This Side of the Mountain

Abstract

This Side of the Mountain George Brosi Recently, my wife, Connie, and I heard about some much-improved gps navigation systems for our car that offered many different voices. Imagine our delight when we purchased a new navigation system and learned that it had an authentic Southern Appalachian voice option. At first we loved it. When there was a river alongside the road, the little map on the device would annotate the fishing holes—"fish here are hatchery-spawned trout, use Stokely's canned corn for bait." The voice—we called her Inez—would remind us to pull off and stop the car out of respect for the dead when a funeral procession passed. When we drove past Sam's Garage, she even told us that if we'd come back Friday night from 7-11 we'd hear some fabulous old-time music. When we passed a big tent, she suggested we return Wednesday night for the revival and hymn singing. She stopped short of telling me that I needed to get right with God. When Connie punched in the address of our friend Angela Jordan, Inez asked, "Who's her daddy?" in order to get her bearings. It was kind of disconcerting the other day when Inez directed us into the Walmart parking lot of a small town, but she said, "I won't be but a minute. I just need to get some stuff for the trip." Actually, before I could get too upset about that time we lost, she saved us much more. There was a construction delay, and Inez opined, "Better turn around and take a different route. Here in Cletis County they ain't gonna let you through until after they eat their dinner." But then we lost a little more time when her voice spoke up: "Oops, I'm so sorry I missed that turn back about ten miles. I was looking for Billy Bob's barn, but it must have blowed down in that last storm." But we probably made up the time when she warned us of the speed trap in the next town. Inez said that the last car she was guiding through, she didn't warn. Said they were driving a Cadillac, and she figured the locals needed the money worse than they did. Going between Wytheville and Tazewell, she directed us on a route with lots of curves, and even several switchbacks, but Burke's Garden was lovely. Grassy Cove was pretty nice going between Vonore and Crossville, but I do think we lost a little time. And from Norton to Whitesburg, she did direct us on some pretty rough roads, but the hike to Bad Branch Falls was worth it. Traveling on i-68, she'd always warn us that the Maryland Highway Patrol was way different from the nice West Virginia gentlemen. [End Page 8] "Pass that truck now," Inez would holler, "not another chance 'til you get plum over Clinch Mountain." Because of her advice, we filled up the gas tank in Corbin, Kentucky, where it was cheap, but made sure we had plenty before we got to Lexington, Virginia. We wouldn't have wanted to miss the Highland County Fair even though it wasn't on the most direct route from Roanoke to Charleston. "The rain is picking up mighty fierce; it'll likely come a tide," she warned in a rainstorm below a strip mine, so she directed us to higher ground. She knew when football games between rival schools were over and made sure we avoided the congestion. She pointed out old apple trees along the road, and the persimmon tree on the Sand Mountain side of the Stevenson Bridge. She even knew to wait until after a frost to harvest those persimmons. Since we got Inez, we started to carry a berry bucket in the car with us. "They's a cow got out of Charlie's pasture up ahead, slow down," she'd say. And one of the best things was she'd tell us if there was ice on Newfound Gap or on the side of Black Mountain. I really hated to say goodbye to Inez and switch back...