I’m the sort of leave-it-out-there-on-the-field fast traveler for whom the measure of a successful trip is the number of hours logged in the bike saddle or on skis. I often scoff at the idea of sightseeing.
Sitting on the banks of a river in Great Smoky Mountains National Park in East Tennessee, my bare feet in the bracingly cold water and a small journal in my lap, I followed the directives of the naturalist guide leading my group hike and simply took in my surroundings: the insistent sounds of a river, the green shocks of moss on boulders, the pungent scent of decomposing leaves.







