I knew I was okay to leave East Tennessee after going to the annual Mother’s Day bike rally at Boozy Creek. I moved to Tennessee in 2007 and in the first couple of months drove all around the area getting familiar and making photos. The second week out driving, I saw a man on a beast of a bike—all skulls and antlers—a vision. I followed him trying to get a photo but several red lights conspired against me and I lost him.
Over the years, I would think I had seen a glimpse of him in passing. He was my white whale. In the meantime, I had found the monkey lady and countless others by asking around, but he was a no-show.
In 2013, I decided to move on from East Tennessee. I loved it there, but living in a more rural area was getting harder—fewer jobs and fewer resources—and I didn’t want to teach anymore.
The Mother’s Day event at Boozy Creek was a thing of mystery. I had heard how crazy it got, but this was my last chance. One of my close friends who grew up here looked at me and solemnly told me I needed to stay away. “People got stabbed there. It is no place for you.”
Despite the warning, I decided to take the trek out on this muddy Mother’s Day. I followed a windy, wet road until it opened up to a large campground. I parked in a large messy lot with my little Prius. With my camera out, I did a lap around the area to get oriented. The first thing that caught my eye was the motorcycle I had been looking for since 2007. As I stood before my white whale, a man hollered down from the porch. “That’s his bike,” with a side nod pointing to the man with the long white beard in a large rocking chair next to him. I jogged over to him and started excitedly rambling about how long I had been looking for him. I poured out a piece of my soul.
After my verbal explosion, I looked up and the man said “come again?” The man who had originally shouted at me laughed and said, “oh, he’s as deaf as a doornail. You really have to shout.” He leaned and shouted to his friend, “get on the bike for her.” The bearded man smiled, walked down the rickety steps, and dutifully sat on his beast for me. I don’t think he heard a single word of my appreciation for finding him, but I think we shared a moment. I had found him and could leave East Tennessee without regret.