A Preseason Preview of the most Popular Park

Clear Afternoon
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The estimate I've been telling people is about four thousand miles in six days. This is the marathon week that I don't think deserves an entry so much as this little introduction. I left Grand Teton National Park on the 25th, because it was closed, and set off onto Wyoming's open road.

The state could be a reserve- signs dotted the flattening routes cautioning motorists of how many large mammals had been killed along a particular segment of road the previous year. And I did see large mammals milling around turns in highways, minding their own bad-survival-skills business. When the sun began to set, I was increasingly disappointed in the state when all the campgrounds were actually closed. State Parks had not only put up a chain across the driveway, but one had a bridge removed to prevent offseason camping. So I kept driving (I slept in my car that night on I-80).

my atypical and unadventuresome visit to a park that doesn't need more reviews

Smoky
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The next days were spent at random State Forests or truck stops. I learned to drive all day, pull over, wake at dawn, and drive. I learned to survive off of nuts and dried fruit (and coffee of course). It's true. And that was how I drove from Seattle to Tennessee in five or six days (it's honestly a little blurry, time and such).

When I reached Tennessee, the tourist trap that is Gatlinburg nearly pulled me into its magic. If the day were not as clear and warm, I may have followed that bright 'n' shiny detour to Dollywood, and believe me it was the only day I felt a little disappointed at the good weather. Gatlinburg feels like Disneyland on a strip, without the amusement park. There are miles of amusements. You can understand my surprise then, when I followed signs to the National Park and beginning of the fabled (for travel nerdy travel readers like yours truly) Blue Ridge Parkway, and found myself in a wonderland of greenery, quiet, and the occasional motorcycle.

Spring's a'Comin'!
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From what I had read, this park, with barely two roads, was a great bear park as well. And upon entering the visitor's center, felt it reiterated. My reaction at first to the population concentration and the boldness that comes in such numbers was excitement at first: seeing a bear is just plain neat. Then, as I set up camp, thoughts turned to worrisome truths, for instance the size of bears, and the power of a single bear punch is enough to kill, when aimed right. Enough morbidity, but that’s a nice orientation to my mind’s wanderings.

Arrival- my first look at the real Smokies
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Resolved to not die a terrible and preventable death, and to be sure that if in fact I was graced with a visit, it would likely be in passing, I checked the precautions that the park service encourages. Hide food in the trunk of your car (because they can either smash windows or open doors or both I guess), or in a bear-proof container provided. My site had no such accoutrement. Hide even food-related items such as bowls and spoons- anything that can retain food odor. When I moved my utensils, I thought about how now that I’ve finished eating, without a bath I am most likely covered in accidental food residue. The wafting odors from my spaghetti sleep-breath would surely attract bears. And my fingers would as well, with tiny crumbs of wheat bread stuck under my fingernails.

Developed Smokies
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So I went to the restroom and entertained visions of waking to find a bear-sized dent in the back of my car and all four doors missing while I dedicated a good many minutes to brushing my teeth, scrubbing my tongue, washing my face and hands. What an exciting park. Once I felt free of tasty wafting odors, with a pitched tent and settled in feel to my camp, it was time to explore.

I drove around the park, which turns out to be an introduction to the staggering and ceaseless greenery of the Parkway. The route that bisects the sprawl of the park winds and climbs, and then roads are old and romantic. The number of motorcyclists surprised me, but then again I believe it may have been a holiday weekend. Weather was warm and cloudy, with a harsh sun when it emerged. The new leaves arched over the thruway, but from the scenic views the early spring browns were more common, under the smoke, that is. The haze that falls on the canopy is constant, which made the shaded drive through trees and lower vegetation the favorite memory of the park for me. This visit could have fulfilled my expectations (it is the most visited park in the country) if I had been in time for the foliage to appear. Oh yes, not arriving after a marathon drive like mine is also advisable to keep energy and enthusiasm up.

That night I fell asleep to the beautiful and calming singing coming from a group site with what must have been many tentfuls of people of the Cherokee nation. The park is right next to a reservation, and as I lay there, trying to distract myself from images of violent bear attacks, I felt so lucky they were so close, and singing so loud.

The next day I woke somewhat early to a chilly and grayish morning. I was determined to hike but without a lot of time before checkout and no hikes marked on my maps, the park didn’t seem designed with a day-hiker in mind. So I explored my region and soon found a trailhead. The names are fleeting, and the hikes were under tree cover, which was nice at first, but I bored easily and found myself more and more excited to reach Asheville, North Carolina, for the culture, and the opportunity to talk with people. After only a few miles, I turned around, returned to pack up camp, and hit the road.