There’s something oddly joyful about watching beer-bellied grown men kicking their feet and bouncing happily on an inner tube. The unlimited snow tubing session at Ober Mountain gave me hours of people-watching entertainment, especially observing the crew tasked with keeping us big, clueless animals in check. They scanned our tickets, enforced the “no sitting or walking on the conveyor belt” rule, and repeatedly reminded us of the proper way to sit before launching—“Do not step in from the front; back your butt into the hole.”
For the first few runs, I treated these rules like gospel, as though the snow tubing workers were the soup Nazis of the slopes. I held my bar tag just right for scanning, meticulously stowed my tube strap as instructed, and tried to be the gold-star tobogganer. But by run four or five, my crew and I had the system down. We were practically locals, blending seamlessly with the staff’s rhythm.
Hours later, after countless slides and friendly races, Evelyn had befriended the ticket scanner guy and roped him into a mini snowball fight, snowballs courtesy of his own hands.
The conveyor belt to the top of the hill offered a slow, eight-minute ride, giving me a prime view of skiers and snowboarders making their final descents to the chair lifts. My favorite moments were the falls—the kind where you could see it coming, starting with a wobble that turned into a slow-motion, butt-seeking-the-toilet kind of collapse. One woman fell, got up, fell again, and kept repeating the cycle, so much so that I held up the line at the top just watching her. A worker, equally engrossed, finally muttered, “You can’t go back like that—you’ll fall every time.”
Later, as we soared through the cloudless sky on the aerial tram, the driver, with his thick Southern accent, kept us entertained with stories. He pointed out country singer Blake Shelton’s massive ranch—200 or maybe 2,000 acres—and casually mentioned how the mountain was shut down in November for a few hours so Blake could have it to himself. “Must be nice,” he added with a knowing tone. He also mentioned he’d gotten in trouble for sharing celebrity locations because some people might knock on their doors. Probably a good call to keep the rest of those names to himself.
As we passed a house with a roof shaped like an airplane wing, the driver explained it was built by a retired Eastern Airlines pilot. He then joked about how long it’s been since that airline existed, adding a jab about his own age. I laughed, but honestly, I don’t remember Eastern Airlines either.
It’s our last night here, sleeping in the shadow of Mount LeConte, the third-highest peak in Great Smoky Mountain National Park.
While I’ve loved this break—playing, indulging in rich and extravagant food, and soaking in all the adventure—I’m ready to head home. There’s a comfort in structure, routines, and home life’s simplicity. But for now, I’ll savor this mountain air just a little longer.
Take care of yourself. Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 