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There’s a certain magic in walking after a snowstorm. The world is pristine, untouched—every flake a jewel, resting like icy dust sprinkled across the mountains. It’s a fleeting perfection that vanishes with the first footsteps, the first tracks. And so, last Saturday, I rose before dawn, drawn to the stillness and silence that only snow can bring.

The streets of Kingsport lay quiet under a gray frost. Broad Street stretched before me, hushed and empty, its usual hum of life paused. Bundled up against the 20-something-degree chill, I ventured out, camera in hand, seeking the stories the snow might reveal.

A Morning of Familiar Faces and Tradition

Shelby Street was my first stop, where a single tire track trailed toward Church Circle. It was as if someone had tiptoed into the day, careful not to disturb its slumber. From there, I followed my own ritual—breakfast at the original Pal’s on Revere Street.

The glow of Pal’s iconic signage broke through the frost, a beacon of comfort. Outside, two young Kingsport police officers sipped their morning coffee, their cruisers idling nearby. Inside, the manager greeted me with the kind of sharp efficiency that’s earned my “Semper Fi Award” for best start to the day. A sausage biscuit, large cheddar rounds, and a plain tea later, I was fortified for my adventure.

Landmarks, Landscapes, and the Stories They Tell

The gray skies kept me in the warm embrace of my Jeep Cherokee a little longer than usual. Driving by the Netherland Inn, Rotherwood Mansion, and Allandale Mansion, I felt their histories quietly pressing against the cold morning air. These spots, soaked in Kingsport’s heritage, are my usual first stops. But that day, they waited.

Errands carried me to Colonial Heights, where Warrior’s Path was still unspoiled by sled tracks. The hills waited, pristine, for the laughter and joy they knew would come.

Locking the Jeep into four-wheel drive, I climbed Skyline Drive, reveling in the crunch of snow beneath the tires. It’s dangerous, sure, but there’s a skill—and a thrill—in navigating snowy roads. Past East Lawn Funeral Home, I caught sight of a backhoe in the cemetery, a stark reminder that life’s rhythms don’t pause for weather. Two workers prepared a gravesite, their shovels biting into the frozen ground. A sobering scene, yet oddly poetic—a testament to perseverance.

The Greenbelt: A Haven of Quiet and Color

By mid-morning, I reached the Greenbelt extension along Cleek Road. One car was parked nearby, its driver’s footprints paired with paw prints weaving along the trail. The whispers of nature surrounded me—snowflakes tapped my nylon hood as the Winter wind carried faint sounds through the bare branches.

At the ½-mile marker, a ripple in Reedy Creek caught my eye. Venturing off the trail, I disturbed a great blue heron and, to my delight, two playful river otters. They slipped into the dark water before I could capture a photo, but the moment lingered, etched into memory.

Further along, the rhythmic tapping of a Pileated Woodpecker led my gaze to the trees, where its red crest flashed against the gray sky. Soon after, a flash of bright blue darted across my path—Eastern Bluebirds startled from the briars, their vivid lapis feathers a brilliant contrast to the muted winter landscape.

The Joy of Tradition

Back at the Jeep, I drove to the heart of snow-day joy: Warrior’s Path. By the lake, cars lined up haphazardly, their sloppy salt stains telling of long journeys and short tempers. But the hillsides were alive with color—bright jackets and bobbing toboggans as families gathered for a community tradition.

default

I watched as children shrieked with joy, sledding down the greens of Hole 7. Parents, smiling despite the cold, tended to thermoses of cocoa and errant mittens. This ritual, unchanged by time, filled me with nostalgia. I remembered my own sledding days and felt the warmth of continuity—a tradition carried forward.

Why I Walk in the Snow

Walking in the snow is more than an act; it’s a communion. Each step tells a story, each flake a moment frozen in time. From the solitary tire track on Shelby Street to the bustling joy at Warrior’s Path, the snow carried me through Kingsport’s heart.

It’s the quiet I love, the pause it offers in a world that often moves too fast. It’s the way the snow transforms the familiar into the extraordinary, inviting reflection and wonder. And with my camera in hand, I can tell the stories I find—of tradition, of community, of the spirit of Kingsport.


A Snowy Saturday in Kingsport: Tradition, Reflection, and the Spirit of Place

By David Cate - Administrator

There’s a certain magic in walking after a snowstorm. The world is pristine, untouched—every flake a jewel, resting like icy dust sprinkled across the mountains. It’s a fleeting perfection that vanishes with the first footsteps, the first tracks. And so, last Saturday, I rose before dawn, drawn to the stillness and silence that only snow can bring.

The streets of Kingsport lay quiet under a gray frost. Broad Street stretched before me, hushed and empty, its usual hum of life paused. Bundled up against the 20-something-degree chill, I ventured out, camera in hand, seeking the stories the snow might reveal.

A Morning of Familiar Faces and Tradition

Shelby Street was my first stop, where a single tire track trailed toward Church Circle. It was as if someone had tiptoed into the day, careful not to disturb its slumber. From there, I followed my own ritual—breakfast at the original Pal’s on Revere Street.

The glow of Pal’s iconic signage broke through the frost, a beacon of comfort. Outside, two young Kingsport police officers sipped their morning coffee, their cruisers idling nearby. Inside, the manager greeted me with the kind of sharp efficiency that’s earned my “Semper Fi Award” for best start to the day. A sausage biscuit, large cheddar rounds, and a plain tea later, I was fortified for my adventure.

Landmarks, Landscapes, and the Stories They Tell

The gray skies kept me in the warm embrace of my Jeep Cherokee a little longer than usual. Driving by the Netherland Inn, Rotherwood Mansion, and Allandale Mansion, I felt their histories quietly pressing against the cold morning air. These spots, soaked in Kingsport’s heritage, are my usual first stops. But that day, they waited.

Errands carried me to Colonial Heights, where Warrior’s Path was still unspoiled by sled tracks. The hills waited, pristine, for the laughter and joy they knew would come.

Locking the Jeep into four-wheel drive, I climbed Skyline Drive, reveling in the crunch of snow beneath the tires. It’s dangerous, sure, but there’s a skill—and a thrill—in navigating snowy roads. Past East Lawn Funeral Home, I caught sight of a backhoe in the cemetery, a stark reminder that life’s rhythms don’t pause for weather. Two workers prepared a gravesite, their shovels biting into the frozen ground. A sobering scene, yet oddly poetic—a testament to perseverance.

The Greenbelt: A Haven of Quiet and Color

By mid-morning, I reached the Greenbelt extension along Cleek Road. One car was parked nearby, its driver’s footprints paired with paw prints weaving along the trail. The whispers of nature surrounded me—snowflakes tapped my nylon hood as the Winter wind carried faint sounds through the bare branches.

At the ½-mile marker, a ripple in Reedy Creek caught my eye. Venturing off the trail, I disturbed a great blue heron and, to my delight, two playful river otters. They slipped into the dark water before I could capture a photo, but the moment lingered, etched into memory.

Further along, the rhythmic tapping of a Pileated Woodpecker led my gaze to the trees, where its red crest flashed against the gray sky. Soon after, a flash of bright blue darted across my path—Eastern Bluebirds startled from the briars, their vivid lapis feathers a brilliant contrast to the muted winter landscape.

The Joy of Tradition

Back at the Jeep, I drove to the heart of snow-day joy: Warrior’s Path. By the lake, cars lined up haphazardly, their sloppy salt stains telling of long journeys and short tempers. But the hillsides were alive with color—bright jackets and bobbing toboggans as families gathered for a community tradition.

default

I watched as children shrieked with joy, sledding down the greens of Hole 7. Parents, smiling despite the cold, tended to thermoses of cocoa and errant mittens. This ritual, unchanged by time, filled me with nostalgia. I remembered my own sledding days and felt the warmth of continuity—a tradition carried forward.

Why I Walk in the Snow

Walking in the snow is more than an act; it’s a communion. Each step tells a story, each flake a moment frozen in time. From the solitary tire track on Shelby Street to the bustling joy at Warrior’s Path, the snow carried me through Kingsport’s heart.

It’s the quiet I love, the pause it offers in a world that often moves too fast. It’s the way the snow transforms the familiar into the extraordinary, inviting reflection and wonder. And with my camera in hand, I can tell the stories I find—of tradition, of community, of the spirit of Kingsport.