Blacker'n A Crow's Wing Part Two (Page 1 of 1)

When we edge out over the lip of the embankment, for a moment we’re nearly vertical. I hold onto the dash, wondering if we're about to spill ass-over-teakettle, and look out through the windshield at the world beneath me: pink sky, spiny ridges and the creased fingers of the mountainsides reaching down into the valley.

We roll down from the mountain, dusk settling around us, and when we finally hit the concrete road, Jay is still driving toe-down, smash-the-pedal. I buckle the lapbelt tightly across my waist as the wind pushes tears across my cheeks. We squeal through the turns of the popular motorcycle route known as the Devil's Triangle — the Jeep's front end dipping into the corners.

We round a sharp bend, and Jay jams the breaks — the tires barking as we pull up short beside a man walking in the ditch.

"Need a ride?" Jay asks.

"No," says the man. "Me and the old lady's fightin'."

"You sure? We're goin' into Petros."

"Nah," he says, his hands stuffed into his pockets and his collar turned up to his ears. "She'll be back."

"Good luck," Jay calls out and leadfoots the gas pedal again.

Once we come off the winding valley road and hit the highway, we pull into the parking lot of the Block House, a bar that's notorious for nasty fist fights and —I'm not making this up — a bartender who's particularly proficient at pulling teeth the old fashioned way, with pliers. It is, in fact, one of the reasons I'd been excited in the days leading up to Jay's Morgan County tour: I imagined myself sitting quietly in the corner, avoiding attention, until a flannel shirt-wearing man with a swollen jaw stomped through the door, downed a couple yellow drafts, and then sat patiently while the tender crawled onto the wet bar top, stuck a set of needle-nose pliers into his open maw and extracted a bloody molar.

But the Block House lights are off, and the parking lot is empty, so we're forced to drive on. Part of me wants to knock on the door, just in case — and part of me is relieved because my eyelids are getting heavy. It's been a long day. I lean back in my seat and close my eyes for a minute, reflecting, running through my memory of the ground we've covered: It feels like years since we first jumped into the Jeep and set out for Jay's family land, 52 wilderness acres along Crooked Creek.

We parked by a waterfall as picturesque as anything in the Smokies' backcountry. Jay picked up litter while I walked by the rippling water.  We splashed the CJ-7 through a few mudholes on the two-track paths that ran through the woods, and then it was the drive-by Morgan County junket, all backroads, dirt and gravel bouncing behind us. We rumbled through the old railroad tunnel (which was, in actuality, "blacker'n a crow's wing"); the headlights scraped along the cobblestone walls (rumored to be, of course, the final resting place for a few unfortunate souls), illuminating graffitied sweetheart notes (Kenny loves Megan) and confederate flags. The water was only standing in a few mid-tire puddles — it's the only time all year that I've been thankful for the drought. We roared up and over the dusty logging cuts, climbing several off-road paths along the way: "I'd hate to pass up a hill" became our mantra.

All the while, over the growling engine, Jay peppered the air with anecdotes from his youth: Someone from across town found a blacksnake in her chicken coop, so she called Jay to come and get it out. He jumped on his four-wheeler, and soon he was speeding back home, his left arm in the air, bicycle turn-signal style, the blacksnake wrapped around his wrist. He was in a hurry: His dad, who despises snakes, lay sleeping on the couch, and Jay wanted to get back to the house before he awoke. He crept inside, the blacksnake still coiled around his arm, and unstrung the oily serpent across his father's rising and falling chest.  Needless to say, when Jack Moore woke up, he was livid: He ran to the bathroom and locked the door… but soon he emerged swinging a baseball bat — which bounced off the hallway walls — and chased Jay from the house.

"Only in my house could you find a baseball bat in the bathroom," he said, laughing. "I had to bring home a pizza to get back inside."

It's completely dark when we arrive back at his parents' house. The Wartburg Christmas parade is beginning to roll out along Main Street — we've only barely beaten the traffic. Jay whips the Jeep into the garage and kills the engine. The air is filled with emergency vehicle sirens: the parade's starting signal. Jay's neighbor, Reagan Williams, walks over and introduces himself to me. He tells us that there's a pot of chili on his stove, that he's off with the kids (who are huddled six-deep in the back of a truck) to see Santa Claus, and that we should help ourselves while he's gone. "The game's on," he says. "It's seven to six, Tennessee."

We stroll through the unlocked front door and fill Styrofoam bowls full of steaming chili. We yank open the fridge and help ourselves to a couple of Miller Lites. The chili is good, and after three, maybe four bowls, we stumble back across the road to Jay's parent's house, our bellies leading the way, where we both fall asleep in the living room as Tennessee's SEC hopes slide off the fingertips of Erik Ainge.

* The views expressed in Commentary do not necessarily reflect those of Knoxville Voice.