Well, it's a good thing that we rain-proofed the tent by putting up our giant tent-covering tarp (we tie it to trees, so it doesn't drape over the tent and cover the air vents), even though the hourly weather forecast suggested 0% chance of rain until 4 a.m. and then 5% chance. Sometime during the night (I did not look at my watch), it POURED, accompanied by a bit of thunder and lightning. Of course it did; we pitched a tent. As I have probably noted before, we sometimes think of renting ourselves out to drought-ridden communities. It even rained once when we pitched our already-wet tent in our yard at home so that we could dry it out.

Camping in Tennessee is a bit of a strange experience, particularly in the days following a big national dispute over the confederate flag (and the day after South Carolina voted to take down the one flying over their statehouse) . The campground is positively full of head-shaved, tattoo-covered, cigarette smoking shirtless men (Tim observed dryly that there seems to be a shirt-shortage in Tennessee) driving the biggest pickup trucks I ever saw, and flying confederate flags in their campsites or on the backs of their trucks. Well, I confess that I do not understand why anyone wants to publicly align themselves with a value-system that sent thousands of men to die for the right to keep on enslaving a whole race of people, but whatever. It's their money and their flag. There is a world of difference between one skinny white guy draping his monster truck with a 16x12 confederate flag and the government of any locality proclaiming its affiliation with that value system by flying the flag on government property.

It’s a bit on the noisy side in this campground; for one thing, there was something making a noise like a dog barking—two yaps at a time, then silence—well into the night. It was a bit perplexing, as a sound, because it was coming from the direction of the river, where there is no campground and unlikely to be any people . Also the "dog" didn’t move. This morning, when it started up again, I wondered if it was some sort of bird; the sound was a little throatier than a dog’s bark. When we were out hiking we saw a Great Blue Heron which took off flying and making a similar noise, so perhaps that was what we heard. There is also a train track—quite an active one—about a quarter of a mile from here. There must have been four or five during the night. None of these were unpleasant sounds, however, and we both slept pretty well, not waking until full light around 6:20 this morning.

After breakfast, we set out to find some trails to hike. First comedy of errors consisted of trying to find a trail map. Signs apparently leading to "Park Office" led actually to a huge swimming pool, which is currently closed "until further notice," according to numerous signs posted around the park. From the pool, we spotted the actual park office, which turns out to be closed on weekends, when the park is most likely to be filled to overflowing with people . As a last resort, we tried the campground check-in stand, and, lo and behold, not only was it open 20 minutes early, but there was, indeed, also a trail map.

Second comedy of errors occurred when we tried to find the trailhead. The ramifications of the fact that there is no day-use fee for this park manifested themselves in a total lack of signage. Using the trail map (which is not extremely detailed) as a sort of pseudo-guide, we wandered haplessly here and there (on foot, after parking in the one place clearly marked “Parking” on the map), looking for the trail head of our chosen trail. We finally found it about 25 minutes after we set out. The trail is actually labeled as three trails on the map, though it makes one big—almost loop along the riverfront. Neither end of the trail, as it turns out, actually connects to any parking area, and only one end of the trail has a sign identifying it as a trail. Once on the trail, we had no trouble staying on it, however, and it was a pretty nice place to walk with great views of the river and some wildlife (see photos) . The trail itself, however, is rather treacherous in places. It is very narrow, and in a number of places, your outside foot is inches away from the river, on a path little more than a foot wide. The last quarter mile, the ONLY part of the trail with identifying blazes (at least they existed in the direction we were walking; I did not see any in the opposite direction, though I checked a few times. Perhaps they were there but not anywhere near the ones in our direction. Who knows?, was much more rugged than the rest of the trail. I suggest that this is a difficult hike; wear hiking boots and take your time.

After the hike, we had a nice lunch at the picnic tables at the totally abandoned pool (easy to imagine it being the most overrun place in the park most days!), and then sashayed off to get me a geocache, which was supposed to be a 1-1 (easiest type to find, wheelchair accessible terrain), but which turned out to require one to a) find a place to park somewhere not intuitively obvious and b) stand in the road while fishing a magnetic key holder out of a guardrail . So far, 2 for 2 on Tennessee geocaches, precise labeling of difficulty would appear to be of little interest of consequence.

I’m writing this in a pause in the afternoon while we laze around the campground a bit. I added the Kingsport Mets and the Bristol Pirates (rookie league teams of the Mets and Pirates you’re familiar with) to my iPad, and we’re all ready for the ballgame in a couple of hours.

According to the standings board at the stadium, the Kingsport Mets are in first place in their division, while the Bristol Pirates are in last. According to the way the two teams played, the exact opposite ought to be true, although truth be told, neither team was stellar. The Mets’ pitching was just worse.   I refer you to my description of the game we went to during spring break between the Hickory Crawdads and the Hagerstown Suns. If you re-read that description (available here), you will near enough be reading a description of this game . At one point, the Pirates had one run on no hits. During the fourth inning, they scored six runs on only four hits—three singles and a double. The number of Pirates hits did not catch up to the number of runs until the Pirates finally had 11 of each, and they finished the game with one more run than hit (14 of the former and 13 of the latter).

Compare the “pitching”:

Bristol Pirates: 4 “pitchers”, 157 pitches, 13 strikeouts, 5 walks, 2 wild pitches, 1 hit batsman.

Kingsport Mets: 5 “pitchers”, 176 pitches, 8 strikeouts, 6 walks, 4 wild pitches, 3 hit batsmen, including the first batter of the game.

Between them, 4 runs scored on wild pitches. Don’t think I’ve ever seen THAT before.

The highlight of the night was the bottom of the ninth, when the game was already more than three hours old and the Pirates had an 11 run lead . In comes a new pitcher, presumably the closer. First batter gets on on an error. Steals second without a challenge, because with an 11 run lead, the catcher would have to be NUTS to worry about that runner and risk throwing the ball into the outfield. Runner goes to third on a wild pitch. “Closer” proceeds to load the bases on two walks (threw a strike to the first of these batters, then 8 straight balls). He then walks in the run with another four-pitch walk. Crowd cheers appreciatively at the little comic relief at the end of a long and painful game. THEN the “pitcher” walks in ANOTHER run, and even the home crowd is wondering when the manager is going to do something about this. Sure enough, he finally gets up and signals to the bullpen with a HUGE wave of his arms (clearly visible to everyone in the crowd, which, I imagine, was part of his message to the “pitcher”) that he wants a right hander and a left hander up. After that, the pitcher finally settled down, and got the next three men out to end the game . Final score 14-5 and really it was not that close.

Meanwhile, the announcer was also exhibiting Rookie League talents: there were at least three players named “Luis” who appeared in the game at one point or another, and the announcer called all of them “Louis,” including those from the home team, except for the one he called “Louisa.”  He also mis-announced the hometeam catcher when he introduced the defense in the first inning, though he had worked that out by the time the fellow came to bat. Not to be left out, the person keeping score couldn’t keep up with the score, and he was a Pirates’ run behind during the whole of the fourth inning rally, and didn’t actually catch up to the correct score until midway (I just inadvertently typed “madway,” which, under the circumstances, seems quite appropriate) through the Met half of the inning.) To be fair, it was rather difficult to keep track of the astonishing number of walks and wild pitches.

There were at least three players named “Luis” who appeared in the game at one point or another, and the announcer called all of them “Louis,” including those from the home team, except for the one he called “Louisa .”  He also mis-announced the hometeam catcher when he introduced the defense in the first inning, though he had worked that out by the time the fellow came to bat. Not to be left out, the person keeping score couldn’t keep up with the score, and he was a Pirates’ run behind during the whole of the fifth inning rally, and didn’t actually catch up to the correct score until midway through the Met half of the inning. (NB: While writing that sentence just now, I inadvertently typed “madway,” which, under the circumstances, seems quite appropriate)

Just for Dad’s sake, (because he was so astonished, at the Richmond Flying Squirrels’ game the other night, by the discovery that these shenanigans go on at minor league games), I will describe a few of the between inning-games. I am happy (?) to be able to report that said array of between-innings games was also marred by staff failure: they dragged a little girl out there after one inning and gave her a giant long-handled fishnet to use to try to catch rubber chickens launched from some sort of three-person slingshot with the wonderful prospect of a prize from the local grocery store chain . The two teenaged girls who were in charge of the “Chicken Chuck” (I am not making this up) set the first rubber chicken in place, pulled back on the slingshot, took aim, fired, and the chicken fell flat on the ground actually right behind where it started. Total distance in air, possibly three feet, the distance from the slingshot to the ground. Crowd laughs. They managed to get the next two shots off, which the little girl missed, but then they did not try the original chicken again, thus depriving the child of 1/3 of her chances to win a great grocery store prize. I thought that was rather unfair, but the stadium announcer, in his one inspired moment of the night, announced: “That is the first rubber chicken fatality in Chicken Chuck history.”

We were also treated to a round of musical chairs featuring three little tiny kids, the eldest of whom must have been four, and one large kid who must have been 8. Can you guess who won that game? Duh.

The goofiest game of the night, however, was the “Underwear Races,”  in which a pair of girls and a pair of boys raced each other to do the world’s largest pairs of tighty whities three-legged race style and then run down the third base sideline to an arbitrary finish . The girls never even got going, as, while girl 1 had no trouble getting her leg through the approximately 36” leg, girl 2 couldn’t manage the task, and so when girl 1, seeing the boys well ahead, took off running, girl 2 took a header and then the pair of them sprawled on the lawn, tangled up in the size 82s. The boys, meanwhile, managed to get the three-legged setup going, and took off down the field, only to have boy stumble and fall and be dragged by boy 1 across the finish line. The girls gamely finished the race by standing up and sort of scuffling along with one foot pinning the not-very-briefs to the ground like some sort of floor mopping rag.

At least it did not rain, and so we did not have to sit through an infield tarp debacle such as the one I described here, last year.

I really should not complain, however; we walked up to the ticket window prepared to decide how much money to spend on tickets, when we were informed that all tickets tonight were $3, and there would be fireworks. You get what you pay for.