First items first. The word Cherohala is a combined form, known as a portmanteau, derived from two Native American tribes: Cherokee and Nantahala. Either that or from the Cherokee and Nantahala National Forests. But then those national forests were named after those two tribes so, you know, the truth is most likely best stated as a bit of both. By the bye, Cherohala is pronounced CHAIR-uh-HALL-uh.

 

The Cherohala Skyway has an interesting history. The first idea for it came about in 1958 but actual plans didn’t begin until 1962. It was finally completed in 1996, thirty-four years and $100 million dollars later. (Yeah! 34 years and $100,000,000! Wow!)

 

Why so much time and money? Mostly because the area is so clustered with vegetation that for centuries, it was impassable except by foot, by horse, or with an occasional stagecoach.

 

The Cherohala Skyway connects the towns of Tellico Plains, Tennessee and Robbinsvile, North Carolina. The total distance between the two towns is 51 miles, but if you account for the small commerce areas outside of those two towns, the motorcycle-heaven distance is between 40 and 45 miles. And heaven it is.

 

The road itself is in great shape and though there are no tight twisties, it’s replete with the kind of sweepers and half-twisties where your suspension digs in while you become weightless and fly.

 

Traffic? Almost non-existent. The landscape? Oh, my! So much green, so much growth! Mind blowing. Rolling hills covered with every possible shade of darker green trees and bushes that disappear into a misty remoteness. Wow, just freaking wow.

 

Back in the hot summer of 2014, I took off from Tellico Plains and stopped at just about every turnout to enjoy the cultivated-only-by-Mother-Nature sights and to take bunches of photos. (Every several miles is a large, fully paved turnout with postcard-worthy views.) Coming back from Robbinsville, however, I gunned it nonstop. Even scraped the pegs a few times.

 

At the end of my ride, I stopped at the Cherohala Harley-Davidson store just outside of Tellico Plains. No service department and no bikes for sale. Just a bunch of t-shirts, Harley/Cherohala memorabilia, two fully stocked refrigerator cases, and a small shelf displaying munchies.

 

Four motorcycles were in the parking lot. The riders, six of them, sat in wooden chairs, some of them rockers, atop a porch and behind a wooden rail painted dark brown. I nodded a “How ya doin’” then went inside and grabbed a soda and some beef jerky. (Oh heavens, don’t worry. I paid for them.)

 

As I came back outside, an old-timer and his lady arrived on an old Electra Glide. They sat next to me.

 

It turned out that the old-timer had been born and raised in the area. With a resonant baritone voice, he regaled us with boyhood stories and what a fine raconteur he was! My favorite anecdote was one about his grandpa.

 

During the 1950s, Grandpa would often take him, his sisters, and brothers in his car and drive into the thick vegetation as far as he could. They then grabbed all of their camping gear and hiked to a clearing next to the Tellico River.

 

At night, they all sat around a campfire while Grandpa spun tales about the Cherokee, the Nantahala, and the early settlers. Before sunup, he would nudge them awake and tell them, “Go down to the creek and fish us up some breakfast.”

 

While they were gone, Grandpa baked batches of homemade butter biscuits in a portable cast-iron stove over an open fire. When the kids came back, he’d let them eat as many biscuits as they wanted while he fried the fish they’d just caught.

 

At this point, the old-timer got a sweet smile and took a deep breath. In a soft, yearning voice he said, “Fish frying in butter along with the early morning pines is the most wonderful smell. I’ll never forget it.”