Barren Trees

The Off Season

I noticed on a recent visit to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park that I happened to arrive during the off season.  So what’s the “on season?”  Like most national parks, crowds flock to the Great Smokies during the summer because that happens to coincide with the peak vacation season in America.  Not that the national parks have a monopoly on summer, but if you have ever driven through Yellowstone in July, you might find traffic – actual bumper-to-bumper traffic – much like you would see in line for the Matterhorn at Disneyland or along the National Mall in Washington, DC.  Cruises to Alaska, camping in Wisconsin, and road trips to practically everywhere commence as soon as schools conclude.

Between Gatlinburg, Tennessee and Cherokee, North Carolina the highlights don’t end just because Labor Day arrives.  Peak season number two begins when the leaf peepers hit the road and marvel in the rich colors that coat the Appalachian range.  Even the quaint Great Smoky Mountain Railroad increases its fares during October.  Yet, I still prefer to travel during the off season to avoid the crowds, but also to see the other vantage points of the scenery.  And while the landscape probably shimmers and glistens in its winter white, my season of choice fits none of the ideal, pastoral images.  I arrive on the cusp between winter and spring when the snow has melted, but the daffodils have only begun to think about blossoming.

Dormant

Hills and hills flow together along these state lines, much like they hugged the roads in West Virginia (see “Almost Heaven” from July 2012).  The ancient mountains have brought forth innumerous trees, the overwhelming majority of which are deciduous and in the waning winter days show their wear from each hard freeze.  The leaves, deposited months ago and packed against the earth, have long since sapped the color from the branches, and the woodsy colors now, mostly shades of brown, which in the sunlight lose any trace of color, cast grayness over each slope, as well as the next slope, and the slope after that.  Sporadically, a conifer boasts it bits of green among a forest of blandness.

Suddenly I realize, I don’t just belong here, I am here.  How often do I feel like these tall empty trunks, blown and ripped of the leaves I brought forth, the efforts I contributed, the bright color I shared with others?  Even when the autumn arrives, I vary my colors; I adapt and make the changes necessary to keep others engaged.  But like the wintered, weathered trees, I am left dormant, gray, and lifeless.  I wish my spirit had the hardiness of the pines to hang on to my little bit of green, to keep some visible signs of life about me.  Everything I have given has fallen off, been blown off, been stripped and picked off by the forces around me.  And don’t think these lifeless trees inspire me or invigorate me; they simply remind me of myself.  They, too, are standing, not hardly bending against the last huffs and puffs on the northern winds, because they have nothing left to lose, but to wait for a change – a warm wind – to blow their way.  Like me, they wait for something better to come along before they fall to the forest floor forever.

Ocracoke Nachos

Close, But Not Close Enough

Driving southward through the Outer Banks of North Carolina inevitably leads to a ferry.  I knew this.  My beloved atlas (see “Traveling With Boys” from November 2011) told me so, and I was ready to set sail with Son #1 and my little car for the Tarheel mainland.  Imagine my surprise when I learned the island road leads to two ferries.  That put a kink in my travel plans.  I had hoped to drive from Virginia Beach to Wilmington, and I had called ahead to reserve my spot on the Ocracoke ferry back to the mainland.  I just hadn’t counted on this additional vessel at Hatteras.

In terms of a boat ride, the free ferry did not take long at all, but it did make me miss my reservation for the next floating leg of our voyage.  When I pulled into the loading area at Okracoke, I proudly parked in the first slot to drive across the gangplank, but my scheduled ship had already sailed past the horizon.  I sat patiently in my car for a spell, hoping to see a car-laden vessel pulling up to the dock, reassuring me that the ship had been tardy, not me, but the view across the inlet remained vacant.  Shame on me for not knowing there were two ferries I would need to board on this day.

Making the Best of It

At less than two years of age, passing time with a little boy requires a plan, and clearly from my error in Hatteras, my plan had set sail without me.  Once aboard the second leg of our watery route, my car parked front and center on the boat, and in front of my hood I spread out a blanket for my young passenger to stretch out for an afternoon nap in the sun.  A better planner would have brought a blanket large enough for both of us, but still being in my early days of mobile adventure, I felt relieved just to be setting sail.  I also neglected my sunscreen – an error I would regret for the next several days, too.

And although the first ferry lacked the lengthy duration of the second voyage, I still needed a way to entertain a little boy until we could get back in the car.  And then, a brilliant passenger had the most simple of solutions: feed the birds.  For nearly the entire voyage, with a full-size bag of tortilla chips in hand, one by one the man would reach into the bag, select a snack, and reach skyward, challenging the floating terns following our route to swoop closer and closer to snatch the complimentary snack gently from his hand.  For a small boy obsessed with chasing birds, the simple activity mesmerized him.  Note for future travelers: there are two ferries at the end of the North Carolina barrier islands; be sure to come prepared with a large blanket, sunscreen, and a bag of Tostitos.