Tennessee Road Trip Part Lima (5)

It is cruel, you know, that music should be so beautiful. It has the beauty of loneliness of pain: of strength and freedom. The beauty of disappointment and never-satisfied love. The cruel beauty of nature and everlasting beauty of monotony. ~ Benjamin Britten

Music is love in search of a word. ~ Sidney Lanier

River Crossing

Mountain Leaves

I was going to write today about a hike in the woods and the large animal that crashed through the trees and caught my ear but evaded my sight. Based on the ruttings in the soft earth, I believe it was a wild pig but I cannot say that with any certainty. Or I was going to write about the myriad glorious colors that seemed to pop out of the earth whenever I took my eye of the road and glanced at the mountains. Or I was going to write about the otter that came bounding down the river and passed just a few feet beneath the rickety bridge on which I was standing. Was it in search of prey or just prancing about enjoying the gorgeous sunny day. Or I was going to write about the twisty 80 mile ride along the Blue Ridge Parkway with many tunnels and many more steep dropoffs where every bend in the road had an overlook of the stunning mountain scenery. Or about the log I traversed which hung suspended over a river that had more rocks to divert the water than open space for the water to flow causing the water to boil and tumble and rumble. Or about the lady that pushed a stroller down the main streets of Gatlinburg which contained not a child but 3 small dogs. Or about the man that carried his tiny dog in a pouch on the front of his chest like a papoose worn in front instead of on the back. Or how I viewed every trail I walked the past three days in terms of its suitability for a mountain bike of how I looked for lines I could ride for maximum speed and efficiency of how I tried to determine the best techniques for navigating the rock obstacles. I could write of these and many other thoughts that flitted across my consciousness but all would pale when compared to the serendipitous event that touched my soul for nearly two hours.

On a whim, I stopped at the Oconaluftee Visitor Center on my way out of the Smoky Mountain National Park. I really don't know why I stopped. I had already been to two of the other visitor centers and did not need any souvenirs other than the one I had already purchased for my grandson. I poked around the store, viewed the exhibits and was ready to leave when I noticed a gathering out on the side porch. I poked my head out the door and heard music.

This was not just any music, this was mountain music, blue grass music, hillbilly music, original music of these United States born of the people that were one with the land. Music of a people that for a couple hundred years had graced these mountains before they were forced off the land that was to become the National Park. There were a bunch of musicians seated in a circle, sort of, playing guitars, fiddles, a banjo, a bass, mandolins and some harp like instrument I had never before seen. The woman coordinating the activity went musician by musician calling upon them to play a tune of their choosing. Once the person started, the rest of the group joined in for a jamming jam session. Frequently, the person initiating the song would also sing. One blonde women with a wonderful voice crafted beautiful vocals.

Mountain Music Jam

The musicians were some regulars and others who had heard of the event and joined in. Most were in their 50s/60s but two were kids, possibly in their teens. How wonderful that these kids had a chance to jam with their elders and continue a legacy that began in the 1700s. An older gentleman wearing a hat indicating he was a veteran of WWII and Korea arrived shortly after the group had started. He had a very long left pinkie finger nail which he did not appear to use for his playing. I think he was probably the oldest musician in attendance yet he bounded in like a kid with an enthusiasm that was rooted in the music and evident for all to see. He carried both a fiddle and a mandolin. On this occasion, he played only the mandolin.

I was entranced at the event so much so that I was running behind my own self imposed schedule. The pull of the music was such that I could not force myself to leave the intimate gathering. I was listening to music that sprung from these mountains over the course of some 200 years, music that was formed by the people that eked a living out of the mountain soil. This was music that defined the heart and soul of a people. It was at its core, the essence of a very hearty people. 

Though I knew just two of the songs, an Irish melody I had heard in a movie and a spiritual, each drew me in completely and I found my toes and hands tapping to the rhythms as though their very essence ran through my blood, was a component of my genetic makeup, a strand in the DNA that defines who I am.

I soaked in this music and felt it touch my soul. I could not have imagined a more perfect way to end my stay at Smoky Mountain National Park.