South Beach-- that's how I roll

I started Thursday with high hopes.  I was just south of Bristol, Tennessee and planned to hit Great Smoky Mountains National Park.  This park straddles the border of North Carolina and Tennessee.  It's the only national park that does not charge for admission.  It was established, in part, with funds from the Rockefeller family with the contigency that the park not charge its visitors.  Its also the most visited national park.

The drive from Bristol to Great Smoky Mountains was amusing.  From I-81, I drove secondary roads into the worldwide center of kitsch, Sevierville, Tennessee.  Sevierville is the birthplace of Dolly Parton.  It is also home to Dollywood.  Don't get me wrong, I love Dolly.  I think she is sassy and talented and really funny.  (And, as an aside, I dressed up as Dolly Parton for Halloween when I was, like, six years old.)  Seeing Dollywood made me sad.  Sevierville was probably a gorgeous little mountain town when Dolly was born there.  It is now a horrible strip mall of touristical tragedies.  I resisted the lure of the Hatfield and McCoy dinner show.  I drove on to the park.

Sadly, the weather didn't cooperate.  The lower elevations of the park were slightly foggy and cool.  I stopped at the visitor's center to choose a hike and found one that was a short 4 mile loop with an optional 2 mile extension.  As I ascended, the fog got thicker.  Folks kept below the 35 mph speed limit.  I had to double back to find the trail head because I didn't see the sign until it was too late.  I geared up (snacks and water) and started on my way.... until I realized that visibility was probably 4 feet.  Knowing my navigational limitations, I stopped and returned to the car.  If I can get lost with perfect visibility, what would I do with pea soup fog?  Oh well.  I am now part of the depressing statistic about Great Smoky Mountains National Park: 3/4 of visitors do not get more than 100 yards from a paved surface.

I motored on through the Cherokee Reservation on the North Carolina border of the park.  This was the Cherokee indian version of Sevierville.  Kitsch.  Kitsch.  Kitsch.

And from there, it was a blur of interstates: through North Carolina into South Carolina and then Georgia.  The radio stations were less than satisfactory.  And Florida.  Don't get started about how boring Florida was.

But here's the light at the end of the I-95 tunnel:

That's me (when did I perfect the Miss America pose?) on my brother's balcony in Miami Beach.  I could get used to this....