Sept.11-13
I’ve been checking into rooms one afternoon and out the next morning for a few days. That gets old quick, so I’ll be stopping at La Quinta in Sevierville for three nights running.
There was no urgency, so I didn’t go out till the middle of Tuesday afternoon. Besides, I didn’t have far to go.
I could see Smoky Mountain Knife Works from the parking lot of the hotel.
The Knife Works is one of the main reasons I’m here.
It’s like Cabela’s, in that it showcases outdoorsy stuff. It has survival gear, tents, waterproof clothes, pistols, bows, shotguns, and all manner of equipment. I have no idea what some of these things are for.
They even have stuffed trophy animals, but nowhere near so many as Cabela’s. Nor are the specimens as exotic.
It also has more of an anti-personnel edge than Cabela’s. It sells assault rifles, for instance, and one department has signs that brag how eager the owner is to shoot trespassers, and how his posting the sign will put the law on his side.
Lots of other messages that ring true to the people whose minds live in action-movie world.
But the Knife Works also differs from Cabela’s because, as its name implies, its emphasis is on knives. I don’t know anywhere else that has as much real estate devoted to knives as this place.
There are long counters each for a single brand. One department sells hand-made collector’s knives.
This is my go-to place for switchblades. It also has a vast array of sheath knives, boning knives, scaling knives, skinning knives, tactical knives, even a few domestic knives that you might use in the kitchen instead of in the field.
After a couple of hours of wandering around looking at the toys, I bought two switchblades and a German folding knife. I lose a switchblade now and then because, especially in cooler weather when I get to wear a vest, I forget there is one in my pocket and so have to surrender it to airport security.
A conventional folding knife stays in my luggage. It could be dangerous to carry an automatic knife, even in my checked bags, when I cross a border.
You never know. Hell, something I consider harmless mischief could lead to detention and a cavity search in some jurisdictions.
I bought a Kershaw, just like the one in my pocket, and something new to me, a Smith & Wesson, which is shaped much like the Kershaw, may weigh an ounce or two more, and is all black, except of course for the shiny white cutting edge.
This area is also a monument to kitsch. Most of the places to eat are franchises of national or international chains. But there are a few locally owned joints.
I took dinner later at one called the Applewood Farmhouse. The place specializes in Confederate comfort food. I hadn’t eaten since my biscuits and gravy at breakfast, so I wanted one of everything.
I managed to confine myself to chicken and dumplings with mashed potatoes and collard greens. The dumplings were like big bow-tie pasta. The gravy was superb, with large chunks of chicken.
The food was so comforting I didn’t even mind eating chicken next to some of its distant cousins. There was a glass enclosure with several Australian finches, sparrow-size birds with foot-long tail feathers.
When I sat down, they served complimentary apple fritters with apple butter on the side. I left that combination for dessert.
There was no beer or wine at the Applewood, so my next stop was a craft beer pub called the Casual Pint.
I casually drank three pints there. The first came from one of my top breweries, Dogfish Head in Delaware. It was a new one to me, Flesh and Blood IPA. It was good. Dogfish always is. It had plenty of flavor but not as much as the company’s 60-minute IPA.
The other two ales came from Black Abbey Brewing in Nashville.
The cream ale was relatively mild at 4.9 percent alcohol. It was smooth, as a cream often is, but had a reasonable dose of bitterness from the hops to balance the malt sweetness.
I used to drink Genesee cream ale sometimes and have also tried a couple of other craft creams. They generally are not my favorites. This may have been the best cream ale I have tasted.
Vegas IPA, also from Black Abbey, was stronger, at 6.5 percent. It is a workaday American IPA. That’s no dismissal. On the contrary, that means it’s damned good, just not the absolute best.
But I noticed one strange point that gave it added interest. The finish made me think of metal—odd, but in no way bad.
Wednesday I got to do the other thing I came here to do.
I made the bizarre drive that goes from the ridiculous to the sublime and back again.
If you’ve never come this way before, you may think you’ve seen some strange ideas for tourist entertainment after you’ve seen Sevierville.
You see the Knife Works, Adrenaline Park, Flea Traders Paradise, and other attractions. There’s not one, but two places hawking helicopter rides for the family.
As you go down highway 66, you may see a small sign pointing in the direction of the historic district: “Dolly Statue.”
If you don’t know anything about Nashville country music, or about Pigeon Forge, which is coming up, you might shrug and keep going.
About 30 years ago, a group of citizens sponsored a statue of the area’s patron saint, Dolly Parton. It’s an approximately life-size bronze sitting on a stone in front of the Sevierville courthouse.
Very playful. There’s even a butterfly on the neck of her guitar.
Whether or not you stopped to pay homage to Dolly in bronze, you can’t miss what’s coming next. It backs the traffic up in both directions.
Pigeon Forge is home to Dolly Parton’s theme park, Dollywood. It also manages to cram the entire Jersey shore into a couple of miles of Highway 441.
At times, it seems that the place is home to just about any idea someone ever had to amuse tourists desperate for novelty on vacation.
There’s a movie-themed wax museum, a Titanic museum (shaped like the Titanic), an upside down hotel that does something or other, kiddy rides, go-karts, carousels, a mill district that is billed as historic.
Shows include Dolly Parton’s Stampede, Paula Deen’s Lumberjack Feud, the Hatfield and McCoy Dinner Feud. Dolly Parton has another one, but I’ve forgotten what it’s called.
Somewhere in all this, there is also a real thing, the McMahan Indian Mound, which today is a low rise of grassy ground in front of a motel.
People ride bicycles and electric scooters up and down the boulevard. Some even walk. Everybody seems to be overwhelmed by the monumental craziness.
After that, in the interval of a breath everything gets green, because you’ve entered the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. You coast along on a smooth road under a canopy of hardwoods.
But it’s far from over. A short while later, you come to Gatlinburg. It is a bit more congested than Pigeon Forge and more people are walking on the sidewalks, past destinations like Hogg’s Tavern, which on this trip is no longer billing itself as “Home of the Hillbilly Hammer.”
The roads have been surprisingly crowded considering the timing. It’s mid-week after labor Day.
Of course, I did overhear somebody at breakfast say he was a storm refugee from South Carolina. Maybe a lot of people are saying, if we have to get out, let’s go someplace weird.
Gatlinburg ends as if someone has drawn a line with a Crayola. Then you go back into the shade. The road twists and curves gracefully through more of the park.
There are places to pull over and park. You can walk on trails to get a close-up look at the place.
Sometimes the road climbs half of forever and brings you to overlooks. On a humid day like this one, you see the phenomenon that gives the mountains their name, the huge billows of steam rising out of the trees.
Then you coast for miles—two, three, maybe more. I was watching the road, not the odometer, so this is just a guess.
My favorite part is a 360-degree corkscrew curve. Southbound, you go through a long curve and then through a curved tunnel. Northbound, you get to see better what’s going on.
You come to the tunnel first and see that the road you will be traveling doubles back and goes over itself.
Eventually as you go south, you come out of the park to a sign in English and Cherokee welcoming you to the reservation.
The place is tamer than I remember. There are malls of stores selling souvenirs, moccasins, turquoise. There are a few restaurants.
I had wanted to go see Snake Adventures, but couldn’t find it. Maybe it’s gone.
When I got back to Sevierville, Tony Gore’s BBQ seemed like a good local joint for dinner. The sign outside left me a bit uneasy: “Southern Gospel, Southern Cooking, Southern Hospitality.”
The waitress was lovely, so the hospitality part was spot on. The food was OK, although it wasn’t Ralph’s. But it probably qualifies as Southern cooking.
I gave thanks to God that nobody was preaching. The owner of the place was a professional Southern gospel singer.
The pulled pork was almost bland. The baked beans were OK. The pork in them was actually tastier than the pork on the plate. No greens available, so I ate the cole slaw that came with the platter.
I had to salt everything and dose it well with hot sauce. That made it better.
Then it was back to the Casual Pint to balance all that Gospel.
Thursday was moving day. I drove straight through to Salem, Va. The weather had changed. It was a bright day.
I made the trip non-stop except a quick lunch of eggs and grits at Huddle House.
A Google search for craft beer turned up Mac and Bob’s on Main Street in Salem, where I found some new things. One was made by a local outfit, Parkway Brewing in Salem. It’s called Get Bent Mountain IPA.
This is another one with character at the end. It has very little fragrance, but when it goes down, the finish tastes fragrant.
Yeah, that sounds like synesthesia. But that’s what happened.
There was Satan’s Pony red ale from South Street in Charlottesville. It was lightly hopped so the sweetness of the malt was strong, but even so it went well enough with my sirloin, which was covered in pepper.
Bask IPA from Basic City Beer in Waynesboro, Va., was the strongest of the three. At 7.6 percent, it had a good alcohol bite, but its aroma and flavor were very grapefruity, so maybe the recipe had too much citra hopping.
Life is good, gang. I expect to be back in New Jersey sometime Saturday if I don’t get arrested.
I’m finishing a pint of Sweetwater 420, so I’m feeling good and mellow.
Love to all and to all a good night.
And remember, you never know where you’ll find shelter from the storm.
Harry
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