by Barbara Saylor
Solo travel is apparently the last frontier of liberation. This year I learned that there’s really nothing a woman can’t do, and do better, alone – from recovering after surgery to buying a car to starting her own business. A woman’s touch is magic, and when her lone star is in the ascendant, there’s really no stopping her. Last month, I added vacationing to my ever-growing list of “more fun with one” pursuits. It seemed like a no-brainer, but even my most progressive friends did a double-take. The average conversation went something like this:
Progressive Friend: You’re what???
Me (a.k.a. Independent Woman): Renting a chalet alone in the middle of the Smoky Mountains for an entire delicious week of hot tubbing, hiking, horseback riding, and yoga. Oh yeah, and I’ll probably go to Dollywood.
Progressive Friend: Um, Dollywood?
Me: Don’t you dare laugh. Dolly’s awesome… And there’s this crafters village thing...with like wood-working people, and glassblowers, and stuff.
Progressive Friend: Um, Dollywood?
Me: Shut up. Dolly’s awesome, and now that I’ve said it out loud, everyone’s going to be jumping on the Dolly bandwagon. (I have an uncanny knack for trendsetting… What? I do!)
Progressive Friend: Can I have your black Gucci pumps and Prada pochette?
Me: I’m coming back!
Progressive Friend: Sure you are, Sweetie.
Inspired earlier this year by Alice Steinbach’s Without Reservations: The Travels of an Independent Woman, I yearned for the adventure of solitary travel. First, were the romantic notions of an American in Paris. Think Audrey in Funny Face, not Gene Kelly in a Hollywood backlot. Next, I flirted with the mystery of Central Mexico and a trip during the Day of the Dead festivities. Then came three months of an insane work schedule and looming burnout. Romance and reality rarely share the same face, so I decided on the open road and misty mountaintops of Tennessee. No major advance planning necessary. I could leave before Thanksgiving and recharge the batteries to fortify for the holiday season just around the corner. Instant gratification – even better than romance!
I’m not exaggerating when I report that the majority of my local friends wanted some quality time before I departed. They really thought death by misadventure was imminent. While I do have a wild, even somewhat reckless streak, what could possibly happen in friggin’ Pigeon Forge, Tennessee?? Safe as kittens.
Little did I know that I-81 has the reputation as the nation’s deadliest highway. I would face peril for 376 miles each way. Blissfully oblivious of that fact until my return, I set off, risk reduction not in my vocabulary. Turns out, my reckless streak got a low-impact workout after all.
First, let me just say to women traveling alone everywhere, if the DVD player won’t play on any of the television channels you click through, look around for the equivalent of Wile E. Coyote’s crate marked DANGER for a switchbox marked DVD/CABLE. It will save you embarrassment and potential stalking from an overzealous (translation: creepy) maintenance guy down the road. Yes, that one was a tad more witless than reckless, but I digress.
As it turns out Pigeon Forge has experiences aplenty for the slightly wild, independent female traveler, and the denizens of that rural mountain enclave showed no less shock and surprise when discovering the single status of this resort guest/restaurant diner/tourist than my supposedly more metropolitan friends back home in the big city.
As a daring adventurer, I hiked alone in the Great Smoky Mountains (translation: walked around advertising free bear food, but there were no takers); went on a cavern tour with my Elvis-impersonating horseback riding guide (translation: got into the truck of a strange man and let him drive me even further into the middle of nowhere than I already was); petted an adorable little sleeping bat (translation: risked being bitten by a potentially rabies-infected flying rodent); went to Dollywood and caught the Christmas in the Smokies show (translation: sat in an over-crowded barn for an hour while a half-dozen theme-park musicians twanged out “White Christmas” on banjos); and traversed the dangerous curves and dizzying altitudes of the Smoky Mountains to cross into Cherokee, NC, where I spent a day immersed in the culture and history of reservation life with a tribal medicine man whose personality was so magnetic and magical that I still wonder if that part could have been a dream (no translation necessary).
And then I drove home for twelve straight hours through total darkness without a map or directions, because Cherokee wasn’t originally on the itinerary, crossed back into Tennessee at one point, and stopped at a gas station frequented by camo-wearing hunters with dead deer stacked in their truck beds. Ahhhhh, the open road.
Much to the amazement, but unabashed joy, of my dear friends, I made it home in one piece, with souvenirs (translation: Dollywood refrigerator magnets) for everyone – more Steinbach than Krakauer after all. The night spent in my hot tub with the deck door open, fireplace crackling inside, and strains of Billie Holiday piercing the star-filled night did indeed offer the relaxation I so desperately sought, and that first solo sojourn has only whetted the appetite of this Independent Woman.
Post Script. Less than a month after my trip, Dolly is honored at the Kennedy Center. Coincidence? I'm just sayin'...
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