Foggy Mountain Breakdown

Sept. 9-10

It rained in varying degrees between a spit and a pour for the first hundred miles south of Winchester. Then I drove out of it, although the sky stayed low and white for the whole trip.

All the way to Radford, steam kept fuming out of the trees on the hills. On days like this you can’t tell where the fog ends and the cloud begins.

Google estimates the drive at three and a half hours. I left the hotel around 10 or so. I paused at a couple of rest stops along I-81, just for a leg stretch and didn’t linger. So I made it to John and Kim’s house around half past one.

John was in the driveway getting the charcoal ready.

John’s mother, my Aunt June, was staying with John and Kim. It was great to see everybody.

We spent time catching up. John has bought a sailboat. That’s kind of interesting. 

He’s a doctor now, and seems to really enjoy it. He also teaches medical students. In fact, Kim told his mom and me that John has received a Teacher of the Year award voted by his students.

But in the unlikely event that he considers a career change, owning a sailboat makes piracy an option.

We also swapped travel stories. John and Kim have traveled far and wide, in the States and in Europe. One of their trips was to ride the Royal Scotsman, a touring train in Scotland.

Aunt June was with them, and when they mentioned their Scottish connection, that her maiden name was Lyons, people practically bowed to them.  It’s a lords-and-ladies family name over there.

John’s not sure about that connection, but it made for a great trip.

John grilled some perfect filets mignons, juicy and tender and smoky besides. Oh my. The last time I had meat that good was when Jeff, Joanna’s brother-in-law, grilled ribs in Vermont last July.

Kim put together a salad full of all kinds of flavors and just the right amount of onion to give it the perfect bite. 

There were baked potatoes, too. And with steak, that’s comfort food to bring tears to a grown man’s eye.

John and Kim are wine fans, and keep a store of it in their cellar. We had one with dinner, a great red, very fragrant and as mouth-filling as an oath. 

I was way too far into enjoying the meal to do any research or note-taking, so I failed to get any information on the wine. 

Actually there were two bottles of red. I think we drank from the one with the black label and red lettering. The other wine went into the mushroom gravy.

Maybe John or Kim can tell me who made the drinking wine and where.

Later John and Kim’s kids came over, and their grandkids. Four generations of the family were in the house.

Still later, John and I polished off a growler of Double Blonde, a well-hopped blond ale, while we watched “Prime Minister’s Questions” on C-Span. 

Basically, the show is televised political comedy. The opposition MPs make snarky speeches and ask questions that try to put the Prime Minister on the spot. The Prime Minister gives some kind of sarcastic response intended to deflect criticism.

Members of the majority party bring up issues intended to make the PM look good.

The night’s program had to do with Brexit: Opposition against; May and the Conservative party for.

Monday was a work day. I have almost forgotten what that is like.

Everybody got out on time. Except me. I was last out of the house.

I had a straight run of just over three hours if I took the Interstate directly to Sevierville. But I had all day.

So I asked John about getting to the Blue Ridge Parkway. It’s the slow route. It’s out of the way. The place is covered with hardwoods and rhododendron.

And today it was going to be shrouded in fog. I had to go see that.

John said it’s best going south if you pick it up by going through Floyd.

I found a simple route. I-81 Exit 114 is the junction with Virginia Highway 8, which goes right through Floyd, Va., to the parkway.

Google, as it often does, wanted to complicate things, diverting me down Main Street in downtown Floyd and then to another country road, probably because it calculated the drive as a few minutes quicker. When you don’t know the territory, though, the fewer route numbers and turns, the better. 

You can’t drive and read a list of instructions at the same time. Some people try that, I know, but it’s not recommended. 

When I left there was light fog over the New River behind the house. The clouds were low, and steam was still sifting out of the trees.

By the time I had climbed up the Blue Ridge, the fog was really thick. There’s no way I could drive the 45 mph limit without outrunning my sight distance, and on a road that twists like this one, that could be disastrous.

The wet, dim weather made the pale green lichen almost shine by contrast on the rocks and tree bark.

It was great fun, taking my time. There was very little traffic. Every once in a great while a car would come up behind me. 

There is no shoulder on the parkway, where I could pull over to let it go by. And of course, passing was out of the question. 

So the car would just have to linger behind this geriatric driver until until an overlook or some other cutoff presented itself.

The overlooks were a treat. There would be a sign describing peaks or other features in the distance, when the entire view was a blank wall of fog.

I stopped at the Rocky Knob visitor information center and met an affable man dressed like an old farmer, blue coveralls, checked shirt, and a red bandana, just like the Bloods.

He pointed out the Blue Ridge Music Center, which I had thought was a concert hall or an arena. Turns out it’s a museum. Dedicated to one of my favorite types of music, “Old Timey,” as they call it here.

It’s a direct descendant of the music brought from the Old Country by the Scotch-Irish who settled in Appalachia. This is likely the way British folk music was performed about 400 years ago.

The center was within a practical distance for the day, so I decided to follow the parkway at least that far.

But first I stopped at Mabry’s Mill. A man named Ed Mabry operated a mill and blacksmith shop on the site early in the last century. They and the sluices leading to the mill wheel are still there. The National Park Service has collected a number of other artifacts from the region, including an entire log cabin and a still, which have been placed at the site.

The mill has an overshot wheel. That is, a sluice carries water to the top of the wheel.

I didn’t remember seeing the wheel working before. A blog search later reminded me that six years ago last July, the first time I saw the place, the wheel was indeed working.

It took at least an hour to reach the Music Center, maybe 40 miles down the parkway. 

I love fog. It’s very moody. It encourages contemplation. The short sight distance makes you look at things up close.

When the wind blows and the fog moves, you’re reminded why people believe in ghosts.

I think a car following me encouraged me to pull into an overlook with a short trail, which goes down to a stream and then continues back to the starting point. 

The way down has tree roots and half-buried logs to provide uneven steps. The last few feet are steep enough to require an actual set of stairs with a hand rail. 

The stream runs through a small gorge that is very steep on the far side. The road crosses it on a concrete bridge.

The Music Center was well worth the drive. When I got out of the car, I could hear music in the distance. A recording maybe?

No, it was a group called the Buck Mountain Band under a portico outside the museum. So I sat there for half an hour or so until they took a break. 

Then a ranger got up and delivered a short discussion of bird images in traditional song lyrics.

The highlights I recall:

The robin in British folk songs is a different bird entirely from the American robin. Both species, however, have the bright orange breast. Hence the transfer of the name.

The cuckoo there is a very different species from the cuckoo in the States. Ours doesn’t even sound like the cuckoo clock, but more like the calling of a crow.

The Brit cuckoo is a sign of the approaching spring because that’s when it begins calling. 

Ours calls in the middle of summer. “Oh, the cuckoo is a pretty bird; she warbles as she flies. She never sings cuckoo, till the Fourth Day of July.”

Inside the museum, there are recordings of traditional songs and fiddle music, replicas of traditional instruments, including the akonting, a West African instrument that was the inspiration for the banjo.

It was getting late and I had to get to Sevierville before all the bars closed. Once you get outside the major cities, the bars—their kitchens, at least—all close at nine or ten.

I left the parkway about 15 miles south of the Music Center. I took U.S. 21 to U.S. 58.

Parts of the highway west of I-81 may follow approximately the Transylvania Company’s old Wilderness Road that went through Cumberland Gap. I’m not sure about the stretch I was on, which is also known as J.E.B. Stuart Highway.

I entered the highway at Independence, Va., at an intersection with the town’s monument to Confederate soldiers.

There is a section between Volney and Damascus, Va., which is considered unsafe, or at least impractical, for trucks longer than 35 feet. It twists and turns, sometimes around hairpin curves, for 30 or 40 miles.

It’s a trip in every sense, and great fun. You have to take your time, of course, or you’ll fall off (or run head-on into somebody coming the other way).

At one point, I had to slow to a crawl. 

I had been admiring the strange light created by very dark clouds overhead and open sky in the distance. Then the dark clouds let go.

The rain fell faster than the wipers could clear it. There were only very brief flashes of clear glass to show the road curving immediately ahead. Most of the time, I was following the white stripe on the right and the double yellow in the middle, but they were distorted by sheets of water.

I found that 25 was about the top speed to manage that.

The heavy rain lasted only a short while and then tapered off to a light drizzle and sometimes to nothing at all.

I was doing fine until I got about 10 miles from the intersection with I-81. A warning bell and a dashboard light told me I had low tire pressure.

These are new tires, maybe three months old, so I had probably picked up a nail.

Lucky for me I got to a Wal-Mart right by the Interstate. There’s one thing about Wal-Mart: It sells everything.

It was after six, but the Hand of Providence, or my patron saint, or Kuan Yin, had interceded for me, and the auto center was open.

Nothing so simple as a nail for me. I had to pick up a sharp stone that would put an irregular hole in the tire.

They weren’t sure at first that they could plug it. 

OK, then I’ll buy a new tire.

The store doesn’t have that size in stock. It has to be ordered.

The guy went back into the garage to see the mechanic.

That left me sitting in the waiting room planning my next move. Leave the Ford, take my bags, and rent a car. Then reverse the process in three days after I leave Sevierville.

Whatever higher power was interceding, it stayed with me. It took a while, but they managed to plug the hole.

I asked the mechanic exactly how much confidence he had in the repair. Should I go to a Ford dealer and get a new tire?

He showed me the plug they used and told me about extra coatings of rubber cement. 

The whole job came to about ten bucks. 

I got to Sevierville without any other incident. I’m at La Quinta, so the room is spacious, clean, and comfortable. 

But I lost an hour and a half, so there was no place to go for dinner. Instead, Maria at the desk gave me some takeout menus. After I bought some beer at a gas station, I called Pizza Place for delivery.

What can I say? It was mock Italian. Soggy French fries, jalapeno poppers for vegetable (no kidding), and a meatball sub made by somebody who really doesn’t know meatballs or red sauce. 

I give them some props, though, because the sandwich was made with mozzarella and not American cheese.

All in all, though, an excellent day.

Stay happy, everyone. And enjoy the weather. It can’t rain forever.

Harry

Sept. 11

Harry,

The wine we had was 2012 Hawkes PYR (Pyramid Cabernet Sauvignon) from Alexander Valley in Sonoma. We are never disappointed when we have Hawkes' wine; a small family producer.

The beer was Dockside Blonde Ale from Studio Brew in Bristol, Va.

Thanks for the good review. We really enjoyed our time with you, as always. My mom told me today that it was great to see Harry!

Sorry about your tire, and stay safe traveling. We will see you the next go around.

John and Kimberly