The bustle of tourist
shuffling along crowded
street bordered with
shops of mountain crafts,
cotton candy, taffy and stuff
fades behind as we crawl
up the snake's back along
yellow stripe into hills
called Smokies.
Daylight dims as we pierce
deeper, one valley
then another, endless;
mountain peaks towering
above where only bear
and clan survive together.
Up, scandenting heights;
the view opens like cotton
crop in late summer.
Finally, stuck precariously
on ridge top, our cabin
for the week, invitation
of lover's embrace.
Our "welcome to these hills."
by Walt Barger
September 12, 2000