Day 17 -- Crossville to Dandridge, Tennessee -- 100 Miles

Yesterday I met yet another fellow traveler with California plates on their rig (photo left). I was out walking with the camera to try and capture a few shots of our Crossville KOA before the sun dropped below the western hills and killed the "magic hour" lighting that photographers love. The California rig was on my way, and the owner stood beside it. Naturally I stopped to talk to the chap whose name was Josh because I was curious if he was vacationing all the way to Tennessee, or if he was house-hunting because he was looking to escape from California, which is what I have heard from several other campers over the last 17 days of our vacation.

Instinctively, I already knew the answer to my question and Josh confirmed it right off the bat. He told me that he lived in the Bay Area and had finally had enough of the craziness that has been going on in his state. Now he was looking for something better. Turns out he had followed much the same route as we had through Nevada, Arizona, and New Mexico. But he said he dropped down into Texas to visit relatives, then carried on into Alabama before coming back to Interstate 40 in Tennessee.

I told Josh that I had spent four months in the spring and early summer of 1970 around Memphis and found the state pretty rainy. It also had lots of bugs. But, I added, it sure is a pretty state.

He told me he had psyched out that Tennessee had lots of rain, but he hadn't really taken the bugs into account. He said he was visiting lots of states and hadn't really made a choice yet, however, he was in negotiations with a Tennessee park that would let him stay a full year. He added that he had been having a tremendous amount of difficulty finding spots in parks to stay as they all seemed to be filled with full-timers.

After telling him that's exactly what we had seen in our travels, Josh and I talked a bit more on this and that, then finally parted with a handshake and a mutual wish for safe travels. I so often meet folks on the road whom I really like, and I have long found that feature the best part of traveling.

Which brings me to today's adventures. We started out the day getting our propane tank filled as it had dropped to the halfway mark on the dial, and I don't like to pass up a camp with on-site propane when the gas is at that level. Tank filled, we motored off, not in the direction we had been headed on the Interstate but back to the village of Crossville to see if we might become acquainted with Tennessee Don's hometown.

For some reason, I habitually visualize small rural towns as consisting of one main street, a couple of dozen businesses, and a scattering of houses on the outskirts. Naturally, Crossville turned out to be anything but small. Though the outskirts where Don's property probably lies is made up of forests, small vintage homes, and a whole lot of abandoned structures that will never see life again, the main town is quite bustling. Lots of cars, and stop lights, and busy pedestrians met us as we rolled into town so we didn't stay long. We circled the block and headed back the way we had come.

I'll have to tell Tennessee Don, however, that there could be worse places in rural America to live. We believe that living on what our camp hosts in Crossville called "The Cumberland Plateau" could be quite pleasant. It really is absolutely beautiful! (photos left and lower right) One of our camp hosts who took my money when I paid for the propane, told me that she had actually lived in northern Nevada in the town of Yerington, which made me suspsect that she and her husband were themselves transplants when they bought the camp though I didn't ask her.

So once our sojourn to Crossville was behind us, we sought out Interstate 40 and resumed our trek eastward toward Kittyhawk. The morning was a tad on the gray side (photo lower left), though we were often blessed with moments of sunshine which made passing forests glow like they were on fire. We often feel when we'er driving through these long tunnels of trees, made brillant by a myriad of fall colors, as though we're driving through one of those hand-held Kaleidiscopes that you get as a kid.

After we had traveled a hundred miles, we sought out a place to have lunch, which turned out to be the town of Dandridge, Tennessee. We rolled into town and just off the Interstate found a near-perfect picnic spot that was level and away from traffic. We knew it was a picnic spot because the town had placed picnic tables and trash containers on the west side of the lot for the benefit, presumably, of travelers.

Lunch was quiet and pleasant, and at this point we had not the slightest idea that things were about to do an about face. Lunch over, we left the picnic site, turned right out of the drive, then headed away from the Interstate until we found a spot to make a u-turn and go back. That accomplished, we jumped back on Route 40 and headed for the Tennessee/North Carolina border that we hoped to cross within the hour.

It was at this point that I could feel in the steering wheel that something was not quite right. I told Concetta that I was going to have to find the nearest offramp and check the tires. There was just too much vibration coming from somewhere and I had to suspect that the problem was tire related.

Ordinarilly, I try and check the tires every few days. I should do it every day. I carry a very large rubber mallet that I use to strike each of the dual rear tires in turn and listen for any difference in tone. The dual tires on the rear are pretty difficult to check for air pressure and could be hazardous to attempt beside the highway. The mallet is quick and virtually fool proof.

Once stopped on the offramp apron, I dug out the mallet and began the thump test. The first and second tires on the driver's side thumped identically and seemed perfectly rock-hard. I circled around to the passenger side dualies. I thumped the outside tire and it seemed identical to the first two on the driver's side. Then I thumped the inside tire, and got a sickening thud rather than a solid thump, I knew immediately that I had found my vibration problem.

Fortunately, I had observed a gas station on the far side of the Interstate as we rolled down the offramp. Now I got back in the truck and made for that pontential place of refuge. Sadly, the gas station turned out to be the mini-mart variety of station and came with no mechanics of any kind. Nevertheless, I decided to go inside and ask for directions to the nearest tire store.

But before I could reach the store I spotted a guy working on his truck beside one of the pumps. Changing directions, I made for the guy who looked like he might know more about the location of such businesses than a store clerk. Amazingly, before I could get to the impromptu mechanic, another guy left the store. He was wearing a reflective vest and was heading for a county-owned dumptruck. So once again I changed course and intercepted this second guy.

County guy smiled and said, yes, he could tell me where to go. The directions were a tad commplicated, but amazingly we reversed direction, passed under the Interstate again, made a right turn, passed two traffic lights, passed under the Interstate yet again, and arrived at a towing center that was positively FILLED with mechanics.

Sorry to say the tow mechanics were unable to fit our 32-foot rig onto their lot that was filled with wrecked cars, nor did they have anyone free to work on the rig if it did fit. BUT, those guys absolutely saved our bacon because they directed us further down the road we were on to a store called "The Co-op" which had farm supplies AND a tire shop. So we jumped back in the rig and headed right there.

When I pulled up to the tire shop bays and got out, the first person I ran into was Arron, the tire operations manager. When I told him of our problem and asked him if he could possibly change the tire, Aaron rolled his eyes, turned and scanned the shop so he could mentally add up the various jobs he had promised, and then he looked back at me. "I just don't see how I can help, buddy," he said. "I don't have the time or the workers to tackle the job.

Knowing that money always talks, I told the manager that if he would work on my rig now I'd buy four new tires from him. I had been thinking of buying new ones before we returned to Nevada anyway, so why not now. But Aaron just shook his head. "I just don't see how I can help you," he told me again, "and beside, I don't have any tires this size."

"Well," I said to him, "I'm from Nevada and a long way from home. I really can't go anywhere with a flat tire." Then I stared at him and he stared at me. A moment later he shrugged, turned, and walked away.

I wasn't sure just what he had decided, if anything, and many minutes passed with nothing happening. Then from the far recesses of the tire shop, a young kid with a bandaged forehead and a bootcamp haircut came towards me dragging a heavyduty floor jack. I held my breath and waited. Then, sure enough, the kid whose name was John, slid the jack under the rig and bent down to find a jacking point. Eventually he decided on the differential, placed the jack appropriately, and started pumping.

It seemed like we were home free, at least Aaron had decided to fix the flat. But before John was able to get the jack high enough for the tires to lift from the pavement, the jack ran out of lifting ability. So, John had to go find another jack and put it under a newly-found support brace ahead of the axle that he thought perhaps would work and between the two jacks, the tires were lifted.

I really didn't know or could even visualize just what John intended to do at this point as he removed the inner and outer wheels and tires and set them aside. He showed me the inner, totally flat, tire that had been shredded pretty thoroughly and would have been extremely dangerous to be cruising with on the Interstate.

At this point I think that John actually went to consult Aaron to see what was wanted of him in the way of a fix. Shortly after, I saw John rummaging through their large stacks of tires and amazingly, he came up with not one, but two tires in the appropriate size that could be installed. Later the manager, Aaron, would advise me that it would not do well to just put on one new one as they would be too dissimilar. In addition, he advised me to replace the other two tires on the driver's side to make them all match as soon as I could manage it.

So, almost before I could say, lickety split, the tires were mounted and installed, and the rig was taken off the jack. I asked him to please check to make sure that all four tires were aired up identically and he said he'd be happy to. Near the end of the job, when Aaron was out of earshot, I slipped John a twenty for being so gracious about being pulled off whatever job he had been working on before turning his attention to my job.

ALL the employees at the Co-op Tire shop were extremely gracious, helpful, and professional. In addition, they let me wander around the shop, talk to John as he was working, and photograph the old tire for the blog. I was impressed with the expediency with which they solved our problem, especially since it took place so late in the day. Aaron could have held fast, I suppose, to his original decision and I wouldn't have thought less of him as deadlines are deadlines. No one wants to be interrupted when they're on a time crunch with other jobs, and that's how it is in tire shops. So kudos to Arron and his crew. We will be eternally grateful.

Before we left, I asked Aaron to recommend a camp and he told me about a park that he had heard about. When I got back to the rig, Concetta had already hit upon the same park. Since it sounded good, she went online, made a reservation, paid the fee, and programmed her iPhone to take us there. It was supposed to be very near the tire shop.

As we followed the iPhone's directions, we very soon began to suspect that something was wrong. The iPhone strongly believed that the park was located right in the middle of the tiniest part of old Dandridge where nothing but narrrow roads, steep hills, and sharp curves met our every attempt to follow the directions. Finally, when the little device announced that we had "arrived at our destination," and only a tiny cemetery could be found there, we decided that Fate evidently was not done screwing up our afternoon.

We stopped opposite the police station to collect our thoughts and just then an elderly gentleman got out of his car and approached. Concetta rolled down her window and called to the man to draw his attention. She had to yell at him several times, but finally he stopped, turned, and waited for her to ask her question.

Once he was facing us, Concetta asked if he knew where the Anchor Down RV Park was located.

Evidently the gentleman was very hard of hearing so each time Concetta asked about the RV park he would shake his head and step closer for a repeat. When he had finally heard, he told us we should probably go to the DMV and ask, but then he indicated that there was some sort of RV park in the oppposite direction we had been seeking. "Just go out Route 139," he said, "and there's a place next to the lake."

Believe it or not, doing what the old codger said turned out to be exactly right. Eventually we grew insecure about the distance we had traveled and got the bright idea to call them. We were delighted that finally Fate got out of the way, and we connected with the park. Minutes later we rolled up to find a young woman waiting at the spot were we had to stop to register.

We were so relieved to actually find our camp, we didn't care that it was really late, we didn't care that it was freezing outside, and we didn't care that we had made virtually no headway since lunch. We were set for the night and looking forward to some hot soup and good wine. Tomorrow's problems were still hours away.

To show you how the serendippity of traveling continues to augment our journey, when I went into the office to officially check in, I mentioned that I hadn't been in Tennessee since the spring of 1970 and that had been at the Naval base in Millington near Memphis. The staff member who had met us out front piped up at that point and said, "I know Millington," she said. "I went to high school there."

Laughing, I said, "And I bet you didn't mind one bit that there were 11,000 sailors in Millington!"

The woman laughed as well and said, "No, I sure didn't!"

And that ladies and gentlemen was a potentially stress-filled afternoon ending on a high note.

So that's it for now. There's a freeze warning tonight so I didn't have to hook up any water hoses. We'll be using the onboard water tank and won't care one bit.... well, if we can sleep warm enough tonight. Ciao for now and we wish you many happy adventures of your own.