Dragonslaying

On 9/11, after a while, I turned off the televisions and went to an island in a river to write the poem I posted below.  This year, I rode to a wilderness.

The faithful steed on "Moonshiner 28," near where moonshiners fought a three-day gun battle with Federal revenuers trying to stop the whiskey trade.

The wilderness in question is the Joyce Kilmer Wilderness.  Alfred Joyce Kilmer was an American warrior-poet.  You may not recognize his name, but you know one of his poems.


He was killed in action in 1918, as part of the American Expeditionary Force in Europe.  At the time, he was a volunteer scout under Wild Bill Donovan.  The VFW pushed Congress into naming this wilderness after him, and it is a true wilderness:  among the last true old growth forest in the Appalachian mountains.  Some of the trees are many hundreds of years old.  Most of them are fantastically big, the sort of trees you dream of when you read stories.  It is a fitting monument to a good man.  

Near the wilderness lives the Dragon.  It has killed many men and women since the year 2000, although not so many as Iraq or Afghanistan.  But I've been to Iraq, too.

Atop the Dragon's Tail.

Atop the Dragon's Tail.  The power lines come from the TVA's nearby dams, which use the artificial mountain lakes to generate a great deal of hydroelectric power.

I took up riding motorcycles just about a year ago.  I wanted to ride 20,000 miles in my first year, and ride the Dragon, which is among the most dangerous roads in America.  I won't quite make 20,000 miles -- I'm over 15,000, but I'm just not going to make the last few thousand.  I did get to slay the Dragon, though, riding from the wilderness into Tennessee and back.

110 Octane "Dragon Fuel."  The speed limit on the Dragon is never greater than 30 miles per hour; even for those of us who care little for speed limits, there are certain physical limitations.

Breakfast near the Dragon.

In addition to the Dragon on 129, and Moonshiner 28, there is the Cherohala Skyway -- a much gentler road, but a beautiful.  It links the Cherokee National Forest with the Nantahala.  The latter is a Cherokee word that means "land of the noonday sun."  In the valleys of this land, the sun appears only for a few hours a day.



A monument to two men who died of exposure a mile high near the skyway, in the early period of settlement.  Jugs of moonshine and winter nights were the deciding factors.  

I've spent a great deal of this time in the wilderness in thought, but I don't want to talk about the thoughts yet.  I just want to share a portion of the beauty of the place with you.  My only hope, this week, was to do that most ordinary thing that any Malorian knight might do:  ride into a wilderness, and seek adventure.

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