Living Rootless: Alabama: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 888: Thanksgiving on the Appalachian Tail

Yes, that's Tail, not Trail.

Appalachian Mountains terminus, Tannehill Ironworks Historical State Park, McCalla, Alabama. November 2020.

The southernmost tip of the Appalachian Mountain range

It delights me that I can stand at the tail end of the Appalachian Mountain range in my current state of Alabama. Doing so became my mission for Thanksgiving 2020 in the Year of Our Corona.

Tannehill Ironworks Historical State Park is where it happens - or happened, in geological terms.

The park hopped with Thanksgiving visitors seeking a holiday respite from COVID, as evidenced by the line of cars that preceded and followed me on the entrance road.

It befuddled me that I passed this Appalachian Mountain range sign on my way to the park entrance booth. As I drove by it, I thought, Wait! Was that it?! What? No, of course not. Surely, not.

No, I imagined, the "real" marker is in the park proper, where you and your posse can take a group photo showing y'all have Been There.

Or you (actually, me) can simply stand at various points relative to the sign and contemplate the grandeur of the Appalachians and how one is actually at the southernmost tip of them. It would be akin to standing on the southernmost tip of Argentina, in Tierra del Fuego, on the above-water foot of the Andes, though admittedly not as sexy.

But I was wrong; the roadside sign was the marker.

Alabama does not like shoulders

I walked carefully to the sign after I parked my car in the lot beyond the fee booth. I walked carefully because Alabama disdains shoulders, and maybe pedestrians, too: If we wanted y'all to walk on the road, we'd'a built y'all some shoulders!

Alabama's shoulder issue first confronted me when I visited Oxford, Alabama, in July, and I attempted to walk alongside a road near my motel. Not being ready to bite the dust literally or figuratively that day, I abandoned my attempt soon after I began, hoping I wouldn't die during my retreat.

If you think that Alabama might set aside its shoulder prejudice to accommodate an Important Marker in a state park (a park, for fuck's sake!), you would be wrong. Nope, the marker is on the relatively-busy entrance to the park, with so little room for a pedestrian to maneuver safely, that one must wonder if the sign's use of the words terminus and end carry any special significance.

A check into Alabama's pedestrian death rate revealed that in 2018, Alabama had the 12th highest pedestrian death rate in the US. This analysis placed it even higher.

Appalachian Mountains terminus, Tannehill Ironworks Historical State Park, McCalla, Alabama. November 2020.

Mushrooms

In another Alabama surprise (its prettiness being the first, and its antipathy toward shoulders being the second), it appears that mushrooms might be my Alabama "thing." In New Mexico, it was sonic booms and tarantulas. In Arizona, it was lizards.

While I do adore mushrooms for their sexy, earthy umami-ness, my knowledge of wild mushrooms is low. I know a morel when I see one, but anyone can do that.

In wandering some of Tannehill's trails, I encountered three mushroom types.

First I found a giant white that sat on a fat pedestal.

Mushrooms, Tannehill Ironworks Historical State Park, McCalla, Alabama. November 2020.

Later, a yellow mushroom bottom, textured like a tasty English muffin, beamed sunnily at me from the leafy, woodland floor. I tipped it over to reveal a reddish cap.

Mushrooms, Tannehill Ironworks Historical State Park, McCalla, Alabama. November 2020.

Finally, a gaggle of green scalloped shells clung to a tree next to a pretty ledge.

Mushrooms, Tannehill Ironworks Historical State Park, McCalla, Alabama. November 2020.

COVID detritus

Sadly, I saw two pale yellow paper masks at one of the trailheads. I had nothing to pick them up with other than my bare hands, and I left them lay. I will consider taking a bag and gloves with me in future walks so I can pick up trash like this.