Smokey Mountain Breakdown

I left the balcony door open last night so I could listen to the roar of Big Creek as I slept. It’s always nice to sleep to the sound of violent water. One place I stayed, while working on a Tony Hopkins picture in the U.K., was up in the Lake District. We were shooting in winter—at terrible time to be fell walking and wandering around the Finger Lakes. But we were staying in a wonderful old mill that had been converted into a B & B and the stream ran right below my window. It was like that last night. The rain fell all through the day and into the night so the creek roiled and foamed, sounding as though it were just outside instead of 300 feet down the cliff.

I drove about today for a bit to see the state of the flooding—we are high up enough here that flooding isn’t much of an issue except in the hollers where the creek travels. Water is coming out of every seam. Rivulets flow down the mountains, channel across gravel roads and paths. The waterfall on my property, usually dryish, pours liquid, polishing, punishing rock.

It’s wet. It’s too wet. (Cue spooky music)

And there was another rockslide. Geologists predict more. You can see it on tape HERE.

That's going to leave a mark.

I did stop to talk to Friendly Horse. Who you might remember--he's the horse that sometimes gets loose and stops traffic looking for a sandwich. He snuffled my fingers and let me know that yes, he was indeed wet. And did I perhaps have some potato chips or a Mrs. Freshleys Pink Sno-ball Cake in there for him. I didn't. Not even a stinkin' carrot. Sorry Friendly Horse.