The Blue Ridge Parkway is a little two lane road that winds its way along ridge tops of the Smoky Mountains for some 450 miles. The speed limit is slow and there’s all kinds of scenic overlooks. The road and grassy areas flanking it are well manicured, giving it a pleasant, almost perfect park-like feel. We spent a good chunk of time driving some of it, taking in lots of fine fall colors and lingering fogs. We didn’t spy much wildlife, but these mountains are a haven of animal diversity. Apparently, as the Ice Age’s glacier crept south, all the assorted northern creatures progressively kept one step ahead of it in interest of self-preservation. The glacier stopped at the Smoky Mountains and then retreated. The animals stayed, though. So now this area is home to crazy numbers of species varieties, like 39 kinds of salamanders alone.

Along the coast of North Carolina is a line of barrier islands stretching almost 200 miles, linked by bridges and ferries. It’s called the Outer Banks (OBX) and comes with a resonant history of ship wrecks and piracy. The resort area of Nags Head is located here, its name is a souvenir from the pirates’ days. Their practice of tying lanterns around the necks of horses and marching them along the dunes at night simulated anchored boats and deceived ship captains into running aground. Thanks to hurricane Isabel, the routes connecting the islands are impassable and we were unable to visit this area, nor any of the northern isles. We did ferry to southern-most Ocracoke, a small fishing village full of small-scale charm. They’re so isolated here that the island natives’ unique dialect has remained to this day. It’s called “brogue” and they say that it’s rooted in Southwestern England Elizabethan era English. I don’t know about that, but I do know that they use funny words like quamish (ill), mommuck (harass), and scud (a ride in a car). This island was formerly called “home” by the ruthless and flamboyant Edward Teach, aka Blackbeard. He was a sight — a sizeable guy with colored ribbons woven into his waist-length beard, six pistols in twin gun belts slung over his shoulders and little flaming matches on his hat. He wasn’t all show, though. His reign of terror up and down the Atlantic Coast makes Wes Craven’s imagination look like that of an altar boy. Tough as nails, it was only after being shot five and stabbed 25 times, that he perished. I’m not gonna lie to you, the thought of running into someone like him makes me a little quamish.

We thought we were done with North Carolina when we found out that our newlywed friends, Mr. and Mrs. Noland, were coming to Rockingham for NASCAR’s Pop Secret Popcorn 400 and toting a couple of extra tickets to boot. Holly and I were at “The Rock” sooner than you could say “Winston Cup Series.” What a blast! It was deafening and smelly and gritty — the perfect recipe for a great time. Tire bits and road dust ended up in our drinks and our teeth. There was good people-watching, too. When the race was over, we retreated to the parking lot and feasted on Chip’s own sausage rolls with sautéed onions and peppers. Yee haa!