When we left Baltimore last July we headed down for the Great Smoky Mountains National Park in Tennessee, and exited in North Carolina, but before we did either we had to pass through Gatlinburg, Tennessee—which is near the center of the universe for seekers of Dollywood (Dolly Parton’s version of Disneyland at Pigeon Forge). Gatlinburg’s unavoidable main street was swarming with google-eyed tourists buying souvenirs with various hillbilly themes and searching for other prized collectables, such as: Dolly’s Triple D Double Doozey T-shirts with extra foam inserts (I look really good in mine), and of course people were lining up to buy the Singing Dolly P Toilet Seat that plays her song, “A Few Old Memories,” when you conclude your business. There is also an Elvis museum, and a “live” Elvis dinner theatre. But if that does not catch your fancy then you may opt to have dinner with an Oral Roberts look-a-like Gospel singer who belts out the old hymns with the gusto of a beer commercial.
I lost count of the numerous kitschy hillbilly memorabilia shops, arcades, and fast-food restaurants in town, but I do recall (through the blur of neon signs and flashy billboards) an advertisement for the Pigeon Forge, Black Bear Jamboree: “Get ready to clap your hands, stamp your feet and get your groove on!” This dinner and show fandango is hailed as even bigger than before!
The Great Smoky Mountains was an interesting drive with unusually tall stands of trees, a few vistas overlooking more vistas, and miles of blooming rhododendrons. In the morning when we left we enjoyed the region’s namesake when the humidity veiled the hollers in fog and mystery. It was truly beautiful—and dreadfully humid.
ALABAMA--TENNESSEE--KENTUCKY--IOWA--ILLINOIS
Our next stop was in Equality, Alabama for Ceilon’s family reunion. Alabama, if you did not already know, is in the Bible Belt of these United States and it was common to drive past crosses and billboards warning us of Hell’s fire, eternal damnation, and have a “Happy Day.” Several years back when I first visited Alabama we drove past the Pentecostal Fire Baptized Holiness Campground; this time we found the Congregational Holiness Church and Campground. That inspired me to think about starting my own church, I would call it: The First Assembly of the Congregational Pentecostal Holiness Fire Baptized Eat a Bug Car Wash Church and Campground. Alabamian’s take their old time religion very seriously.
When we were leaving Alabama and about to enter Tennessee, we came upon two billboards (set one atop of the other) that were unique to say in the least. The bottom one advertised Tennessee’s own, “Big Jim’s Boobie Bungalow” and stacked above that was an advertisement lauding the redemptive value of the blood of Christ. Only in Alabama did I see such a commercial dichotomy as this.
After Tennessee, and Kentucky we entered the Corn Belt of Illinois and spent the night along the banks of the Mississippi (mosquito infested) River. This was at Nauvoo, Illinois where Mormon Prophet Joseph Smith brought his beleaguered adherents. His overall plan was to establish a theocracy with him as its Earthly centerpiece. Instead, it became his grave. More on that in pictures--
NEBRASKA
As we headed west through Iowa (which I found to be a quaint and beautiful State) we crossed into Nebraska. Toward the northwestern center of this State we entered the inhospitable Sand Hill region and left behind the seemingly endless fields of corn. It was there that we picked up the Oregon Trail and visited its renowned monuments.
The first sight of interest was Jail and Courthouse Rock, these geologic features reminded the law abiding citizens (who were trespassing Indian land) that civilization as they knew it was long behind them. The Oregon Trail, if you did not know, was first charted in 1830 by William Sublette, who through his knowledge of the vast plains and mountain passes wove a trail west to Ore-GON. In so doing, Sublette made it possible for my grandparents (at that time they were ages 7 and 5) and their parents to follow behind him 65 years later. The only story I ever heard of their two month slog across the Oregon Trail to Idaho was of their encounter with railroad trestles. When their lengthy wagon train came to a river crossing and a trestle availed itself, the wagon master would dispatch several men a mile fore, and a mile aft to watch for approaching locomotives. Once these lookouts were in position, groups of able bodied men and boys would drive the teams of horses or mules across the river while the remaining men folk would push the loaded wagons across the trestle. For a large wagon train, as was theirs, it must have taken a full day of laborious heaving to bridge the distance required.
Leaving Jail and Courthouse Rock we came upon Chimney Rock. This sandstone column that once aspired to touch the heavens now stands in ruins. Time has whittled the spire to a nub, and in the very near future it will be nothing more than a button.
On crossing the border into Wyoming we followed the Oregon Trail to Independence Rock. This massive loaf of granite was the site of a Fourth of July celebration in 1850 and was for this reason named. Once thousands of names and messages were chalked on its stone face, but now only those who had the time to chisel their monikers are left. A little beyond Independence Rock is Devil’s Gate which is a large fissure through which the Sweetwater River flows and below that is Martin’s Cove.
Martin’s Cove is where Mormon converts, mainly from England, held up in the winter of 1856 after pushing handcarts half way across this continent through deep drifts of snow, and across icy creeks that froze their clothes to their sides. Not all of these Mormon converts made it to Martin’s Cove, some succumbed to exposure; still others fell to starvation and among those that did survive a number of them lost digits, and limbs to frostbite. However, when news of their plight reached the ears of Brigham Young in Salt Lake City, he promptly dispatched a rescue party that saved the remaining Saints from certain death. Once in Salt Lake City the men who could afford the costly practice of polygamy did so in relative isolation, but of course what does “relative isolation” mean when you have 3 wives and a passel of children?
WYOMING--MONTANA
The stories of lost lives and dashed hopes litter the Oregon Trail, not only for the Mormons, but for those who dreamed of escaping Baltimore—er’ah—life in the East to find a new one in the unfettered West. Upon leaving the Oregon Trail we struck a course for Rawlins (Haliburton), Wyoming, from there we headed northwest for the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone National Parks. Outside of the Grand Tetons we had lunch at a fancy restaurant that rolled our silverware into these thick, cloth logs or as they appeared to me to be a burrito. I made the comment to the waiter that my complementary appetizer (the burrito) was “damn tough to chew, but once down it was satisfying.”
We stopped and I ogled at the Grand Tetons (something I cannot keep myself from doing) and then drove through Yellowstone with little more than a glance. We have been there a dozen times and although Ceilon marveled at the wonders I would occasionally look out of the window and say in a drawn out nasal drone, “O-o-o-oh, look, there’s another gey-ey-ey-eyser.” Now and then Ceilon would poke me in the ribs and say, “WAKE UP! You’re sleeping through the most beautiful part of the drive! -- There isn’t any corn here!” Our final destination of Bozeman, Montana was my focus, everything after the Tetons seemed dreary.
12 hours after leaving our KOA campsite at Rawlins (Halliburton), Wyoming, we arrived “home,” intact, and very tired, but happy. WAIT! One last observation concerning our KOA stay in Wyoming. An amiable fellow and his two boys camped in the slot next to us, and in the morning I walked over to chat with him and when I said something, he agreed with he would bob his head and say, “Yup, yup, yup, yup, yup.” When he first fired off this flurry of yups, I took a step back and surveyed the situation. I then dared once more to extract from him an affable response, and sure enough a ribbon of yups with the cadence of a gatling gun shot forth. He truly was an odd fellow--yup, yup.
ALABAMA--
Classic Alabama homestead with “dog trot” breezeway. This pre air-conditioning configuration effectively cooled off the house by allowing air to flow between its living spaces. There is one separate bedroom to the left and one to the right. Directly behind the bedroom to the right is a dining room and behind that was the kitchen. The house was placed facing the north to catch any summer breeze that might happen by. The 11 foot ceilings also helped to keep the heat above head level. Heating in the winter months was provided by the chimneys at the apex at either ends of the roof. One for each bedroom and the kitchen.
This is another homestead that is even older in style and comes with two front doors; I was told that the door to the right was for the kitchen and the door to the left was a bedroom. It originally it had a cedar shake roof and porch, but when the tin roof was put on the porch was torn off—
A turkey vulture lives within this clapboard old tenement house turned barn. As I approached it vomited, which is a typical response of these birds to an intrusion on its territory. To show my displeasure at its welcoming behavior I too commenced to vomit, and that set in motion a pukeathon that would have continued throughout the afternoon had the buzzard not passed out first—
KENTUCKY--
This was taken in Kentucky where it is common place for there to be three suns setting over any given lake. What do you mean I fudged the picture?
ILLINOIS--
Joseph Smith’s Nauvoo Mansion which is owned by the Community of Christ Church, formally known as the Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Mansion does not always mean opulent, it was fairly straight forward and practical—
CARTHAGE JAIL: After being jailed for destroying a print shop that opposed the Mormon’s dominance in the area, Joseph, his brother Hyrum and several Church leaders languished in these modest confines to await their trial. However, a mob of self-righteous citizens took it upon themselves to fast-track the trial and murder the prisoners prior to a verdict. To keep the murderous do-gooders from breaking into the room his older brother Hyrum barricaded the door with his body. As a result someone in the mob fired a shot through the door and the large caliber ball slammed into Hyrum’s face. His final words on this 27th day of June, 1844. were, “I am a dead man.” The window in the rear of the above picture is the one Joseph Smith bolted for in a bid to escape. However, several lead balls hit their mark blowing him out the window to his demise on the pavement below.
Second story window out of which the Mormon Prophet Joseph Smith hastily took his egress—
NEBRASKA--
1849 drawing of Chimney Rock and a current photo taken by world renowned photographer Alabaster Hickey—Note the heavy erosion at Chimney Rock’s base in contrast to the drawing made 158 years ago.
Here is an overlay I did to help you see what has been lost to erosion.
Jail and Courthouse Rocks—
WYOMING—
Countless wagons cut this trench in the soft sandstone along the Oregon Trail—
Sweetwater River’s Devil’s Gate at Martin’s Cove—
Independence Rock—
The finger points toward three teenie-weenie tourists, which gives you some idea as to this monolith’s mass—
This poor girl (whom I presume to be a Latter-Day Saint) is re-enacting a stretch of LDS history and could not figure out whether to pull the cart, tow the cart or shove the cart. Shoving it was of course the correct answer. Her aerobic gesticulations were most humorous--teehee.
The purple striation is volcanic ash that settled to the bottom of a shallow sea that covered this area about the time when dinosaurs called Montana home and our kind was but a thought in Mr. Consonant’s (YWYH’s) mind.
Grand Tetons from a highway pull-off—
This, my friend—is a mountain. If you have never looked upon the Grand Tetons then you may rest assured that you have never seen a mountain—
MONTANA—
When reality would seep into my mind and I came to the realization that I was living in BaltoSTINK, and not Bozeman, Montana, I would go to the Bozeman newspaper’s website and click on their webcam. I would then spin the camera around and take a look at the 8-10,000 foot range of the Bridger’s and see what the weather was outside. On this particular morning I did as prescribed and was thunderstruck to look out our kitchen window and see the very same scene—but in REAL TIME. Was I dreaming? “Could it be that I’m actually in Montana?” I said to myself.
Sometimes my wife surprises me with a witty remark and when we went to purchase my out of State fishing license the clerk read on his register’s monitor that my address was such and such in Bozeman, Montana, to which I replied,
“Yes, we used to live here, but now we live in Baltimore, Maryland. Have you ever been to Baltimore?”
“No,” replied the clerk, “but once I drove through Maryland on the interstate.”
“That counts, I guess.”
She then chimed in, “We vacation in Maryland for 10 months out of the school year, but we live here (Montana)------------we’re still in a state of denial,” she confessed. The clerk shot her a glance, looked me squarely in the eyes and I nodded in confirmation. “Yeah—we vacation there.”
FITCHIN’, FITCHIN’, and MORE FITCHIN’ (Fishing, Fishing, and More Fishing)—
As I write this [I wrote this in August] I can hear the deep, chopping drone of a World War ll B-17 bomber flying overhead. An air show is in town and what a thrill it is for me to hear and see this vintage craft aloft. Although I suspect that my excitement was probably not as profound as were the residents of Dresden, Germany in 1945. Last year a B-29 flew over the house, but enough on that—onto FITCHING (fishing). I love to fitch, there is honor and prestige in the art of bamboozling a fish to take your artificial fly and then reel them in for the dinner plate. I tried several artificial flies without so much as a nibble, and then I looked down on my arm and noticed that I had several mayflies on it. That was purely an AH-HA moment, and shortly thereafter I was banking in trout.
After a 5 mile bike ride up a mountain and then ditching the bikes in the weeds, we set off on foot along a trail 2.5 miles long until we came to our destination—Mystic Lake.
My fitching companéro, Mike, is investigating a creek for “holes” where trout like to hide; Mystic Lake is in the background. We fitched ALL DAY LONG for these aquatic delights and, I have the sunburn and a gashed elbow prove it. I stepped onto, slipped off of, and landed upon a rock with my elbow as the leading buffer. My elbow worked fabulously in this capacity and the swelling, bruising, tears and pain established this fact—
U bend in Mystic Creek that feeds Mystic Lake, no mystery there—
String of fitches held up by one happy fitcherman. I brought home my legal limit of cutthroats and a load of brown trout. Consequently, I had trout for breakfast, trout for lunch, trout for dinner and for a mid-night snack I had still more trout. I released back into the lake nearly as many as I took home. I pooh poohed any trout that was not over 3 feet in length—
During a lull in the fitching I paused to take in the magnificent view and the wafting stench from the mud. It reminded me of putrefied Swedish meatballs, sautéed in a light sewage sauce with a delicate hint of herbal notes—
Big, nasty brown trout. The mouth and throats of these predatory fish are black and inside they hide a series of tiny, needle sharp teeth. They also have cute little pink circles that dot their flanks to emphasize their feminine side. Note that on the anal fin(s) there is a white bar at the bottom edge. When you see that white bar flash in the water you know that you have hooked one fine dinner.
A view of Baltimore a hundred-thousand million years ago—
Composition: Tree with Moss and the Virgin Mary—
The happy, tubby hiker. To lighten my load I left my boots at home. I should have left me at home and let my boots (which were in better shape) go alone.
Sitting on the banks of the Madison River at sunset; the orange reflection on the water is smoke from the numerous forest fires that have Baltimore’d our air quality worse than LA’s. The first thing I did on smoky mornings was to walk outside, take in a deep lungful of the chowder-thick air, and exhale a whirl of glowing cinders—
This road trip took us through West Virginia, Virginia (Blue Ridge Mountains), Tennessee, North Carolina (Great Smoky Mountains), Georgia (yeah, we ate some peaches, but the ones of Chilton County, Alabama were tastier), Alabama (foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains), Kentucky, Illinois (vast stretches planted in corn the likes of which I have never seen), Iowa (popcorn, soy beans by the mile), Nebraska (more corn), Wyoming (no corn), Montana (some corn, when we could see it through the smoke), North Dakota (cows), and then across the 10,000 lakes of Minnesota (beautiful, marshy), Wisconsin (cheese orchards; and yes, we missed all the flooded areas by a mere day), Indiana (boring), Ohio (the southern route bordering Missouri is pretty), Pennsylvania (looks like Maryland), and finally we arrived in Maryland (resembles Pennsylvania). I cannot wait until we recuperate and are back on the road again next summer.
Alabaster of Hickey
I would have posted this sooner, but after reading the first draft, and quaffing subsequent drafts, I was in no condition to edit.
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