An old grove of filbert trees surrounds us. Wild and overgrown, the orchard blends in with the surrounding forest. If you didn’t know hazelnuts aren’t native to the Smokies, you probably wouldn’t realize this area had been deliberately cleared and planted at some point.
Hearing family lore about Granddaddy’s failed hazelnut business back in the seventies, I did some research and discovered this narrow swath of land that isn’t part of the national park. Technically, it still belongs to the Hills.
According to the documents I discovered in the local archives, my great-great-granddaddy, Samson Hill, was paid more than a fair value for the acreage he sold the government back in the 1930s. Around here, some folks are still be perturbed about the Feds taking perfectly good farming land from the hardworking families and making a park. A hundred years later, their descendants still curse Samson and the others for selling out. Throw a rock around here and you’ll easily find someone who ain’t fond of big government and Washington, D.C.
Evidently, he was a wily bastard when it came to negotiating the boundaries of what was sold and what he kept. On the map, this narrow valley is like a middle finger giving the bird between federal property. Fifty or so yards to the north, east, and west, everything from the dirt and water on up is protected, belonging to the great American taxpayer.
Personally, I’m grateful the land is surrounded by the national park. Away from main roads and best accessed by an old logging path or on foot off the Cooper Road Trail, the majority of people will never know of its existence. Keeps them out of my business.
Many of the original trees in the grove have died and been replaced with smaller, shrubby young ones, erasing the unnatural order of the rows. A commercial filbert, or hazelnut, tree is productive for about forty years, meaning the majority of these are past their prime. Good thing I’m not interested in nuts.
Hiding in plain sight, the grove provides the optimal growing conditions for Périgords, aka black truffles, aka fungi gold. I learned about the symbiotic relationship between the two during one of my trips to France years ago for the truffle harvest.
I whistle and Roman lifts his head from where he’s found something good to sniff. Despite having had him over a year, he’s still in the wild, puppy phase and we’re only beginning his training. These days most truffle cultivators prefer to harvest using dogs. I agree that they are a good alternative, less damage to the dirt and potentially to the truffles. However, I prefer to work with Patsy. For one thing, she’s smarter than Roman. Patsy Swine is the best truffle hunter in all of eastern Tennessee, and I’ll fight anyone who argues different.
People are used to seeing us wandering around together. Unlike ordinary hogs, she’ll indicate the location of a truffle, but rarely tries to eat them, mainly because she knows she’ll be rewarded with her favorite food. Took us a couple of years of testing to figure out what she loves more than truffles.
Banana cake.
I wonder what Jennifer Winston would say if she knew I didn’t buy her prize winning cakes for myself. If Donner Bakery is closed, or they run out, Patsy also enjoys homemade banana bread and banana pudding
Truth be told, I can’t stand bananas. The smell, the taste, the weird texture—I want nothing to do with them.
The things a man will do for his pig.
September is too early for truffles, but I like to come out here and check on things on a regular basis. Harvest season doesn’t typically begin until November, sometimes later.
Mostly I’m looking for signs of other humans. The last thing I need is for someone else to discover my hidden treasure. If I take the trail, I always make sure I’m not followed. Call me paranoid, but when tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of fungi are buried in the dirt, I need to take precautions.
Farther south from this grove is an even older apple orchard, probably planted by my great-granddaddy. Left fallow like the filberts, it still produces fruit. Not pretty enough for the farm stand, these are the wild, ugly cousins of the shiny red grocery store varieties.
While the truffles are by far my biggest cash crop, I’m curious about using these apples for hard ciders and vinegars. Still in the experimental phase, I’m excited to see what I can create. With its location closer to the logging road, I’ll be able to drive my truck up here and pick enough bushels to make it worth my time.
Today is more of an exploratory mission and a chance to stretch our legs. We’ll load up my backpack with fruit before we head out then we’ll circle back to the van via the park trail.
I find myself thinking about walking the loop through the campground and past the main ranger station to see if a certain brunette ranger is on duty. After running into Daphne twice in a month’s time, I’m reluctantly willing to admit I’m intrigued by her—a first for me in a long time. Her pretty face isn’t the only reason. Ranger Abbott is objectively beautiful, and while I respect the hell out of her, I don’t feel compelled to get to know her.
When I had a hankering for fried chicken, my first thought was to make it myself. Then I remembered Genie Lee makes some of the best I’ve ever had. After picking up Gracie last spring and delivering her into Willa’s waiting, albeit angry, arms, I haven’t been back to the bar.
It isn’t because of some supposed lifetime ban for a few broken pool cues back when I was one of those teenage Hill delinquents. I know Joe doesn’t hold a grudge and Genie’s practically kin.
Sure, I might still be a bastard, but I at least have the knowledge and the perspective I earned from all the screwing up and screwing over I did in my early twenties.
I stay away because of a feeling in my gut.
Every time I think about being around big crowds of people, the skin on the back of my neck gets tight and hot. I prefer being on my own and keeping my own company. Funny how I never feel lonely when I’m by myself.
My musings occupy my mind on the return trip to the van. The apples I picked weigh down my pack, creating an ache in my shoulders. Sunlight breaks through the low-hanging clouds, heating up the day and warming my skin, and my T-shirt is damp where the pack and straps press against it. I lift my old ball cap and wipe my brow, wishing I’d grabbed the hat I inherited from my granddaddy. Something about the wide brim makes me feel protected, shading my neck as well as my face and keeping my head cooler.
Despite being sweaty, I keep to my plan to extend my walk with a stroll along the loop road.
I find myself disappointed when I don’t spot Daphne on my circuit. I’d been hoping to casually run into her outside. Pausing outside the main ranger station, I’m now faced with the realization that I might have to make an effort to see her. My social skills are rusty from neglect. However, I’m accompanied by an adorable dog, and I’m not averse to using him as bait.
I crouch down and adjust his collar, pulling a couple twigs from his coat. Holding his head in my hands, I make eye contact. “Roman, I need you to be charming. Can you manage that?”
He barks and tries to lick my face.
“Good enough.”
Chapter Nine
Daphne
I love my uniform.
Is it flattering? Probably not.
Comfortable? Not always.
But it identifies me as a ranger, and I’m proud of my job.