles along the road near signs that said “trailhead”. I must look that up. I’ll get you more pictures later. I found Gatlinburg, but not one coffeeshop on my side of the road. So I carried on to Pigeon Forge, a totally fabricated tourist trap. I was mostly though town before finding a coffee shop, where I hung out for an hour. Time-wise, this was the half-way point of the trip.
           From here on, it was gradually diminishing foothills to Knoxville, a town I still don’t like after getting ripped-off there in 1999. In semi-heavy traffic I made it into Nashville by 3:30PM. As I rounded the last corner, I smelled hot transmission fluid. Sure enough same as last year, the fluid can get low without any warning lights. I had to stop and let it cool, this is typical. On the highway, the slipstream is enough, but as soon as you slow, the heat builds up. After a wait, I found I had to pour an entire gallon of fluid into the spout. I keep surmising that this car is exhibiting problems normally associated with far higher mileage than was shown when I bought it. But mechanics assure me that is misleading.

           They say what is really happening is after all those years seals and gaskets give out and cause problems that seem before their time. Still, I’m getting that checked. I took the dogs for a walk, then the Reb & I went to a Mexican spot. The only time I ever eat Mexican. It was excellent, great coffee, but the Reb didn’t care for her dish.

           In all this trip is calculated as 881 miles. You have four sources of mileage, none of the agree. The Internet, road maps, people and road signs. The road signs have not been updated in years, but are still closest to the actual. As I get settled in, you’ll find more pics. For now, I was tired enough to flop for eleven hours. There is a brisk autumn chill and I don’t even own a long-sleeve shirt.

Last Laugh