Snaked by Mother Nature and the Blue Ridge Option

Day Two of our “Mild Hawgs” road trip broke with the sound of rain easing off the hotel roof and the aroma of coffee wafting from the lobby. Over breakfast, the group circled up, hashing out the day’s route. Word was “The Snake” (Hwy 421 outside Bristol) was still scarred from last year’s floods, and the forecast called for scattered showers late morning. With that in mind, we shifted gears, literally and figuratively, deciding to head west and south, jump on I-26, and pick up the Blue Ridge Parkway south of Asheville. A couple of us pulled on rain gear, just in case, while the others trusted the weather gods and Nate, our default road captain, to lead the way.

Blue Ridge Parkway tunneling – Horns Up!

Not All Interstates Are Created Equal

The morning ride out under a heavy gray ceiling was surprisingly peaceful. I-81 West to 126 South isn’t exactly what you’d call “motorcycle nirvana,” but sometimes even an interstate can surprise you. The traffic was light, the pavement dry, and the mist clinging to the hills ahead hinted at better things to come.

After the soul stirring ride from Day One, I found myself reflecting- not on work or home or the to-do list, but on the simple beauty of motion and sound. I shut off the music feed in my helmet and just listened. The Harley V-Twin’s low, rhythmic pulse was enough soundtrack for the moment. The western North Carolina mountains rose around us like silent sentinels, with clouds hanging low in the valleys, earning the region its “Smokies” moniker all over again.

The Strength of the Pack

After eight years of riding together, our crew moves like a single organism. No hand signals needed, no chatter over the comms, just that unspoken rhythm you get only through miles, years and trust. Adam slid naturally into his groove, the rest of us spacing out like we always do, each in tune with the other’s pace.

As we rolled into Asheville, we couldn’t help but notice the scars left from the 2024 floods. Streets still under repair, construction crews working hard, but also signs of recovery everywhere. From there, we hooked south on Hwy 25, then peeled onto the Blue Ridge Parkway with a unanimous decision to ride it all the way west to Cherokee.

The “highest” point.

Half Baked on the Blue Ridge

The moment you lean into that first sweep of the Parkway, you remember why it’s legendary. The pavement’s rough in places, sure, but the payoff- those endless bends, tunnels echoing with exhaust notes, overlooks that stop your breath- is pure bliss. The air cooled as we climbed, the sun breaking through to cast patches of gold on the ridges. More natural confetti floating through the updrafts.

Somewhere north of Pisgah, we tucked in behind a slow moving car. Happens every time. I wear a half-beanie helmet, so I caught the unmistakable scent of something herbal drifting from their windows. Saturday morning on the Parkway, apparently, is a fine time to “bake in Asheville.” I laughed under my helmet and backed off the throttle, letting the smoke clear and the view take over.

By the time we rolled into Cherokee, the sky was wide open and the day had turned perfect- one more reminder that sometimes the best routes aren’t the ones you plan, but the ones you ride into.

We rolled into Cherokee about 2 p.m., stomachs reminding us this was day two with no lunch. Rain clouds were stacking up in the Smokies, so we snagged a couple of hotel rooms early and made a beeline for one of our favorite spots- that little Italian joint tucked inside Harrah’s Casino. Pro tip: they’ve got motorcycle parking right by the elevators in the west deck, level two. Bonus points for thinking of us riders.

After a late lunch/early dinner and a few laughs, we wandered through Harrah’s- Adam and Nate tossing a few bucks at the tables while the rest of us nursed a couple of drinks and watched the rain streak down the casino’s huge glass façade. There’s something strangely peaceful about sipping a bourbon and watching a good soak roll through the Smokies.

College football filled the screens, the rain drummed its rhythm outside, and by evening we were all winding down. When the skies finally cleared, we rode back to the hotel on glistening streets that mirrored the sunset, the kind of ride that makes you ease off the throttle just to stretch the moment. We stopped long enough to grab a few shots of bull elk grazing in the cool evening air, a reminder that in Cherokee, you’re always just a turn away from wild beauty. Another day logged, more memories made, and the promise of blue skies for the ride home ahead.

Mingling with the naked sport crowd.

It Pays to Know the Area

Day Three broke crisp and clear- the kind of Smoky Mountain morning that makes you grateful for coffee and throttle cables. We packed up early, fueled by a killer breakfast across the street at Peter’s Pancakes & Waffles, where the coffee’s strong, the portions are generous, and the vibe feels like home.

Nate, our resident road sage, has been riding these mountains for years, so he naturally took point. That meant the rest of us could relax, settle into the rhythm of the road, and let the mountains do the talking.

We pointed west on 19/74 toward Bryson City, the road tracing the river’s edge like an old friend. The cool morning air hangs just thick enough to wake your senses- the kind that keeps your eyes fresh and your joints from complaining. We cruised past Nantahala Village, the tubing shacks shuttered for the season, and stopped for a quick breather at the park near Wayah Road, a stretch every Carolina rider should know.

From that western entrance, Wayah winds along the river in reverse, offering teasing glimpses of waterfalls up ahead. It’s one of those roads that begs you to pull over and soak it all in, yet tempts you to keep rolling just to see what’s around the next curve.

Wind, hills and streams – nothing better.

Hit It Early And Own It

Nate was right- hit it early, and you own it. The road flowed perfectly, curves sweeping from easy arcs to tight bowls, each one feeding the next in rhythm. About two-thirds in, though, we caught up to a Cadillac doing its best impression of a Sunday parade. No matter, days like this aren’t measured in miles per hour but in smiles per curve.

The Caddy eventually pulled off, giving us our road back, and we dropped into that perfect groove again, the kind that makes your helmet feel a size too big from smiling. Wayah twisted and rolled like it was built just for motorcycles, every curve feeding your soul as much as your tires.

We regrouped at the Loafers Glory, kickstands down, and let the silence of the mountains do its thing. You could hear the faint rush of the river below and the whisper of wind through the trees- one of those moments when time slows down and you remember why you ride.

Loafing before our final leg.

Heading For Home

NC 64 west gets us to Hayesville then back into our home state of Georgia and the hamlet lake community of Hiawassee. A stop to stretch, snack and refuel provides another chance meeting with fellow riders out on some naked sport bikes, ripping the glorious day.  

Now in our backyard we chose the sweeping Richard B. Russell Parkway over Blood Mountain, and made one final roadside stop for homemade ice cream in Cleveland GA. Reflecting on the last three days while discussing our next adventure, the ice cream cools the soul while taking us back to your younger years riding, before families and responsibility ruled the day. 

By late afternoon, we split off in our homeward directions, a silent salute between helmets as the sun dipped behind the Smokies. Another trip in the books, another set of memories carved into the asphalt.

That’s the beauty of riding these roads- they never really end. They just lead you to the next story waiting to be told.

Phil G.

*This is where you want to stay, when touring this region of the Southern Appalachians. Click the link below, and tell them Phil at Road Dirt sent you!