
The real mystery, to me, is remembering, I think, that it's Smokey Bear and Smoky Mountains—I still have editorial heart failure every time I see SMOKY instead of SMOKEY. Nonetheless, the Blue Ridge Parkway celebrates its 75th anniversary this year and the Smoky Mountains, America's oldest mountain range as I recall (that's why it's so worn down in humps and not standing tall in witch pointy hat style) and every holler is filled with Appalachian history, mystery, legend, lore, clog dancing, corn lickin' good cornpone and more. In my new
The Mystery in the Smoky Mountains, I try to cram it all in, but truly, you could write mysteries forever and galore set in this complex, beautiful, spooky landscape. I can smell the rhododendrons steeping in the sun now; have picked blackberries big as Bob's thumb on the ridges, and spotted "foxfire" in the