Atlas Obscura has a really neat feature up that’s well worth your perusal. It’s an interactive map of famous American literary road trips from the late 1800s to today. The map traces the journeys of twelve author-travelers across the U.S., with pinpoints for the locations identified in their books. Click on a point, and you’ll get the writer’s description of that place.
I decided to see what these folks had to say about my own neck of the woods. William Least Heat-Moon, author of Blue Highways, almost spent the night in my hometown on his way east from Oak Ridge:
I should have stopped at Tazewell before the light went entirely, but no. It was as if the mountains had me.
On his way to Clinch Mountain he would’ve driven right past the Frostee Freeze, a venerable drive-in that’s been serving burgers and milkshakes for almost sixty years.
Least Heat-Moon’s description of Morristown sounds less like the town I know and more like the setting for Dickens’s Hard Times:
Across the Holston River, wide and black as the Styx, and into the besooted factory city of Morristown, where, they say, the smoke runs up to the sky.
He took in some regional history while visiting Tennessee’s oldest town:
The fourteenth state in the Union, the first formed after the original thirteen, was Franklin and its capital Jonesboro. The state had a governor, legislature, courts, and militia. In 1784, after North Carolina ceded to the federal government its land in the west, thereby leaving the area without an administrative body, citizens held a constitutional convention to form a sovereign state. But history is a fickle thing, and now Jonesboro, two centuries old, is only the seat of Washington County, which also was once something else—the entire state of Tennessee. It’s all for the best. Chattanooga, Franklin, just doesn’t come off the tongue right.
And speaking of eighteenth-century history, Blue Highways also has an account of Least Heat-Moon’s tour of Ninety Six, site of a Rev War siege in the South Carolina backcountry. No passages from that visit on the Atlas Obscura map, though.
Peter Jenkins on the Volunteer State and those of us who live here:
We were grateful to be in green, clean Tennessee. A lot of the natives were shaped just like their state, long and lean.
Thanks, I guess?
Bill Bryson, of whom I’ve never been a big fan, on southwestern Virginia:
I drove through a landscape of gumdrop hills, rolling roads, neat farms. The sky was full of those big fluffy clouds you always see in nautical paintings, adn [sic] the towns had curious and interesting names: Snowflake, Fancy Gap, Horse Pasture, Meadows of Dan, Charity. Virginia went on and on. It never seemed to end.
John Steinbeck and his dog passed through Abingdon, where William Campbell’s Virginians mustered before heading to Sycamore Shoals and the march that led to King’s Mountain. By that point, Steinbeck was evidently ready to get home:
My own journey started long before I left, and was over before I returned. I know exactly where and when it was over. Near Abingdon, in the dog-leg of Virginia , at four o’clock of a windy afternoon, without warning or good-by or kiss my foot, my journey went away and left me stranded far from home. I tried to call it back, to catch it up—a foolish and hopeless matter, because it was definitely and permanently over and finished.