Al Gore & The Bridge
Taken with a NOKIA 7650
Ah, Middle Tennessee—where the gravy is divine, the gas stations all sell biscuits, and every other barn looks like it should collapse under the weight of its own memories. There’s a sweet spot between Nashville and the mountains that I recently meandered through mindlessly. Actually, that’s redundant. I do almost everything mindlessly.
This beautiful, bizarre land is rolling in hills and tress and I began in Carthage, TN, a town famous for two things: a bridge and former Vice President Al Gore, Jr.
Now, Al Gore is known for his environmental advocacy, but did you know he once tried to install solar panels on a herd of cows just to see if methane could power a Waffle House? No? Good, because that never happened. But in the world of Middle Tennessee tall tales, it feels plausible. Legend also has it that he once challenged a tornado to a fistfight behind a Piggly Wiggly. The tornado won, but only barely.
From Carthage, I wound my way toward McMinnville, where the past and present blend together like a questionable casserole at a church potluck. There were diners with menus older than the waitresses serving them, and I ate a breakfast so greasy it could have lubricated an old tractor. The locals were friendly in that Southern way where you can’t tell if they’re about to invite you to a backyard barbecue or call up their brother at the police station to do a full investigative report on your family tree for fun.
Heading toward Crossville, I passed through stretches of land so untouched by time I half-expected to see a Civil War soldier sipping a Sundrop in front of a Dollar General. Crossville itself is famous for… well, being in the middle of Tennessee, which is a solid accomplishment. It has a flea market that sells everything from antique dolls to chainsaws, which is pretty much all you need for a good weekend.
Cookeville came next, a college town where the Wi-Fi works, and the biscuits are fluffy. I stopped in an early diner where a man in overalls gave me unsolicited life advice between bites of catfish. “Never trust a goat with a lazy eye,” he told me. I didn’t ask for details, but I nodded as if he had just spoken ancient wisdom.
Finally, I crossed the border into Russell Springs, Kentucky, where time seemed to move even slower. If Middle Tennessee is the land of nostalgia, then Russell Springs is where nostalgia goes to retire. There were more abandoned motels than people, and I saw at least three barbershops that I’m convinced also double as secret moonshine distilleries.
By the time I left, my stomach was full of questionable fried foods, my heart was warmed by strange encounters, and my mind was filled with impossible stories about Al Gore wrestling bears and pioneering self-driving tractors decades ahead of their time.
Would I go back? Absolutely. But only after my arteries forgive me.