We were lost!
We were in the Appalachian Mountains and we were lost!
We were, specifically, in the Smoky Mountains of the Appalachian Mountains, lost!
The green road sign read "Grindstaff". GPS was having a fit.
GPS insisted repeatedly, "In 600 yards turn right on Rabbit Hill Road", "In 1,000 feet turn right on Rabbit Hill Road", "In 50 feet turn turn right on Rabbit Hill Road". Then that branding word seared our brains, "Recalculating."
It took us an hour of "recalculating" to get back to "Grindstaff".
Darling Hubby had his own fit, fit of embarrassment and self-flagellation. I enjoyed every minute of it, the scenery, the height of the mountains, the old-time relics, the abandoned vintage trucks, and rickety barns whose wood would be coveted up here.
Before turning onto Ravens Branch Road, we were on this goat path, Rabbit Hill Run; it barely had tire tracks, we barely kept the tires on the tracks! I wondered who'd turn around if we met another vehicle coming, them or us. Driving backwards for 2 miles would be a might harder than putting a molted snake back in his skin. I made a Marco Polo, "If we don't return, send help, tell them we slid down the banks of Cripple Creek, Tennessee, and we can't get up!"
Turning to John I said, "I can just see it ... we're laying at the bottom of the holler on the crick bank and a Hillbilly with his huntin' dog and rifle comes out of the green thick woods, curiosity making him spit his chaw, "Well, doggies, y'all look more scared than a bunny in a kitchen full of boiling pots." LOL
So there we were coming out of Rabbit Hill Road, "Turn right onto Ravens Branch Road" coming down the mountain to "Turn right onto Big Creek Road" and seeing all kinds of sights only a mountain man would see, or someone lost in "them there woods". At first I couldn't discern what I was seeing, as the clues came together to make a conclusion, and our truck got closer, we could see that the ground cover clothing the mountain in a green blanket was also reaching up and over to cover a home and a car!
At this point, we're ready to go back to where this all started. "It all started when" I asked John to stop and let me take a picture of one of
the strangest road sign names I'd seen, Ground Hog Road. And ready to go back to the intersection where there was a gas station. After that hour we needed a restroom and some refreshments, and a good stretching of the legs.
The tall full-bodied white-haired lady taking money said she'd worked there over 37 years. She was stale and dry. She was functioning robotic-like. I tried to lighten her day, engaging her in conversation. She had kids, I had kids. Hers were grown, mine were grown. She had grandkids, I had grandkids. I bought gloves to cut to be a buffer between my skin and the seat belt. She accepted the cash. John bought two cups of doctored coffee. She accepted the cash.
Thank goodness John bought us that coffee, we were all just too dry.
Being lost wasn't all that bad. Surprisingly I actually felt at home watching the waters rippling alongside the road, seeing the efforts to live comfortably and to beautify simple dwellings, and wondering at the native wildflowers growing anywhere -- trillium, violets, little brown jugs -- especially amongst the rocks shoved aside to make way for the pavement. All felt familiar, like Kentucky where we took many vacations in the '70's and where my maternal grandparents' lived.
Being lost wasn't all that bad, I rather enjoyed it, all of it.
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