I did a little reading on the local geology. The ground that I walked upon today was at the bottom of a shallow sea some 300 million years ago.

I’m no scientist, so my observation skills on this subject are useless. They say that the sediments that gathered there hardened once the water disappeared, and then they were lifted by the power of unimaginable underground forces to form what we know as the Cumberland Plateau.

This undulating table-top of earth extends over 450 miles from West Virginia down to a little place known as Sand Mountain, Alabama. The plateau is a 50-mile-wide stretch that lies alongside the westernmost borders of the Appalachian Mountains.

Some might even argue that the Vulcan, which overlooks Birmingham, is staring at the last of the plateau’s ridges that slide off into the Piedmont regions of the deep south.

This is hill country. The limestone ridges that run parallel to and just below the crest of the mountain ranges look like mammoth snakes weaving their way through the river valleys. The roads here, though winding and narrow, are not steep like they are in Western North Carolina. My ears only popped once as we drove up the ridge to the plateau.

It just so happens that US 127, the home of the World’s Longest Yard Sale, wanders through the heart of the Cumberland Plateau in Tennessee. From Signal Mountain in the south to the Kentucky state line in the north, little white tents dot this US corridor in every direction.

These tents are everywhere. Sometimes they show up in small clutches, maybe 3 to 5 at a time in someone’s front yard. Sometimes they gather in groups of 10 to 15 around the parking lots of churches, hardware stores, and the empty lot next to the 7-Eleven.

The locations that really get a picker’s blood running are the tent cities that fill up Uncle Joe’s cow pasture. We stopped at three different sales today that boasted over a hundred vendors. 10 x 10 tents. 20 x 40 tents. Food trucks and ice cream trucks on every corner.

We’re driving north on US 127. The traffic is moderately heavy. Vehicles pulling off the road. Cars trying to get out of pasture gates into a line a mile long. We top the next hill.

“Would you look at that!”

“I see it.”

“Up there on the left. There must be a hundred tents in that field.”

“Y’all want to stop and take a look?”

“Here, here, here. Turn right here.”

Parking anywhere along the WLYS is like parking in the middle of the Talladega Motor Speedway. Where to turn in is not well marked. The people who are afraid to turn in block the entrance, which, in turn, holds up traffic on the highway.

I know what they’re thinking.

“If I go in there, am I gonna be able to get out?”

This is a legit question. There are no lines painted on the grass. Some cars are parallel to the gravel drive, while some are nosed in, backed in, and slung sideways. And sometimes the road that goes in is the same and only road that goes out.

We followed a sign off the highway that said BARN SALE, with an arrow pointing up a gravel road. The idea of a barn suggested rusty relics that might interest us. The road wound up the hill a short way before dropping downhill and going across the dam of a small pond.

When I started across the dam,  another vehicle left the parking area on the other side and came across the dam straight at me. Technically, he got on the dam first, so I backed up the hill and off into the grass until he passed.

When we got ready to leave, so did 20 other cars ahead of us. The first truck started out across the dam. From where I was parked, I could see a white minivan coming down the hill on the other side. He started across the dam. The two met in the middle with nowhere to go.

The guy in the truck wasn’t budging. The guy in the minivan was shaking his handicap sign that hung from the mirror, as if to say, “My blue card trumps your white truck.”

Neither would give an inch.

Meanwhile, the little parking area near the barn kept getting more and more twisted as people began to jockey for position. More cars moved out onto the dam behind the truck, and the minivan finally threw up the white flag and put it in reverse.

Me? I never moved from where I was parked until the road cleared.

I always have a few things in mind when we’re walking the tents. I’m a sucker for old wooden hand planes of almost any kind. I like the old stuff.

But sometimes you find new stuff. Some of the vendors bring in tubs full of overstock new items that are dirt cheap. If you need socket sets, and I don’t mean junk sets, you can find them here. Tools galore.

I’ve been meaning to replace one socket from one of my sets at home for some time now. I keep forgetting about it being gone until I go to use it and it’s not there. So, we found this tent full of tools, and I’m digging through boxes and tubs. These are used tools, but still good stuff.

I found the one I needed; a ½”, deep well, 3/8 drive socket. The guy wanted $2 for it. And since it wasn’t exactly the kind I wanted and it was rusty, I passed.

Boy, did I get grief from the gang about not spending $2 on a socket.

“I would have given you the two dollars.”

“I knew you were cheap, but that takes the cake.”

“Hey, did you hear? He wouldn’t let go of $2 for something he needed.”

I took it like the grown man that I am. I knew that there would be a lot more sockets to look at somewhere on this trail. And sure enough, today I found a brand new one for $1. I am the king of the WLYS.

I really am enjoying this adventure. The mornings have been cool. We’ve dodged most of the late afternoon scattered showers. We’ve bought a lot of cool stuff that we’ll put to good use.

Marion and I don’t buy stuff just to look at. We bring home things we’ll use in the kitchen, or in the shop, or to give away as presents to family and friends.

It’s the thrill of not knowing what you’re gonna find that makes it worth the hunt. Old fans that can work again. Quilts that tell a story. Deviled egg platters that will go to the next fellowship meal at church. An old saw that will cut a joint in a box I make in my shop.

Joe and Romona are with us. Joe shops but he doesn’t buy. After 3 days and 487 tents, he hasn’t bought a single thing except a $2 pair of sunglasses, and Romona gave him the two dollars.

Such is life on the Cumberland Plateau.