The Tail of the Dragon

 

great wrinkles of mountains

"Highway 441 is closed,"

announces a small sign,

right after we've traveled about 280 miles,

we just need to step over

the main high ridge of the Appalachians here,

and now we can't,

the interstate that slips around the eastern edge of the Smokies

is troubled with delay since Helene washed out

too much of its underpinning

east-west travel is reduced to two lanes, one each way,

with traffic probably backed up at least an extra hour,

the two lane road over the crest of the Smokies

should usually take less than an hour,

instead we drive around the west side of the Smokies,

sometimes directly following the rivers and TVA lakes

and sometimes roughly following the rivers,

we wind up and down ridges,

slowly, many a 15 mph sign,

roads that have more turns than anyone from the flatlands

could possibly conceive of a road's needing,

roads traditionally follow watercourses

for water finds a way we love to emulate,

instead we spend 11 miles on The Tail of the Dragon,

318 turns as if it wants to know every in and out

above and below every contour line,

an almost intimate embrace of the slopes

wrinkled upon the land,

after an hour or two of the mountains making us deal with them,

the road re-finds the Little Tennessee River,

where the 20th century damned the river

so that we could harness its power,

on The Dragon, twisting and turning,

with motorcycles thrilling to the challenge,

we cross under great power lines,

strung straight between the ridges,

from the dams to the city,

while we on the road get to know the mountains,

and a bit of why these wild mountains

still remember who they are

and daunt our arrogance with the truth

of their folding and unfolding.

by Henry H. Walker

April 2, ‘25