It was back in November 2024. My niece Destiny and I had to pick up the family from Gatlinburg, Tennessee. The GPS said the interstate was backed up, and in grand fashion—just like Papa always used to do—I decided, in my infinite wisdom, to take the back roads through the Great Smoky Mountains. You already know this ain't gonna end well. Somewhere along the way, we ended up crossing a one-lane wooden bridge over what I swear was a raging river. I was crying, gripping the wheel, barely holding it together, convinced we were moments from getting swept away and becoming a local news story. Meanwhile, Destiny was in the backseat laughing her butt off. She kept saying, “It’s just a small stream, get over it,” like we weren’t about to be sacrificed to the Smoky Mountain water gods. She also kept yelling, “If we don’t make it, I’m gonna kill you!” and honestly, I wasn’t sure which fate was worse at that point. Now here’s the thing—I’m deathly afraid of water. To me, that wasn’t a stream. ...