In an attempt to hike every National Park before you’re old and decrepit—or, perhaps more likely, mauled to death by a grizzly while gnawing on a slab of beef jerky—you decide to give the Great Smoky Mountains their due. Tennessee isn’t at the top of your list, but hey—neither was dating a guy for three months who had no sense of humor.
Unfortunately your instincts are right. Among other atrocities—many of which must be saved for an additional blog and/or therapy—your second night in Pigeon Forge, TN, will involve a mysterious traffic jam two miles from Cracker Barrel. You’ve just hiked all day and, like any proper fat ass, are in the market for a heart attack with a side of gravy-soaked biscuits.
Instead, you’ll spend two hours in the car, moving approximately half a mile. During this time, the dregs of society will surface. Men sitting in the beds of pick-up trucks will begin wielding large sticks, apparently on their way to a tarring of some sort. Women will leap down from the surrounding ravines, running in and out of traffic when not taking dumps in the woods. Gentleman with nary a tooth will leer at you from their driver’s seats. Loosely translated, their eyes are saying, “I will make you squeal like a pig.”
By the time you get back to the cabin, your dinner will consist of a granola bar and a large heaping of fear. The Barrel is closed (who knew they ever closed?!) and every pizza joint refuses to serve you.
There’s no delivery–or DiGiorno–to Deliverance.