Drive to where Virginia, Tennessee, and North Carolina meet. Then turn off of the paved road and onto the gravel. Find the tiny dirt path that intersects the gravel, and follow it until your cell phone reads “Service? Yeah right!” There’s a cabin there. It’s the cabin where we spent the first two nights of our vacation.

This is Shady Valley, Tennessee. There is nothing here but trees, grass, and a cabin with a hot tub. Aside from being the ideal place to commit a murder, it’s loaded with relaxing sights and sounds. The only things missing are neighbors.

We spent our two nights here listening to music, making meals, and roasting marshmallow clichés on a campfire. When Mom wasn’t running in fear of a praying mantis, we talked, laughed, and sang a lot.

The closest town is Damascus, Virginia, 30 minutes by car. I hung my head out the window as we drove there, soaking in the scenery. We passed a house that billed itself as a “Bingo Training Center.”

We stopped at a country store along the way to get some directions. The woman behind the counter assured us that we were on the right road, we only needed to continue for another three or four miles. She was partially correct – we were on the right road, but Damascus ended up being another fourteen miles. I was a little bewildered as to how she could have been so off in mileage. But then I realized that I envied the kind of lifestyle where fourteen miles equates to “three or four.”

On his way out, Dad picked up a local newspaper to read in the car. When he chuckled, we asked him what he found so funny.

“Dip Dog,” he said.

“What?”

“Dip Dog.”

“Give me the newspaper.”

“Dip Dog.”

It turns out that Dip Dog is a corn dog stand of local repute, and Dad had found their ad in the paper. He kept saying “Dip Dog” until we got out of the car.

We made it to Adventure Damascus Bicycles and caught a van that takes you to the start of the Creeper Trail on Whitetop Mountain. It’s a leisurely 17-mile ride downhill, and it’s beautiful. Something about being on a bicycle turned my dad into what can only be called a “youthful rapscallion.” Twenty minutes into the ride he was reaching up to touch tree limbs and riding on everyone’s rear tire.

“Be careful, Dad. We don’t want to go to the hospital.”

“Dip Dog,” he said, and pedaled past me.

After the ride we packed back into the car. I dozed off and woke up when we stopped at a national forest. The weather was perfect for a hike, and soon enough we were ten minutes into the woods. Mom’s paisley pants screamed “nature girl.” Dad had to stop a couple times to catch his breath, which begs the question – is he old, fat, or both?

The hike gave us all an excellent chance to practice our outdoor survival skills, such as as peeing in the woods and eating pre-packed sandwiches.

Back into the car, back on the road. We made it to North Carolina, where the air is fresher and the tobacco is cheaper. We had rented an incredible little cabin outside the dinky town of Lansing.

Despite appearances, it is not a house for kindly woodland elves. It was human-sized and lovely. There was even a hammock. My attempt to board it was captured for posterity by my sister, a budding Annie Leibovitz in her own right:

This piece is titled, “Shame, Confusion, and Embarrassment.”

Enough of that, though. We were there for the Ola Belle Reed Homecoming Festival. Our knees would soon be blue from the grass stains.

The music was great. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a 91-year old man take his teeth out to play the harmonica.

We were a little burned out at the end of the second day of the festival. We went back to our cabin early to watch Michael Phelps win his eighth gold medal in a single Olympic games.

We were on the road this morning, heading for home. Yes, we had a great time, but I think we were all ready to sleep in our own beds and be back in a place where murder would be much trickier to get away with. We had to make one stop for Dad, though: