Mountains, Hot Sauce, and the Cartography of Friendship
You know, there’s a certain kind of alchemy that happens when you point a vehicle (and let’s be honest, a Ford Mustang V8 is clearly the most fun way to conduct this particular experiment in physics and joy) away from the familiar flatness of a place like Charleston and towards the improbable, jutting-up-ness of mountains. The world literally changes shape. And maybe, just maybe, you do too, at least for a weekend.
So, there we were, Lizzie and I, making the requisite pilgrimages to gas station emporiums for fuel – for the car, yes, but also for us, because road trip snacks are a non-negotiable pillar of civilization. The roads to the Gatlinburg cabin, chosen with care by Waze, eventually narrowed into these cliff-hugging anxiety spirals. I’m not saying I saw my life flash before my eyes, but I definitely reviewed a few key scenes with an unexpected intensity. But then, the view from the balcony: a sweeping, tree-top panorama of the Smokies that just sort of… recalibrated your soul. It was the kind of vista that makes you forgive even the most terrifying of switchbacks.
The cabin was a delightful experiment in social geometry. We didn't know everyone initially, but there’s this implicit trust, isn't there? Amanda and David vouched for them, and that, it turns out, is a pretty solid foundation. And sure enough, they were good people. (Spoiler: they usually are.)
What followed was a highlight reel of excellent decisions and questionable culinary bravery. The Hot Ones Challenge, for instance. There’s something deeply human about collectively agreeing to inflict pain upon your tastebuds via Da Bomb hot sauce, adding that customary "little extra" to the final wing. It’s a bonding experience, like a very small, very spicy, shared trauma. While most of our cohort embraced the equestrian life – returning with tales of flatulent horses and trails that apparently redefined ‘precipice’ – Dylan and I opted for a waterfall hike. And reader, it was breathtaking. Afterwards, still buzzing from nature’s grandeur, we ventured into the nearby town of Cherokee, perusing local shops and encountering a fascinating array of hats and shirts of such profoundly questionable taste.
On Sunday, Amanda, David, Lizzie, and I braved the theme-park wilds of Dollywood, conquering the Tennessee Tornado and excavating the depths of the Mystery Mine – which, I have to say, was way more thrilling than anticipated and gets a solid A rating in my personal ride-evaluation ledger. The others? Oh, they just casually communed with nature, spotting not one, but two black bears on their mountain hike. As you do.
Evenings were a collage of shared meals and the kind of games that make you question your friends' sanity and then, frankly, your own. We’re talking Cards Against Humanity, Poetry for Neanderthals, and a particularly vigorous pastime charmingly titled "Let's Hit Each Other With Fake Swords." This last one, reached such a fever pitch of foam-weaponry combat that Lizzie ended up with a truly impressive bruise on her leg. You know, the kind that tells a story. A story mostly about how seriously we take our fake sword fights.
It was, in short, an amazing trip filled with amazing people. And as the landscape flattens out again on the drive home, you can’t help but wonder, with a hopeful sort of ache, where the map will lead next year.
