This must be the place: ‘Electric lizard, catching the flies, off the walls of this honky-tonk, my disguise’
Big Creek entrance to the national park.
Garret K. Woodward photo
The title of this week’s column is a lyric from a song by rising singer-songwriter Angela Autumn. The melody, “Electric Lizard,” is an incredibly haunting number, especially the solo rendition (just her and guitar) on the EP under the verbiage “Live from NYC.”
The tune was especially (and beautifully) haunting while I found myself meandering around the Great Smoky Mountain National Park this past week, either on some assignment or merely rambling around the backroads and backwoods of Western North Carolina and greater Southern Appalachia. Roll the truck windows down. Breathe deeply. Crank up the stereo. Hit repeat.
It was Wednesday afternoon when I took off from my humble abode one-bedroom apartment in downtown Waynesville. The nose of my truck aimed for Knoxville. Merge onto Interstate 40 West. Meander the s-curve route, headlong into the high peaks. Stay the night at my best friend’s house in West Knoxville, onward to Townsend for an assignment the next morning.
But, not before getting off I-40 at Exit 451, smack dab on the Tennessee/North Carolina border, amid a bevy of ongoing construction post-Hurricane Helene along the highway and buffering Pigeon River. One year later and the deep hurt remains, either physically atop the landscape or emotionally within the hearts of those who call this place home, who’ll never forget the tragedy.
Pulling into the parking lot of Big Creek, I pretty much had the whole place to myself. Lacing up my running shoes, I shut the truck tailgate and started trotting towards the trailhead, soon disappearing into the depths of Mother Nature. Sunshine piercing through the tree canopy overhead. A slight breeze rolling down the trail, swirling around my body in motion, in gratitude.
A mile and a half up the trail to Midnight Hole. It’s changed a lot since Hurricane Helene. The big, old tree at the waterline is long gone, uprooted and tossed like firewood down the creek. There’s even kind of a beach thing going on now. Odd to see and witness in person. You can jump off the big rocks and swim in the lagoon, but, like anything in this universe, time changes everything. You can’t go home again, as they say.
Related Items
Lawsuit alleges Forest Service timber sale is illegal
Word from the Smokies: Early mussel restoration efforts show promise
Smokies to remain open through Jan. 4
This must be the place: ‘I’m gonna keep catching that butterfly in that dream of mine’
Nonetheless, toss some cold mountain water on my face and raise my head into the sunshine. Give thanks to being able to run to this sacred, ancient place. Give thanks for being able to live here and be surrounded by such mesmerizing natural beauty. Give thanks to be able to simply appreciate nothing and everything surrounding you at any given moment.
Back down I-40 West to Knoxville. Assignment in Townsend come morning. For now? Swing into my best friend’s house in West Knoxville. We met 12 years ago when he was living and working in Waynesville. Skip ahead a decade and two years, his home is inhabited by an incredible wife and two young daughters. Time flies when you’re having fun. Time flies when you’re in search of your truth.
After they put the kids to bed, the three of us found ourselves in their living room. Swapping old tales of years long gone, memories dusty on the shelves of our collective minds, still held close to our hearts by those who never forgot all of the wild-n-out times that unfolded in the name of irresponsible enlightenment. Hearty laughter and kindred spirits remain.
I found myself momentarily in awe of how fast everything has happened. One day you’re 27 years old and relocating to Western North Carolina sight unseen to start this gig at the newspaper. Next thing you know, you’re looking into the mirror at a 40-year-old staring right back at you. Black hair has transitioned to a head of grey. Slightly receding hairline, but thankful to still be able to get haircuts and comb what’s left in the way I prefer.
Wake up in silence in the basement guest room. The sounds of the kids running around upstairs. Emerge from the depths of the house and into the family zone. Organized chaos and countless toys strewn all across the living room floor. Entertain the youth, all while seeking a strong cup of coffee. Maybe two. Say goodbye to the joyous family. Hop into the rusty, musty, trusty pickup truck. Onward to Townsend.
Conduct the interviews. Shake the hands. Finish the assignment. Bid farewell. Take the scenic route back to Waynesville through the national park. Take the even longer route along the Blue Ridge Parkway. Fall is here. Foliage bursting in every direction. Bright red, yellow and orange. Reminiscent of my native Adirondack Mountains. A sense of home sickness wafts through the vehicle. Tune up the stereo and put on some Tragically Hip. A grin of time and place overtakes my current position.
Return to the quaint apartment in Waynesville, the sun hanging low now over Balsam Gap. Back to the newsroom in the morning. Until then? Some playoff baseball at my neighborhood bar. Saddle up on the barstool and get handed a cold beer before I even have to ask the bartender what I want. She knows. She’s a good’un, too. More hearty conversations with old friends and strangers alike, now fast friends over a mutual love of baseball and Coors Light.
Circle back to the apartment. Start to unwind. Thoughts of when I can jump the Mason-Dixon Line and head back to the North Country to see my parents. Right now, my mother is probably watching the news in the living room. My father tending to the fireplace in the back den. The last of the leaves now fallen outside. Winter quickly rolling in, fogging up the windows of the farmhouse.
It’s now midnight. Nearby Russ Avenue is quiet, a far cry from the incessant construction over the last year and a half. Silence. Beautiful silence. Everyone else in this neighborhood is asleep or soon to be. I remain awake, listening to the sounds of John Prine and later on Tony Joe White. “A Rainy Night in Georgia” echoes throughout the apartment. Silence elsewhere. The gratitude remains, always and in good time.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.
