Moonshiners Fly-In

The first weekend in August, Mountain City, Tennessee, was host to the 5th Annual Moonshiners Fly-In at the Johnson County Airport.  Consort and I, along with our friends, decided to attend.  It was truly a treat for the eyes!  There were 20 or so paragliders in the sky at any one time and more on the ground waiting to take off.  With the mountains and setting sun, it was completely beautiful.  

I knew nothing about paragliding, parasailing, or hang gliding, so I did a little research.  Here's what I found out.

The above four pictures are of powered paragliders, also known as paramotors.  The pilot carries all the gear necessary to fly on his back in a pack.  The backpack holds a motor and what looks like an industrial-sized fan.  It is the fan that propels the pilot into the air.  Also attached to the backpack is a paraglider wing -- that colorful thing that looks an awful lot like a parachute, and a small seat for the pilot.  The backpack gear weighs anywhere from 45 to 100 pounds.  After starting the motor, the pilot runs between five and 100 feet over any type of surface, then launches into the air.  The average cost for the equipment is around $3,000.  After watching a couple of takeoffs, I knew I would never be coordinated enough to man one of these.

In the top left picture is a powered parachute, also known as a trike.  With the trike, the pilot is fully seated in a go-kart type setup.  This flying machine, which weighs in at about 200 to 250 pounds, needs a minimum of 100 feet on a runway-type surface for takeoff.  Average cost, $10,000.  On a good day, I think I could manage a trike.  

We saw the gentleman in the orange shirt zipping around the airport grounds and, of course, I had to stop him and ask about his ride.  He is riding a modified Onewheel.  The modification was the addition of a lawn chair.  He said he added the lawn chair for his personal comfort with the added bonus of being able to more easily hold his bottle of beer.  He was an interesting fellow.

The air dick?  On-site security.

As night crept in, the paragliders turned on LED lights that encircled the fan.

A few more notes.

I was admiring the scenery on the way home the other day and began to take note of various mountain heights.  I could easily determine which mountains -- possibly large hills? -- that I would attempt to climb and, based on what I saw, mountains I would never, ever attempt to climb.  This made me wonder what the mountain across the road looks like from a distance.  I took the above picture from our campground.  Looking at it from this vantage point, I wondered why I ever entertained the idea of climbing to the top!  But the challenge remains.  As of today, we still haven't hiked higher than the little cabin in the woods.

A few nights ago we had heavy thunderstorms with plenty of lightening.  I'm not sure if it was the thunder and lightening, or just the rain, but whatever the reason, the fifth wheel was vibrating and shaking like Elvis Presley in his prime.

D.O.G. absolutely hates thunderstorms.  At seven years old, he is the equivalent of a 49-year-old man, but still wants to be held like a baby during stormy weather.  Consort, who had gone to bed before me, was soundly sleeping when I headed to bed.  I placed D.O.G. up on the bed next to consort, so he could sleep with us and, hopefully, mitigate his anxiety.  

As I was changing into pajamas, there was a loud crash of thunder and a lightening strike very close to the fifth wheel.  The unexpected boom so startled me, I let out a scream.  That caused consort to wake up and scream.  That, of course, caused D.O.G. to howl.  The power had gone out a little earlier in the night, but we still had RV lights that run on battery.  Once I located a switch and flipped the lights on, I found D.O.G. laying on top of consort.  The above picture illustrates the general idea.  D.O.G. spent the remainder of the night on his back, crammed between the two of us, panting like a freight train.  

Fulton, who was flattened against my other side, jumped each time there was a thunder crash and then landed his 12-pound body on either my chest or head.  Nobody slept well that night.

On the TV:  Binge watching Downton Abbey  Love!  Shoutout to nephew in Mesa for teaching me how to run my TV!!  

Reading (still):  Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand.  I never seem to get much reading done here in NE TN.  This one could take a while!

Drinking:  Lemon-lavender moonshine mixed with lemonade.  Delightfully refreshing!

On the stereo:  T-Bone Burnett singing, It's Not Too Late, and Mississippi John Hurt singing, I Shall Not Be Moved.

Quote of the day:  Civil disobedience becomes a sacred duty when the state becomes lawless or corrupt.  ~Mahatma Gandhi 

Across the Road

One of the things consort and I enjoy most here in Northeast Tennessee is hiking.  To reach two of our favorite trails requires driving about 30 to 40 minutes.  This seemed like a lot of time until I started comparing it to other places we've camped.  While camped in a suburb of Phoenix, it took about 30 to 40 minutes to get just about anywhere.  Traffic.  When we're parked for the winter in Brownsville, it's a 20-minute drive to the grocery store.  Distance.  Here in Tennessee the time is spent traversing the winding, twisting roads.

Directly across the road from our campsite, I've noticed a road entering a property for sale that intrigues me.  I asked our friends about it and they said the property had been for sale for decades.  I asked what they thought about consort and I hiking the trail, and their response, No problem.  In fact, another set of campers had asked about nearby hiking trails and our friends recommended it.  The hikers later said it was the most difficult hike they had encountered in this area.  This, of course, piqued my interest.  After some discussion, and a few throw-downs of "How bad can it be," we decided to give it a try.

At the onset of the trail, and off to one side, are the remnants of an old stone house.  There isn't much still standing, just a chimney and a partial wall.  It looks quite enchanting, which made me wonder if mythical beings, like woodland elves, might exist unperceived in the dense forest.  

Hiking farther up the trail, we came to a shallow creek.  Our friend D tells us if we veer off the path and follow the creek, we will find caves and, eventually, the spring that is the source of the creek.  We haven't been that adventurous -- yet.  Following the creek would require footwear more substantial than tennis shoes and, possibly, even a machete.  

We hiked a little farther up the rough path and came to a wooden cabin.  It sets in a small, level clearing surrounded by the forest.  No running water, no electricity, but there is a sleeping loft, a fireplace, and a porch overgrown with vines.  Both consort and I fell in love with the remoteness of the cabin in this serene setting, not to mention the challenge of a "fixer-upper," but that's another story for another day.

We stopped at the cabin to catch our breath and hydrate.  The woods are relatively cool, but the humidity is high.  The path we followed was very rocky necessitating eyes-on-the-ground to avoid falling or twisting an ankle.  

We reached the cabin after only 20 minutes of hiking, about three-quarters of a mile.  That sure doesn't sound like much time or distance and, although rocky, the trail really wasn't difficult.  And what I mean by that is, we did not have to climb over, between, or around tumbled boulders!

What made the trek so difficult was the gain in elevation.  We started the hike from the campground at an elevation of 2,040; the cabin is at an elevation of 2,330, meaning a gain of 290 feet.  Again, that doesn't sound like a lot, does it?  According to Fitbit, and a little research on my part, a 290-foot gain in elevation is equal to 29 flights of stairs, which we climbed in about 20 minutes.  That would explain our shortness of breath and rapid heart rates -- you know, as opposed to just being old and out of shape.  

We've hiked this trail several times now and have yet to reach the top of the mountain.  We've hiked past the cabin, gaining another 50 feet in elevation, but are always compelled to stop.  I admit that I am the driving force behind our stopping.  For whatever reason, each time we hike this trail, I am overcome with dry-heaves.  It is completely miserable for me and unpleasant, at best, for consort.  But it does not deter me.  My goal for our remaining time here at Roan Creek is to finally reach the top of the mountain (without dry heaving, if that's possible).

One day not too long ago, the daughter of our friends here at the campground was visiting.  She is an avid hiker and kayaker, and just about half my age.  Consort, D.O.G., and I were headed out early one morning to hike the mountain and asked this sweet girl if she'd like to go with us.  She happily agreed.  We grabbed some bottles of water and our hiking sticks, then set off.

Let me just say right here that she talked most of the way up to the cabin.  I was huffing and puffing and kept glancing her direction to see if she was affected by our gabbing.  It appeared she had more than enough oxygen to do both.  Being the wonderfully polite person that I am, I attempted to keep up my end of the conversation between gasps for air.  About halfway to the cabin I had to stop and attempt to catch my breath.  At that point I confessed that I could not both hike and talk.  If I opened my mouth, it would be solely for the purpose of sucking in precious oxygen.

At the 290-foot elevation mark, we once again had to stop for my convulsive dry-heaves.  I love this girl!  She acted as though nothing were amiss.  She and consort stood a ways up the trail and seemed to be having a wonderful conversation while I hugged a tree at the side of the trail and kecked.  

After regaining control of my digestive system, the three of us discussed whether to continue on up the mountain or head back down.  Consort and I decided it was in our best interests to head down the mountain while we/I still could.  She decided to go forward.  None of us thought it could be much farther to the top of the mountain, possibly just a few more switchback roads ahead.  Seriously, how bad can it be?

Consort and I made our way down the mountain, back across the road, and fell into our camp chairs by the creek.  Our friend came by and asked what had happened to his daughter.  We explained that we had given up, and his daughter had continued on.

A couple of hours passed before this sweet girl made her way back to our campsite.  She was red-faced and polishing off bottles of water.  She said we were only about a third of the way up the mountain at the point where we stopped.  She didn't check the elevation when she reached the summit, but did say the trail became much steeper.  She complained about the lack of view from the top of the mountain, saying, When you put that much effort into a hike, you expect to be rewarded with spectacular views.  She promised we were not missing anything by not reaching the top.

Before she left that day, she told me that while she was climbing that last difficult bit to reach the summit, she began to wonder if my invite to hike was a setup.  Did I send her on to the top so I'd know what the trail was like?  How difficult it would be?  What the view at the top was?  My reputation of one-who-tries-never-to-exert-herself seems to have reached far and wide.

I took this picture of a dead Sycamore tree simply because it reminded me

of the Boojum tree we saw at the Desert Botanical Garden in Phoenix.

And these two pictures were taken to try out a new app, Seek by iNaturalist.  

Just open the app, take a picture, and the app identifies all types of plants and insects.

Very useful (and verified my identification of stinging nettles).

These two pictures are of Fall Phlox and an Eastern Tiger Swallowtail.

And, finally, this.  

I love collecting colored glass.  Whether dishes or a vase, sea glass,

gutter glass, or beach glass, it really does not matter.  

While the grandsons were visiting, it became a daily challenge to see 

who could find the most beach glass scattered over the rocky creek beach.

As it turns out, middle grandson had quite an affinity for collecting 

and was very good at finding it.

(Consort tells me it is because he is closer to the ground and still has good eyes.)

The jar pictured above is filled with the beach glass I've found this season

including the jar stopper, an electrical insulator, I found after the flood.

It's a lot like hunting for Easter eggs!

Tasty Tidbits

 

Today I'm posting some pictures that remain from June and July.  The above two pictures are of the grandsons shooting off more fireworks.  The pictures were taken the day after the flood.  The creek was mostly back to a normal level by the 4th of July.

I think it's safe to say that most Americans know what a s'more is, but did you know that the Girl Scouts are credited with the invention of s'mores?  The recipe for s'mores was first published in a 1927 edition of  Tramping and Trailing with the Girl Scouts, an official Girl Scout publication.  There were many evenings while the grandsons were visiting that we enjoyed this sacchariferous sweet.  One evening as we gathered ingredients to make s'mores, we found that we were out of graham crackers.  Middle grandson suggested we use cookies instead of the grahams.  They were delish!  I'm not sure we'll ever go back to graham crackers.

Who doesn't enjoy regaling their grandchildren with stories of "back in my day..." ?  I myself am guilty of this very thing.  With three growing boys visiting over the summer, food was an often mentioned and recurring topic.  One day the boys asked what was the worst food I had ever eaten.  That's when I told them about my experiences with goulash.   

There were occasions when I was growing up when my mother had to be gone over a weekend.  When my mother was absent, my father took over the cooking chores.  Have I ever mentioned that my dad was a cook in the National Guard?  The man knew how to sling hash.  One of his favorite dishes to make was goulash.  He mixed crumbled hamburger, elbow macaroni, chopped onions, a can of tomatoes, and lots of chili powder together then proudly presented it as if it were a gourmet meal.  My stomach does flip-flops just thinking about it.  I told my grandsons that this was the worst, most horrible thing I had to eat as a child.  (Although, upon reflection, I think breaded tomatoes were really much worse.)

After describing this gut-wrenching cuisine to the boys, they insisted we try it.  They thought it sounded wonderful and begged me to make it.  So I did.  Fifty years ago I promised myself I would never, NEVER cook goulash or make anyone I cared about eat it.  Well, you know what they say:  Never say never.  Both consort and the boys proclaimed the goulash delicious.  As for me, the goulash tasted the very same as the hot mess my dad served up.  I believe it's a one-and-done.

If you're a regular reader of this blog, maybe you'll remember that we left our Westiepoo, Bella, here in NE Tennessee last year with her new owner, K.  K's grandparents own Roan Creek Campground, and we've had the pleasure of her company several times this season.  Of course, wherever K goes, Bella goes.  K and Bella were here over the 4th of July while the grandsons were still here.  Consort, the boys, D.O.G., and I all got to spend time with her.  

The first time Bella showed up, D.O.G. broke into his happy dance -- jumping up and down with all four paws leaving the ground at the same time.  Bella, ever the "too cool for school" dog, acknowledged D.O.G.'s presence, but didn't seem all that excited to see him.  She just walked around sniffing each of us with what seemed to be complete indifference.  We all wondered whether she even remembered us.  Once the adults were settled in camp chairs, and the kids ran off to play, I called Bella to me.  She ran to me and jumped up on my lap burrowing her face into my neck as if to say, Of course I remember you!  Priceless!

I am happy to report that Bella is living the life of a very lucky dog.  Although she was in and out of our fifth wheel making herself completely at home, and followed after the kids and D.O.G. all day, when it was time to say goodnight, she was always ready to leave with K.  She rides on the back of our friend's ATV, has full run of the campground, and is a favorite of employees and customers alike at the marina where K's mom works.  No longer does she play second fiddle to D.O.G. with his unique dreadlocks.  She is the number one dog, and we are so pleased.

This little guy was seen wandering through our campsite early one evening.  

Haven't seen any bears....yet.

Fulton went to the vet a few weeks ago and was neutered.  He had laser surgery, so there were no stitches.  In fact, he did not seem to have any pain or discomfort at all.  After picking him up, I settled him into the backseat of the pickup.  He immediately took shelter under D.O.G. curling up between his legs.  No amount of coaxing would bring him out.  Interesting that the cat feels most secure nestled under a dog.

We spend a lot of time outdoors here.  We had about a week of temps in the mid to upper 80s, but it has cooled down again into the 70s during the day, upper 50s at night.  Everything is lush and green.  Completely beautiful!  Pictured above are D.O.G. and Fulton in the creek.  My dog-loving cat now enjoys playing in the water.  He has also figured out he can climb trees.  Fulton's favorite outdoor sport is teasing D.O.G. until he becomes so agitated he turns and chases the cat.  Fulton then runs up the nearest tree leaving D.O.G. on the ground below, barking, with his paws up on the tree trying to reach the cat.  Watching the two of them interact is always entertaining!

Final note for those of you who receive this blog via email.  I have received notification from Blogger that they are disabling the ability for one to follow the blog through email.  As far as I can tell, this change will occur sometime this month.  I will be the first to admit that I am technologically challenged, so I'm not sure I fully understand the changes.  This is just a head's up.  If you stop receiving emails with new blog posts, just google Permanent Sag and you'll find your way here.  In the meantime, I'm working on sorting it all out.  

Quote of the day:    A great civilization is not conquered from without until it has destroyed itself from within.  ~W. Durant

The Flood

On July 1st, a Thursday, we here at Roan Creek were experiencing heavy rainstorms.  Living right next to the creek, it has become second nature to watch the level of the water.  Despite being deluged with rain off and on all day, the creek continued to carry the excess water away.  We watched as the water levels rose and fell throughout the day.  Our grandsons picked up large stones to mark the edge of the creek around 10:30 p.m. before settling down for the night.

Sometime around 11 p.m., the fellow camping in a tent next to us knocked on the door.  He was concerned about the creek rising.  After some discussion, he and consort moved his tent and camping gear a little farther up the bank just to avoid problems.  As they were moving the campsite, I went out and checked the water level.  The creek had dropped close to a foot since the boys had placed their markers.

I woke up Friday morning around five o'clock.  As I was slowly regaining consciousness, I was aware of an unusual sound.  I can always hear the creek as it flows past the fifth wheel, but there was something different in what I was hearing.  I looked out of the window next to my bed, and I could see moonlight reflecting off the water.  It seemed as though the creek was all around us.  I knew that couldn't be accurate, so I got up to go check things out.  This is what I saw when I opened the front door:

I woke consort and filled him in on what was happening.  He opened the front door and just stared.  When he turned back to me, he had only two words:  Let's go.

When we turned from the door, we saw our two older grandsons standing in the living room awakened by the commotion.  We directed them to get dressed, including shoes, and be ready to leave the trailer as quickly as possible.  I woke up our seven-year-old grandson and readied him to vacate the fifth wheel while consort leashed up the dog and cat.  By 5:40 a.m., everyone was ready to go, but we decided to wait another ten minutes for the first light of day before traversing the flood.

Looking out the front door, we could see one of the rugs originally placed in front of the camper was now tangled in and around the front steps.  Consort set to work moving it so we could safely go down the trailer stairs.  While he was working in the rapidly flowing water to free the rug, I made my way around the front of the fifth wheel to check for any dry place we could move to.  

From the front of the trailer, we're about ten yards to the park gazebo which sets on higher ground than our camper.  There was standing water between the gazebo and trailer, but no strong current.  It looked as though we'd be able to easily wade through the water to higher ground.  However, in the time it took us to untangle the carpet, and then dislodge a bicycle caught on a leg of the fifth wheel, the water continued to rise and the flow became much faster.  

As soon as the first light appeared over the mountain, we began the evacuation.  Consort helped our youngest grandson down to the ground.  The water came up to the top of his legs.  I took his hand and the two of us walked around to the front of the trailer.  The current coming from under the front of the trailer knocked Youngest's feet out from under him.  I had no problem hanging onto him and keeping his head above water; but once his feet were firmly under him again, fear overcame and he began to cry.  That was the hardest thing I had to deal with all day.  (Gulp!)  I stopped just long enough to hug him tightly to me, then got him safely to dry ground.  

Consort handed middle grandson out to me next.  Middle is almost 11.  He and I crossed to dry land, without incident, where he joined his brother.  Next in line was our oldest grandson who is nearly 13.  I suppose I didn't really need to hold his hand, but I did anyway.  It was fate.  As we rounded the front of the trailer, I stumbled.  Without hesitation, and with more strength than I would have imagined, Oldest caught me and then walked me safely to dry ground.  Consort followed right behind us carrying D.O.G., then made a second trip back for Fulton, the cat.

By the time we were all safe at the gazebo, the sun was fully up.  Our tent-camper friend had moved all of his gear up onto the gazebo mound.  Both he and consort moved their trucks up next to the gazebo.  There were campers staying in a cabin across the road from the gazebo, but we could not physically reach them.  The road had turned into a raging river.  We were all most concerned about the campers closest to the bridge.  We could see they were in some pretty deep water.

There's no question we were all shaken up, but everyone and everything was in one piece.  By 10 a.m., enough water had receded to allow us back into our campsite.  We lost innertubes and water shoes that were outside the front door.  The flood carried away our picnic table with the umbrella still attached.  We found it later flipped upside down and wedged next to a tree.  We lost all the camp chairs, but the grandsons found two of them later in the day.  The fifth wheel survived without damage and without moving.  The water never did quite reach our bottom step.  All the "basement" bins were dry.

One of the pictures below is of the RV that was closest to the creek.  They had water in all of their "basement" storage bins.  In the picture of our fifth wheel, you see the stabilizer leg and blocks.  All of the rock and dirt around the blocks was washed away.  Luckily, the ground beneath the blocks held firm.  Before the day was over, we hitched the trailer and smoothed out the ground beneath the stabilizers, then reset the camper. 

There must have been heavy rain upstream that idled for some time to cause the flood.  And that was just one night of rain.  The ark and the flood have been topics of conversation around our place since we visited the ark the first part of June.  Living through our little flood gave us all a new perspective.  40 days and 40 nights.  Can you imagine?

Later in the day, we went out for a drive to see what damage the flood had done.  We were both surprised and pleased to find that, with the exception of our creek and the land surrounding it, there wasn't any flooding.  We saw this rainbow on the way home.  Did you know that a rainbow is a sign of God's promise to never again destroy the earth and all its inhabitants with a flood?  It was a beautiful sight to see.

A Cup Covered House, a Bridge, and a Movie Set

 

This is the House of Mugs in Collettsville, North Carolina.  The house sets at the dead-end of a long and windy mountain road completely off the beaten path.  The couple who own the house were not at home when we visited, so we did not have a chance to meet them.  As the story goes, they found a box of mugs nestled in amongst other items they purchased at a flea market over 15 years ago.  Having no real need of the coffee mugs, and on a whim, the owners decided to hang the cups on the exterior of the house as decoration.  Apparently there is no homeowner's association.

Today there are over 34,000 cups and mugs hanging all over the house, outbuildings, gates, and fencing.  The owners, both artists and collectors, have hung most of the cups themselves, but curious visitors are encouraged to leave a mug of their own.  We saw quite a few cups marked with the date it was placed and its state of origin.  

Henry River Mill Village

Hickory, North Carolina

My pictures are on top, movie pictures below.

Neither Katniss nor Peeta were around the day we visited.

The Henry River Mill Village was established in 1905 and was home to the Henry River Manufacturing Company, a cotton yarn manufacturer.  When the town was originally established, the company erected 35 worker houses, a two-story boarding house, a bridge, a brick company store (pictured above), a power-producing dam, and a three-story brick mill where the yarn was produced.  The village of Henry River was occupied almost exclusively by millworkers.  The company permanently closed in 1973 citing an inability to compete with the overseas textile industry.  S H O P    L O C A L ! ! !

Despite the mill being closed, residents of "Mill Hill" continued to live there.  The last known resident moved out sometime in the late '90s.

Fast forward to 2012.  Hollywood happened across the run-down village and thought it would serve as the perfect setting for the post-apocalyptic dystopia of District 12 featured in the film, The Hunger Games.  The movie was filmed in many different locations, but Henry River is the set used for filming the house where Katniss lived, and the bakery where Peeta lived and worked.  In 2017, a group of local residents came together and purchased the defunct town.  They have begun to refurbish and restore the original cabins.  Currently, they have one cabin available for rent.  

Hickory, NC, is a long drive from where we're camped, but both consort and I, and all three grandsons, thoroughly enjoyed the day.  We had a knowledgeable tour guide who was fun and entertaining.

We ended the day with a quick stop at the Bunker Hill Covered Bridge.  It was originally built in 1894 and is one of 220 lattice truss bridges remaining in the US.