A Walk in the Woods

It was eight miles from Clingmans Dome to U.S. 441, the first paved road since
Fontana Dam four days before. Gatlinburg lay fifteen long, twisting, downhill miles to the
north. It was too far to walk, and it didn't seem likely that we would get a lift hitching in a
national park, but in a parking area nearby I noticed three homeward-bound youths
loading packs into a large, fancy car with New Hampshire license plates, and impulsively I
went and introduced myself to them as a fellow citizen of the Granite State and asked
them if they could find it in their hearts to take two weary old guys into Gatlinburg. Before
they could demur, which was clearly their instinct, we thanked them profusely and
climbed into the back seat. And thus we secured a stylish but rather sullen passage to
Gatlinburg.
Gatlinburg is a shock to the system from whichever angle you survey it, but never more
so than when you descend upon it from a spell of moist, grubby isolation in the woods. It
sits just outside the main entrance to Great Smoky Mountains National Park and
specializes in providing all those things that the park does not-- principally, slurpy food,
motels, gift shops, and sidewalks on which to waddle and dawdle--nearly all of it strewn
along a single, astoundingly ugly main street. For years it has prospered on the confident
understanding that when Americans load up their cars and drive enormous distances to a
setting of rare natural splendor what most of them want when they get there is to play a
little miniature golf and eat dribbly food. Great Smoky Mountains National Park is the most
popular national park in America, but Gatlinburg--this is so unbelievable--is more popular
than the park.
So Gatlinburg is appalling. But that's OK. After eight days on the trail, we were ready to
be appalled, eager to be appalled. We checked into a motel, where we were received with
a palpable lack of warmth, got honked at twice as we crossed Main Street (one rather
loses the knack of crossing roads on the trail), and finally presented ourselves at an
establishment called Jersey Joe's Restaurant, where we ordered cheeseburgers and Cokes
from a charmless, gum-popping waitress who declined to be heartened by our wholesome
smiles. We were halfway through this simple, disappointing repast when the waitress
dropped the bill on the table as she passed. It came to $20.74.
"You're joking," I spluttered.
The waitress--let's call her Betty Slutz--stopped and looked at me, then slowly
swaggered back to the table, staring at me with majestic disdain the while.
"You got a problem here?"
"Twenty dollars is a bit much for a couple of burgers, don't you think?" I squeaked in a
strange, never-before-heard Bertie Wooster voice. She held her stare for another
moment, then picked up the bill and read it through aloud for our benefit, smacking each
item as she read: "Two burgers. Two sodas. State sales tax. City sales tax. Beverage tax.
Nondiscretionary gratuity. Grand total: twenty dollars and seventy-four cents." She let it
fall back onto the table and graced us with a sneer. "Welcome to Gatlinburg, gentlemen."
Welcome, indeed.
And then we went out to see the town. I was particularly eager to have a look at
Gatlinburg because I had read about it in a wonderful book called The Lost Continent. In
it the author describes the scene on Main Street thus: "Walking in an unhurried fashion up
and down the street were more crowds of overweight tourists in boisterous clothes, with
cameras bouncing on their bellies, consuming ice-creams, cotton candy, and corn dogs,