Outside Big Canoe: a story of Christmas trees and non-criminal trespass
I love adventure. I used to make a weekend habit of charting unknown territories around me, often just getting in the car by myself and heading down a main road to see where it would lead. This was especially rewarding if doing so got me to some podunk town I had never heard of before. From my neck of the woods for instance a mere 20-mile ride will get you to either Struggleville, Rebelville, or Shakerag. Further out in one direction or the other will get you to Ball Ground, Whistleville, or Normaltown, the latter of which is referenced in the B-52's song Deadbeat Club.
Dirt roads, though diminishing in number, are especially intriguing to me, and left to my own devices I will go out of my way to drive down one no matter how rough and tumbled or overgrown it is. That's why this holiday weekend when I was schlepping my in-laws around in the back seat to go look for a Christmas tree, I jumped at the opportunity when my wife's mother leaned over the back of the driver's seat and said to me, "Let's just go a little farther and see where this leads."
She was talking about a tree-lined dirt road leading into the woods just past a sign for a Christmas tree farm, the very Christmas tree farm we were looking for. This dirt road wasn't just any dirt road. It was one of those trails consisting of two tire tracks and grass in the middle. The trees and the grass were beautifully manicured, so it looked like it might be an entrance to a tree farm. There was only one way to find out, so with wife, in-laws, and baby in tow, we started the journey down what was labeled Gibbs Dr.
The way leading into this place was beautiful. Plane trees planted at equal intervals along both sides of the path stood like model soldiers welcoming us to Toyland and when we ran out of those, we drove slowly along a leafy path through meticulously manicured shrubs and plants. Although we didn't see anything that resembled Christmas trees, we did see out in the middle of otherwise undisturbed forest, large livingroom-sized patches of the greenest grass you've ever seen. There were pagodas and stone walls with moss growing in them. As we rounded one curve on the path we passed a small flower garden surrounding a statue of St. Francis. This place was just one magical surprise after another.
Then it dawned on us.
"I think we're driving through someone's yard," my father-in-law said.
There was a small debate as to whether he was right. Only a few minutes earlier someone in the car suggested the place was a Sanitarium. I still wanted to believe it was the entrance to a Chrsitmas tree farm so that I could keep driving around. Backing up after all was a near impossibility and finding a place to turn around wasn't as easy as it sounds either, so we continued driving until we found the huge English manor-style home at the end of the driveway. Before I barely had the chance to wonder what kind of people lived here, my curiosity was satisifed soon after we spotted a truck that was also snaking it's way along the path in the oncoming direction.
I think the driver was probably the owner, and my father-in-law who had already hopped out of the car to help navigate asked for directions to get us out. The man in the truck happily obliged and we promptly made our way out of there a little more hastily than when we came in.
The internet is a wonderful thing, and when we got home after buying a Christmas tree at the farm which incidentally was right across the street, I made a beeline for my father-in-;aw's computer to dig up the scoop as to where we had been. With the help of Google, Mapblast and the Realtor tax database (yes, membership and a real estate license do have their privileges) I learned that the property belonged to a family that owned a large landscaping business whose customers include several major Atlanta corporations and a few hospitals. Mapblast provided a satellite image of the house and some orchards that we were unable to spot before we were caught trespassing on private property.
The North Georgia mountains are the birthplace of bootlegging corn liquor, and I'm sure it likely wasn't very long ago that stumbling onto someone else's property without their permission could have gotten me shot. To tell the truth, there are probably places today in the area where this is still the case. After all, Dawsonville hosts an annual Moonshine Festival and while there are no free samples (or pay samples for that matter), rumor has it one doesn't have to wander far to find the real stuff. Wander in without being invited and you might have to hobble out.
Oh well, these people were nice enough to point us the way out without gunfire.
Tune in next week when I report from the Koresh compound in Marblehill, Georgia.
Dirt roads, though diminishing in number, are especially intriguing to me, and left to my own devices I will go out of my way to drive down one no matter how rough and tumbled or overgrown it is. That's why this holiday weekend when I was schlepping my in-laws around in the back seat to go look for a Christmas tree, I jumped at the opportunity when my wife's mother leaned over the back of the driver's seat and said to me, "Let's just go a little farther and see where this leads."
She was talking about a tree-lined dirt road leading into the woods just past a sign for a Christmas tree farm, the very Christmas tree farm we were looking for. This dirt road wasn't just any dirt road. It was one of those trails consisting of two tire tracks and grass in the middle. The trees and the grass were beautifully manicured, so it looked like it might be an entrance to a tree farm. There was only one way to find out, so with wife, in-laws, and baby in tow, we started the journey down what was labeled Gibbs Dr.
The way leading into this place was beautiful. Plane trees planted at equal intervals along both sides of the path stood like model soldiers welcoming us to Toyland and when we ran out of those, we drove slowly along a leafy path through meticulously manicured shrubs and plants. Although we didn't see anything that resembled Christmas trees, we did see out in the middle of otherwise undisturbed forest, large livingroom-sized patches of the greenest grass you've ever seen. There were pagodas and stone walls with moss growing in them. As we rounded one curve on the path we passed a small flower garden surrounding a statue of St. Francis. This place was just one magical surprise after another.
Then it dawned on us.
"I think we're driving through someone's yard," my father-in-law said.
There was a small debate as to whether he was right. Only a few minutes earlier someone in the car suggested the place was a Sanitarium. I still wanted to believe it was the entrance to a Chrsitmas tree farm so that I could keep driving around. Backing up after all was a near impossibility and finding a place to turn around wasn't as easy as it sounds either, so we continued driving until we found the huge English manor-style home at the end of the driveway. Before I barely had the chance to wonder what kind of people lived here, my curiosity was satisifed soon after we spotted a truck that was also snaking it's way along the path in the oncoming direction.
I think the driver was probably the owner, and my father-in-law who had already hopped out of the car to help navigate asked for directions to get us out. The man in the truck happily obliged and we promptly made our way out of there a little more hastily than when we came in.
The internet is a wonderful thing, and when we got home after buying a Christmas tree at the farm which incidentally was right across the street, I made a beeline for my father-in-;aw's computer to dig up the scoop as to where we had been. With the help of Google, Mapblast and the Realtor tax database (yes, membership and a real estate license do have their privileges) I learned that the property belonged to a family that owned a large landscaping business whose customers include several major Atlanta corporations and a few hospitals. Mapblast provided a satellite image of the house and some orchards that we were unable to spot before we were caught trespassing on private property.
The North Georgia mountains are the birthplace of bootlegging corn liquor, and I'm sure it likely wasn't very long ago that stumbling onto someone else's property without their permission could have gotten me shot. To tell the truth, there are probably places today in the area where this is still the case. After all, Dawsonville hosts an annual Moonshine Festival and while there are no free samples (or pay samples for that matter), rumor has it one doesn't have to wander far to find the real stuff. Wander in without being invited and you might have to hobble out.
Oh well, these people were nice enough to point us the way out without gunfire.
Tune in next week when I report from the Koresh compound in Marblehill, Georgia.
posted by kevin black at
12:57 PM
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