I'm driving almost all of I-40 this summer. I'm only going to be missing a little stretch in North Carolina but beyond that I AM going coast to coast via car. So on Monday I drove from Asheville, North Carolina to Little Rock, Arkansas through the Smokey Mountains. I'm used to the Ozarks which are an old mountain range and have been ground down my time to nubs of their former selves. In contrast, the Smokeys seem almost sharp with high conical hills, rock faces next to the interstate that had been planed away as they cut the road, and a winding path that quite frankly scared me when the semi's came by.
From there it was on to the rolling hills of Tennessee. All very green. If you looked to the right you could see the city of Nashville which has made itself a permenant fixture on American radio despite the lack of quality of the crap they spin. Not that I dislike country music but I don't like Nashville.
Just before home you reach Shelby county which holds Memphis, Tennessee. I tell people I always know when I'm about home because you see the interstate signs that remind you that "The King is Alive" and "He Lives" and they're not talking about Jesus. You cross the bridge into the Wasteland that is east Arkansas, a flat desolate place that seems to sap the hope of all who enter. As my brother once told me, "There's a reason why they learned to play the blues in the Mississippi- Arkansas delta. Life's hard there." It's hot, flat, and poor.
This plain keeps up until you reach Crowley's ridge, a geological anomaly that just from the flat plane, a narrow strip of ground that just from the surrouding plane. Then it's past Brinkley with it's old cotton plant. The land stays flat until you reach Little Rock where the foothills of the Ouachita Mountains begin. All off a sudden you have rolling hills and thick forest as compared to the farmland you just passed through.
Crossing the I-430 bridge over the Arkansas river you can look to the West and see the sun set over Pinnacle mountain, which in comparison to the Smokey's looks like an aborted misformed attempt at moutainhood. The Little Rock side of the river rises steeply from the bank with a forest hiding the houses that stand on the slope. The sun reflects up off the Arkansas giving an orange, red hue to the quickly graying world.
From there it was on to the rolling hills of Tennessee. All very green. If you looked to the right you could see the city of Nashville which has made itself a permenant fixture on American radio despite the lack of quality of the crap they spin. Not that I dislike country music but I don't like Nashville.
Just before home you reach Shelby county which holds Memphis, Tennessee. I tell people I always know when I'm about home because you see the interstate signs that remind you that "The King is Alive" and "He Lives" and they're not talking about Jesus. You cross the bridge into the Wasteland that is east Arkansas, a flat desolate place that seems to sap the hope of all who enter. As my brother once told me, "There's a reason why they learned to play the blues in the Mississippi- Arkansas delta. Life's hard there." It's hot, flat, and poor.
This plain keeps up until you reach Crowley's ridge, a geological anomaly that just from the flat plane, a narrow strip of ground that just from the surrouding plane. Then it's past Brinkley with it's old cotton plant. The land stays flat until you reach Little Rock where the foothills of the Ouachita Mountains begin. All off a sudden you have rolling hills and thick forest as compared to the farmland you just passed through.
Crossing the I-430 bridge over the Arkansas river you can look to the West and see the sun set over Pinnacle mountain, which in comparison to the Smokey's looks like an aborted misformed attempt at moutainhood. The Little Rock side of the river rises steeply from the bank with a forest hiding the houses that stand on the slope. The sun reflects up off the Arkansas giving an orange, red hue to the quickly graying world.
