The Smoky Mountains National Park is the most visited national park in America, for reasons that I cannot fathom. There's no entrance fee -- maybe that explains it. But more visitors than Yellowstone, or the Grand Canyon, or Yosemite? That's just crazy.
From afar, the mountains are sultry and mysterious. And don't get me wrong, they're pretty up close too. They're just not spectacular. Maybe I'm just sour since we missed the chance to see yet another bear due to a bunch of inconsiderate drivers stopping smack dab in the middle of the road, leaving us stuck uphill inside a forested patch of land where there were no bears to be seen.
But before Jun and I reached the mountains, we scooted up the west side of Georgia and into Tennessee territory. It was getting dark, so we found a state park and set up our tent for the last time. We cooked up a feast on the hot coals, cracked open a couple of beers and then crawled into our sweltering tent. It was so hot I could barely breath, and the crazy thunderstorm that rolled in for the entire night cooled off the outside air but didn't make the slightest bit of difference inside the tent.
Perky the next day we were not, and the world's worst cup of gas station coffee didn't help matters. But then, after our ho-hum lap through the Smokies, we stopped at a river rafting spot, ordered up two tubes and headed to the water. We floated a mile downstream, sometimes leisurely moving along in a light current, and at other times being tossed through quick-moving rapids.
We made it back to the base in one piece and scarfed down a barbecued pork sandwich and a big ol' mason jar of southern tea.
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