Travel journal — Part 3: Cumberland Plateau

May 27

With reluctance I departed my friend’s house in the mountains, leaving a temporary sanctuary that I still marvel about. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen such a perfect setting for a house: the view of the mountains, the tall hickotry trees, the little stream flowing underneath a canopy of dogwood trees, the windy, gravel road past hayfields and woods. It was like a very pleasant dream.

I left on a cool, sunny Sunday morning headed for Ducktown and Turtlecreek in the far southeast corner of Tennessee, and a winding drive through the Cherokee National Forest and on into the Tennessee River Valley — new areas of the country to explore.

I stopped at a National Forest information office outside Blairsville, Georgia, and found a great book about scenic drives in Georgia as well as a map of the Chattahoochee National Forest so I could trace all the gravel roads through the forests we traversed, up and down mountain roads, to find the waterfalls the day before.

Tennessee 39 from Tellico Plains to Dayton is a beautiful drive with a true back roads, country feel to it — not too deserted, but enough farms and rolling pastures and woodlands to add a lot of variety to my trip yesterday morning.

The first hint that things were going a little awry occurred when I stopped for a few minutes in the business district of a little town with an excellent historical mural painted on the side of one of the brick buildings. I parked in front of an antiques store, and had taken a few pictures and was walking back to my car when the town’s one (I presume) police officer pulled up beside me to “check things out.” What a splash of cold water in the face! I automatically felt as if I was not too wanted in that town.

I can’t stand when this happens. The “mysterious stranger” syndrome. It’s only happened one other time in the past during my travels. And that was a long, long time ago.

“Just admiring the mural,” I said to the officer.

That seemed to break the tension considerably. He was quite pleasant and wished me a good trip after aksing me where in South Carolina I was from.

One of the hazards of being a middle-aged male traveling alone in an off-the-main-highway sort of place is the suspicion it can arouse among the locals, including the local law. Wariness might be a better word. Now if I had been in an SUV with a wife and kids — no problem. That’s the typical tourist.

The good officer could have peered in my car all he wanted. He would have found a floor full of plastic water bottles, fruit juice, crackers and cookies, a box of Kleenex, maps, books, etc. The back seat contained a box of books and my clothes. I never lug suitcases around on these trips.

I left town shortly thereafter, glad to be doing so and hitting the road once again.

My next stop was the pretty east Tennessee town of Athens (there always seems to be a graceful old town named Athens in every Southern state, for some reason. Midwestern states, too. For instance, Athen, Ohio). I drove around downtown but the object of my visit — the McMinn Living Heritage Museum — was closed on Sundays.

On the road again to Dayton. The purpose of visiting this town should be obvious to anyone with a sense of the absurdity and fascination of history. Dayton is the rather infamous small town where Clarence Darrow defended in the couthouse downtown a young teacher accused of teaching that “man was descended from lower animals.” In other words, it was the famous evolution versus creationism trial, known as the Scopes Monkey Trial.” Of course, I had to see the courthouse, an imposing, but not very large, Romanesque structure, that has seen better days and which now houses a Scopes Trial Museum in the basement.

As soon as i pulled up in front, I noticed the winds picking up, tossing around the branches of the big oak trees surrounding the courthouse. I had seen the skies beginning to darken in places a few miles before town, but now the thunderstorm had arrived. It was quite dark on the deserted main street, and two gardeners were hurrying to pick up leaves and clippings on the sidewalk. I had just enough time to run to a good vantage spot for pictures before racing back to the car as rain fell in sheets and the wind began to whip the trees furiously. It was an angry weather scene. What a change in mood and atmosphere! Not only was the museum closed, but the town seemed deserted and mine was the only car out and about. Except that I was parked on the street by the courthouse until the rain abated, which it shortly did, thankfully. I was spoiled. I had experienced days of the most perfect weather imaginable.

Now as I left Dayton, what sign should I see? “Trail of Tears Highway,” one of the routes commemorating the forced exodus of the Cherokees from their homes in Tennessee to Oklahoma.

Instead of trying to head up Highway 129 to two rather remote waterfalls, I stuck to my original plan to travel west to Fall Creek Falls State Resort Park, knowing that I had foolishly scheduled my vacation during the long Memorial Day weekend and would likely encounter hordes of people at this most-visited of all Tennessee state parks. Sure enough, despite the rain, there were children yammering, shouting, and running around the trail to the falls, dogs, motorcyclists in black leather jackets, teenagers, grandparents — the works. I practically stumbled over kids darting in and arund me, jostling for space on the trail. This is fun?

Yes! The waterfalls were worth every second of hassle with crowds. They were splendid. Fall Creek Falls is the highest waterfall east of the Rocky Mountains and plunges 256 feet into a basin surrounded by granite walls. It’s a spectacular sight. I saw four other waterflls in this park and on a scenic one-way road.

I left the park around 5, and a half hour before getting to Cookesville the skies unleashed more torrents of rain. I was on the freeway, fortunately, and headed straught to the motel I had chosen and a comfortable room to relax in where I could think about all the days experiences.