Our plan played out perfectly this morning. We left the motel at about 7:30 and made it to the Cook Shack in Union Grove by about 8.
Our North Carolina guide book assured us that, “The Cook Shack is a little country store that has been hosting live bluegrass, old-time and country music for more than 40 years.” We had no problem finding the place. It was right on the main road in this tiny little town. But the store front was so modest and undistinguished that we wondered if we were in the right place.
But as soon as we stepped inside and our eyes adjusted to the dim light, we knew we were where we needed to be. The front door is like a portal into a circa-1974 basement. The walls are a jumble of bric-a-brac, bluegrass music festival posters and old family snap-shots held in place with scotch tape. Record album-covers from acclaimed performers like Tammy Wynette, Kenny Rogers and Chet Atkins, as well as from obscure mountain gospel groups like The Spiritualaires and Blue Denim -- hang from the ceiling. And framed images of stars like Waylon Jennings and Doc Watson look on from prominent spots high above shelves lined with tchotchkes and stuff like fish food and fly swatters and ten-year-old graduation announcements.
Right by the front door, a small elevated stage holds an electric keyboard. At the far end of the room, about 20 mismatched old chairs had been set up in rows. In the middle, between the stage and the seats, about a dozen more chairs, along with music stands and microphones, had been arranged in a rough kind of circle. And tucked into the corner, to the right of the door, there’s a small assortment of orange and brown booths and a small counter in front of a grill-top. That’s how we knew it was a restaurant. That and the fact that the whole room smelled like grease and syrup. Otherwise the place might be mistaken for a flea market. Or a shrine to Conway Twitty.
We were the second group to arrive. The only other couple in the place were seated next to each other in a booth, on the same side, both facing the small stage. Cups of coffee in front of them and expectant looks on their faces. That’s how we knew we were in for a treat.
We squeezed into a booth and ordered breakfast, which was served to us on Dixie plates and was not especially remarkable. Natalie ordered a grilled cheese sandwich. Clare got a fish sandwich, without the bread, and scrambled eggs. Charlie and I ordered french toast. And Keith had the special: livermush and grits. Coffee was self-serve, and the kids helped themselves to bottles of root beer and orange Fanta from the fridge behind the counter. Truly, the breakfast of champions. But we didn’t go there for the breakfast.
As we ate, more people started to saunter in. Some ordered breakfast. Others just grabbed coffee and took up spots in chairs around the room. Of those, some had arrived with instrument cases under their arms or strapped to their backs. They chatted with each other, and with the owners -- everyone there seemed to know each other -- and then, before we knew it, a couple people -- mostly older men in bluejeans and crisp plaid shirts -- were picking at strings on their guitars or banjos. And then, suddenly, the entire room erupted in a bluegrass reel.
An older gentleman who recognized us as outsiders took it upon himself to orient me and Keith. He introduced himself as Steve, who was actually born in Indiana, lived most of his life on the west coast as he worked for Boeing, and whose latest job in aeronautics has taken him to North Carolina. A part-time musician himself, Steve said he stumbled upon the Cook Shack when he moved to the area a few years ago. He didn’t expect much from the place when we first checked it out. But he said he realized instantly how special the venue is when he heard the music that was coming out of it. Now, the restaurant owners and the musicians who frequent the place, he says, are like his second family.
Steve pointed out the banjo player to us: A withered gentleman in his 80s sporting a red-billed seed-and-feed cap named L.W. Lambert. L.W., it turns out, is a 13-time world-champion banjo player. In fact, Steve pointed out, within a 20 mile radius of the Cook Shack, you can find about 150 world-class bluegrass musicians. And they all stop by to play from time to time. Steve also explained that the Cook Shack has such a reputation as a bluegrass venue, that internationally known acts who are in the area for other festivals and shows make sure to stop by for a little pick-up session.
As the morning went on, the Cook Shack filled up. By 10 a.m., there were probably a dozen musicians jamming away in the middle of the room -- on banjo, bass, guitar, fiddle and mandolin -- and 50 other people -- young and old -- packing the booths, perched on chairs, and chatting with family and friends as the music went on.
Our kids grew restless after a while, so the girls joined the other kids in the back yard who were mothering cats that live in a nearby shed. Charlie camped out with a book on a picnic table near the front door. And Keith and I stayed inside for a while longer, relishing this truly authentic and extraordinary Blue Ridge bluegrass music experience.
We all were back on the road by 11. The original plan was to take the Blue Ridge Parkway the entire way from the Smokies to Shenandoah National Park in Virginia -- all 469 miles of it -- in two days. But we had only gone about 110 miles in a day and a half. We realized that there was no way we’d get to Shenandoah by tonight, as planned, if we stayed on the parkway. So we made the decision to continue on to the park via interstate. It was a decision that kind of disappointed and deflated me -- I would love to be able to say that we traveled the entire length of the BRP. But we just didn’t allow enough time. It would take at least a week to drive that parkway and to really savor the route, explore the area and truly do it justice.
Even on the interstate, it took us more than four hours to get to Waynesboro, VA, near Shenandoah’s southern entrance gate. And then, we discovered that we still had to drive 55 miles along Skyline Drive, the scenic roadway that is the park’s backbone, to our campground, Big Meadows. The speed limit along Skyline Drive is 35 mph. So we were still in the car for two more hours before we even got to our campsite.
As we navigated the twists and turns of Skyline Drive, I noticed a black, furry face poking through the tall grass and wildflowers on the side of the road. I stopped the car immediately, and we watched as a small black bear emerged from the woods! Traffic stopped behind us, of course -- no one could get around us -- and drivers and passengers, including Keith, hopped out of their cars to snap photos.
We got to our campsite and immediately set up camp and started on dinner. This is a strange national park campground. It’s so ... populated. It’s a Saturday night, and the park must be, what, an hour and a half from D.C.? So I imagine that a lot of city-dwellers have come out for the weekend. It’s called “Big Meadows Campground” for a reason, I suppose; there aren’t many trees, and so there’s not a lot of privacy. We have campers on either side of us that seem to be perching their camp-chairs just-so and peering into our space. There are other campsites that have at least four cars parked on them, and, like 20 people grilling out, playing frisbee, talking and laughing loudly. We feel like we’ve stumbled upon multiple family reunions. And between the shrieking kids, barking dogs and resounding car alarms, this campground has a very busy, almost hectic feel to it.
BTW, oh my gawd, we had visitors tonight. (It’s inevitable, I guess, with all these people milling around.) Gary and Adriana from New Jersey. TOTAL New Jersey. Like, they didn’t even need to tell me where they were from. Oh my GAWD, they have a teardrop camper, as well. The just got theirs from Little Guy -- an outfit in Ohio. From the sounds of it, they researched all kinds of teardrops before making their purchase. They knew exactly where we got ours, and were schooled on all of the features. I think they knew more about our camper than we do. Gary was all, “Oh yeah, I see you’ve got the older faucet. They’ve updated the sink since you got yours, and the newer models have backsplashes.”
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