05/03-05/04: Gatlinburg Abridged
Pushing ahead of schedule has its perks. Sure, your body feels like a house of cards ready to collapse at the slightest gust of wind, but at least now we had two full days to gorge ourselves on Gatlinburg’s finest cuisine.
Gatlinburg is a tourist trap in the mountains. Imagine I-Drive and Bass Pro Shop had a baby, then raised it in the woods on moonshine. We left our motel and made quick work of the breakfast buffet before upgrading to an actual hotel. Motel to hotel, moving up in the world. Both were leaps and bounds above sleeping in a tent, which I’m told builds character, but so far has yielded only back pain.
There were thousands of people up and down the strip, a rowdy bunch, mostly drunk or on their way to it. Less than intrigued by Ripley’s attractions and Trump super stores, we focused on our primary mission: eating. Barbecue, hibachi, pizza, pancakes. If it was fried, grilled, or smothered in syrup, we ate it.
Taking full advantage of the free trolley service, we were dropped off a few miles outside of town at a Dollar General, the Appalachian Trail’s answer to Whole Foods. Resupply complete, we found ourselves clutching yellow plastic bags and waiting nearly half an hour at a surprisingly charming bus stop, outfitted with a rocking chair. I could’ve stayed there all day, eating Little Debbies and watching traffic go by. Eventually the trolley picked us up, and we made one last stop at the post office. Desperate for lighter packs, we sent home our 20 degree sleeping bags, and opted for a much lighter puffy quilt. Ultimately shaving off 1.5lbs. Doesn’t sound like much, but trust me when I say it makes a difference.
As our stay came to an end, we splurged on the SkyLift to the glass bridge suspended between two mountains. Hot cocoa in hand, I stepped out, took two baby steps onto the bridge, and promptly turned right back around. I’ve walked across enough questionable wooden planks already, no need to tempt fate on glass.
Still, Gatlinburg gave me the reset I needed. After the unrelenting grind of the Smokies, it felt good to sit still, eat too much, and catch up on writing.
Creative work out here is tough. Most days, by the time I get to camp, I’m so drained I can barely cook dinner before collapsing into my sleeping bag. I force myself to stretch and if there’s anything left in the tank, I try to write or edit photos. I’ve fallen behind, but am determined to catch up.
These entries and pictures; they’re more than just a record. They’re little anchors of memory, proof that I was here, that I did this. One day, they’ll be among the things I cherish most.