My parents first introduced me to the Smokies when I was about 3 or 4 years old, so my earliest memories are tucked back in the dusty archives of my mind. One of these remains vividly clear though I do not recall my exact age at the time. It occurred at the Oconaluftee Visitor Center, located on the North Carolina side of the park north of Cherokee on Highway 441.
Within the visitor center are displays on mountain life as well as a gift shop. Outside, short trails lead to a restored farm settlement common to the area. This story unfolds here.
As is common with young children, my sister and I quickly became bored with all the books, maps, and other things that intrigue adults. I believe our parents found the need to escort us outside long before they were ready. Eager to release pent up energy, we bounded down the walk as they called for us to wait up.
The farm ahead beckoned to us as a playground might at home. Captivated by the sight, I for one could not wait to climb on that wagon down by the barn. Of course, it was not to be as soon as my little heart wanted. The open windows and doors of the farmhouse proved to be too much to resist. As I stopped briefly to look in each one, I was chagrined to find them all roped off to prevent access. I was disappointed, for what I really wanted was to touch all the neat stuff inside. Instead, I was relegated to explore it all visually, which was as it should be.
Beyond the house was a corncrib and smokehouse. My parents tried to explain their actual use but we looked upon them as playhouses much grander than the backyard at home. We had a particular affinity with doors and tested each one as we opened and shut, opened and shut. Some of the old hinges made cool squeaky sounds. Years later, I would admonish my own kids for exactly the same thing. At length, we were coaxed against our will to continue down toward the barn. Oh yeah, there was that wagon I wanted to climb on but had forgotten about until now.
It was near the barn where I had my first memorable experience with wildlife. Ok, it was not really wildlife as the term implies, but it was an animal nonetheless. As I approached the wagon with wide-eyed anticipation, my attention was drawn to a ruckus nearby. Several geese of varied ages and sizes squawked among themselves. As an inquisitive little boy, I quickly changed directions and approached them. In response, a large one waddled toward me, my every move watched intently.
For some reason, it was at this moment I decided to try and emulate my favorite Disney character. I put my hands on my hips, leaned forward, and croaked out my best Donald Duck imitation. It was decent for a boy my age but it has not improved one iota over the years. I am still not sure what was said to that goose, but he liked it not one little bit.
To my surprise, he lowered his head, raised his wings, squawked and charged me. In utter shock, I stood there as he ran up to me and pecked at my shoes as hard as he could. His wings flapped the whole time and his feet moved around as if part a dance.
Now try to picture this. Here stood a little boy not much taller than the goose itself. This feather ball was either insane or I had really said the wrong thing to tick him off. After what seemed like an eternity, my parents came to the rescue. Their laughter disconcerted me as they tried to sound stern enough to chase the goose away. I am not what troubled me more, his “attack” or the fact my parents laughed about the whole thing. This was a very traumatic episode and yet they found humor in the whole episode.
Many years have passed since then and I now find this experience humorous myself. I have often wondered what I actually said to set the goose off, but it must remain as one of life’s trivial unknown mysteries. However, it did teach me one thing. Real geese do not like Donald Duck at all !
Excerpt from Under the Smoke
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