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The Road Trip

I was 18 years old and barely out of high school before I had seen a mountain. I had heard all of my classmates talk about trips to the Smokies and I was determined to see for myself.

So, it was with such determination that I, along with my best friend, Ron Sauls, set out one Sunday morning for a camping trip in the Smokey Mountain National Park to see what all the fuss was about. Ron had never seen a mountain either.

It would be a life altering experience of sorts, at least for me. It was a quest, a maiden journey. The kind of trips young men take when they discover their wings. We were seekers of adventure, detached from parental controls, and out to blaze trails and conquer the world. In retrospect, however, we were more Dumb and Dumber than Lewis and Clark. Even so, it was an awakening.

This is a picture from the The Casual Historian Blog
We traveled in my 1968 Datsun 2000 convertible. I had just bought it for $800 with my earnings from Carriage Lane Furniture combined with the generosity of my Dad. It was the fastest car I ever owned registering 160 miles an hour.

I gave it a work out as we headed north on I-65 and by the time we reached Birmingham, the water pump was failing and the engine over heating.

We could not have picked a worse spot to break down. It was ground zero of the inner-city. I-65 was still under construction and the interstate was diverted through city streets and neighborhoods. Street gangs and other dangerous looking characters were distracted by the small car and the steam escaping from the engine. We were the center of attention.

Since it was Sunday, we thought we might have trouble finding a new water pump, especially for an imported vehicle, but a quick check in a corner phone booth’s yellow pages revealed a couple of stores open across town that stocked parts for imports. We needed a cab.

“I’ll go and you stay with the car.” I quickly volunteered while looking around at all of the dangerous looking people on the streets.

“You don’t know what to get.” Ron knew I was not mechanically inclined and that I didn’t know a bolt from a nut.

“Let’s flip” I argued.

I was looking at the thin canvas top on my convertible and thinking it a bit silly that I had locked the doors. A quick slash by one of those switch blades and the thugs will have me. I began to imagine all sorts of horrible things and I was truly frightened. I had never been in a big city alone, much less stranded on the side of the road.

“Hey man, are you Ok?” The voice came from behind.

Oh no, I thought. This is it. I knew it was going to happen. Of all the rotten luck, why couldn’t I have broken down in front of a police station or hospital or a Piggly Wiggly?

“Yes. I am alright and my friend will be right back.” I knew it sounded silly the minute it came out of my mouth.

“OK man, just checking.” A middle aged man walked around the car got back on the side walk and disappeared.

He wasn’t a killer after all; just someone offering to help. Was I wrong in my characterization of all of the strangers?

Ron soon returned and I was delighted to see that he had also bought some metric tools for the job. I would have never thought of it but Ron worked as a part time mechanic at Nelson Buick (which would later be converted into a television station and is where I am currently sitting as I write this blog.)

Time passed slowly as he removed the radiator then the old pump and hours later, we were back in business.

We had planned to swing through Nashville for a quick look at the Ryman Auditorium then head to Knoxville, Gatlinburg, then Cherokee, North Carolina. It was an ambitious plan that had been completely upset by the mechanical failures. Tonight, however, we will have to sleep in the car.

It was very dark when we left the interstate and pulled into a church parking lot somewhere between Birmingham and Nashville. It felt safe. Killers and demons will not mess with you in a church parking lot. It is a fact. But we decided that one of us should keep watch, just in case, while the other slept for a couple of hours.

“Who goes first?’ Ron asked.

“Let’s flip.” I said with a lot of confidence.

Ron snored relentlessly while I watched the shadows in the trees. I could hardly hear the ghosts, monsters, and escaped prisoners with all the snoring. Soon, however, and despite the coin toss, I slept like a baby.

The next morning, we drove into Nashville to see the Ryman. I had never seen anything like it before. My eyes could not get enough.

Ron was not as impressed. He loved Roy Orbison, not Roy Acuff. So, against my will, we left the wonderful city of Nashville, Tennessee and headed east to Gatlinburg. We had mountains to climb.

Soon the rolling hills gave way to thundering mountains and we were in awe. The breath taking views, the twisting roads, the cool dampness, were as alien as Mars. Sure, we have stunning vistas of emerald green gulf water but we don’t have hardened rock exploding from the earth’s crust. This was something special. All of the woes from the previous day seemed a distant memory.

In Gatlinburg, I called home to assure my mother that we were safe. We were heading across the Smokies to Cherokee and to a camp site right at the foot of the national park.

We proceeded along US 441 and found ice at the top of the mountains. We were both wearing t-shirts and shorts. I was amazed at how quickly the temperature changed. It was very cold.

The cold mountain reminded Ron that we had drained the anti freeze from the radiator. So, once in Cherokee, we searched for a gas station only to find that everything was closed. On the outskirts of town, we found a station that had a closed sign on the door but a light was still on. I got out of the car and walked over to see if anyone was still inside.

This is a picture from the The Casual Historian Blog
I discovered several Native American men sitting at a table in the garage area and playing cards; poker I assumed because there was money on the table. Beer cans, Budweiser to be exact, and cigarette smoke, was hanging heavy in the cold air. It looked very private and reminded me a bit of the famous picture by C.M. Coolidge of Canines playing poker. I hastily walked back to the car.

“They’re all Indians,” I told Ron, “I am not going to bother them.”

“We’re on an Indian reservation. What did you expect?”

I was afraid. I had never seen a Native American except on television. I did not want to disturb them, anger them, and get beat up or worse. I had seen how Hollywood portrayed Native Americans and I wanted no part of it.

“We’ve got to have anti-freeze and it’s your car.” Ron insisted.

“Let’s flip,” I argued.

On my way to the door I rehearsed my opening line. I was mumbling to myself when the door opened and I was standing face to face with one of the men I had seen at the table.

“Are you guys OK” he asked? He must have seen us arguing in his parking lot.

For an instant, I thought about running but then there was something very normal about his voice. It didn’t sound like the Indians I had seen on TV at all. He sounded like me.

“Yes Sir, we’re Ok,” I stuttered. “We didn’t want to bother anybody but we were trying to find some anti-freeze.”

“Well,” he said, “we’re closed but let me see what I can do.”

He went back inside then quickly returned with a can of anti-freeze, told us to open the hood, then poured it into the radiator.

“How much do I owe you?” I asked.

“Don’t worry about it. The register is closed. You can pay me next time you come into town.”

This was only a small thing to him but it was huge to me. For the first time, I was beginning to learn a little about the world. Why was he so nice, so friendly, and so accommodating? I felt a little guilty about it all. How could I have been so wrong about the man and his culture?

This single event, though minor in detail, had a big impact on me. It caused me to question my prejudices and it was the first step in enlightenment about human nature: a lesson that would be repeated many times in my life as I traveled to different parts of the world and met people different from my own.

We made it to the camping area late that night and began to pitch the tent. Ron had an idea to put a plastic tarp beneath the tent to insulate us from the cold ground.

“What if it rains,” I quizzed?

“It’s not going to rain. Are you going to worry about every little thing? Trust me,” he insisted.

The storm that night was one of the worst I have ever experienced. It was quickly followed by the coldest air I had ever experienced. The rain poured down the side of the tent, on to the tarp, then formed a puddle under our bedding. The temperature dropped to six degrees. Everything we had with us was wet and frozen. We were miserable.

When daylight finally came, we gathered everything and stuffed it into the trunk of my car then drove back into Cherokee in search of a laundry so we could wash and dry our clothes. But first, I insisted we go back to the service station.

I found the young man that had helped us the night before, paid him the money I owed, and thanked him profusely for his courtesy. Under the light of day, everything seemed friendly, less ominous, less forbidding.

The cold weather prevented the camping but we had just enough money to find a cheap motel. So, we spent two more days exploring the mountains. We would repeat this adventure several more times as young men. It was never as much fun or as enlightening as this first trip, though.

We were tired and almost out of money by the time we started back to Panama City. We remembered that we hadn’t eaten too much since we left home. We counted our money and decided we had enough for fuel and maybe a pizza.

At the Pizza Hut in downtown Columbus, Georgia, Ron stared intently at the menu.

“How about a medium pizza with pepperoni and anchovies,” Ron suggested?

“Anchovies,” I exclaimed! “Are you nuts? How could you possibly eat something that smells so bad? They’re hairy!”

“Let’s flip,” he said with extreme confidence.

I did a lot of growing up on that trip; first time away from home, first time in a precarious situation, first time confronting my prejudices, and first time nearly freezing to death. And I learned that anchovies really aren’t all that bad when you’re hungry.

Comments (2)


Posted on Oct 24, 2007 - 07:25 AM by Larche Hardy
Page 1 of 1 pages

 

About Me

The life of any News Director is stressful most days... so, when the weekend rolls around I find myself on the back roads of our bountiful and beautiful part of the state looking for bluegrass music, interesting things to do, and, of course, fried chicken. I will try to share some of these "finds" with you. There are a thousand stories left to be told or simply remembered. Don't expect to find them all here; maybe just a little stroll down memory lane or maybe a little skewed insight into topical issues.
Larche Hardy,
News Director

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