THE OBSERVER

TAKE ME TO DOLLYWOOD

After the cruel summer of 2020 kept everyone housebound and pasty, deficient in both family visits and sunshine, it was with great relish that The Observer took out eastward to resume our annual pilgrimages to Dollywood. Every year (save the last one), cousins, parents and siblings from three states converge at our temporary Tennessee mountain home nestled in Dolly Parton’s famous mountains.

The road part of the trip was more chilling (and potentially spilling) than usual this year, owing to mayhem at the I-40 Mississippi River bridge. When the news first broke about the crack in a load-bearing beam, we resigned ourselves to never seeing our parents again, residing as they do on the other side. But traffic is rerouting relatively smoothly over the old I-55 bridge. Yes, that’s the antique structure the Hernando DeSoto Bridge on I-40 was built to replace, and it’s natural to question the 71-year-old span’s structural integrity. Our advice: Just white-knuckle it and turn your podcast up really loud to chase such thoughts from your head. Also, consider that you’ve likely crossed the DeSoto Bridge dozens of times in recent years while the thenundetected crack lengthened and widened beneath you. And yet, here you are.

Nine or so hours into the drive, the blue mist of the Smokies finally comes into view. Must be getting close. Was that a Bush’s Baked Beans factory we just passed? That’s when you know you’re almost there.

Much like its namesake, Dollywood captivates with a signature mix of humble charm and approachable glitz. We came for the Tennessee Tornado, but stayed for the swank Dollywood’s DreamMore Resort, where if you shell out for a room, you’ll score passes that take you to the head of the line for rides. We felt terrible the first few times we walked up to immediately board roller coasters other people had been waiting half an hour or more to ride. Flaunting such privilege just didn’t feel right at a family attraction founded by and for mountain folk. To be honest though, the allure of riding the Dragonflier over and over helped us get past the guilt right quick. Let them eat funnel cake.

And so we hit as many rides as we could stomach, gnawed on a giant turkey leg and admired the bald eagles on display in their enormous mesh forest enclosure. We tapped our feet along to bluegrass versions of Cranberries and Journey songs subtly piped out from hidden loudspeakers. We tisked under our breath at all the tiny babies out in the high altitude sun without bonnets, and marveled at families with six, seven, eight kids in tow, somehow none of them crying. We refilled our water bottles dozens of times, and easily so, since refill stations are scattered in high concentrations throughout the park.

For Dollywood diehards, the primacy of Sevierville’s finest in the pantheon of amusement parks stems from how effortless and downright pleasant it is to visit. It’s the Chickfil-A of theme parks: clean, friendly and white evangelical in a way you can’t quite explain; welcoming to all, even the heathens. We once spied there a wholesome guy in his early 20s wearing a “Virginity Rocks!” T-shirt. But neck tattoos are easy to spot, too. Brown, Black and Asian visitors mingle with the sunburned mountain folk, a crowd of many colors.

That handsome male couple in Hawaiian print tank tops and swim trunks, hailing the Dolly trolley from the DreamMore Resort for an afternoon at Dollywood’s Splash Country waterpark, fit in just fine. When we spied them the next day in Dollywood proper — one of them driving a motorized wheelchair, perhaps the result of a waterslide-related calamity — they seemed as comfortable and entertained as anyone so freshly lamed could hope for.

Some of you might scoff at our family’s theme park of choice. We’re OK with it. There’s nothing wrong with shelling out for airfare and $100-plus tickets to amble among Disney’s coastal elites. The Observer remains devoted to the one celebrity all Americans seem to agree on, and we’re happy to buy whatever she’s selling. Dolly’s come-asyou-are, miraculously nonpartisan paradise beckons, just nine hours and one deathdefying bridge crossing away.