Life is a balance between riding a motorcycle and not riding a motorcycle. My time spent not riding is usually devoted to other hobbies or interests, but just like the rest of us, a fair portion of it is also spent working.
Occasionally, work overwhelms the “work-life” balance and distracts from life’s simple pleasures. When that happens, I reach a point where all I want to do is go for a damn motorcycle ride. The urge to escape on two wheels becomes impossible to ignore. It lands on my to-do list and refuses to leave until I do something about it.
For me, planning a themed ride or tour has always been a welcome mental distraction. Though you don’t really need a damn excuse to ride a motorcycle — I was determined to find one.
My first move when planning a trip from scratch is usually the simplest: I look at a map. Geological features offer inspiration, twisting roads around mountain lakes, changes in elevation, towns and areas I hadn’t yet explored. A map feels like a challenge—here’s everywhere you can go, so why not go?
I live at the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains now, but I’m a born-and-raised “South Floridian.” I spent years roaming Florida from the Keys to Tallahassee and everywhere in between. What I loved most about Florida — and what I still miss — is the water. The state is surrounded by it. Rivers cut through it. Freshwater springs pump millions of gallons a day from the aquifer below.
North Georgia, by contrast, also has water — but it’s different. We have some creeks and streams, a few rivers. Most of the lakes here are man-made reservoirs. Bodies of water formed by mining, flooding and damming. Concrete and engineering, rather than nature. Our mountain lakes are striking, offering gorgeous views of the surrounding Smoky Mountains.
Looking at a map of the tri-state area where Georgia, Tennessee, and North Carolina meet, these areas of blue are hard to miss. The lakes are large and deep, many at elevation. The roads leading to them are tight and twisty, flanked by rivers and streams. Scenic overlooks are frequent, routes pass through old towns mostly removed from civilization.
The curiosity of how these mountain lakes came to be soon became an obsession of mine. And then it hit me. The theme for my next ride was obvious.
A “dam” motorcycle tour.
A quick history lesson for those unfamiliar: the Appalachian region is perfect dam country. Narrow river gorges funnel fast-moving water. Steep valley walls create natural barriers. When you block a river here, water builds quickly and deeply.
In the early 1900s, hydroelectric power was already being harnessed in the region, particularly to support aluminum smelting operations in East Tennessee that demanded enormous amounts of electricity. The New Deal of the 1930s brought large-scale change.
The Tennessee Valley Authority was created during the Great Depression to address chronic flooding, widespread poverty, and a lack of infrastructure. Much of the region had little or no electricity. Jobs were scarce. Floods were destructive and frequent. Hydroelectric dams reshaped the landscape. They provided electricity to homes and factories, supported wartime manufacturing, created thousands of jobs, and permanently altered the rivers of the southern Appalachians.
Today, the legacy remains. East Tennessee alone is home to the “Nine Lakes” region — a chain of reservoirs formed by TVA dams that still manage flood control, generate power, and supply drinking water. Thanks to the terrain, the area has also become a destination for outdoor recreation: hiking, paddling, fishing, camping, climbing—and of course, riding motorcycles.
Pro tip: check out easttnvacations.com for inspiration, itineraries, and much more information on what to do/ where to ride in the region.
I based myself in Graham County just north of Robbinsville, North Carolina, at The Simple Life Cabins and Campground. I don’t usually name accommodations, but this one earns it. While it caters to motorcyclists, it has amenities and comforts for all. Alan the owner was quick with local knowledge, route suggestions and stories. Riders from all over the country filled the campground visiting to ride. As was I. So off I went.
I headed north on U.S. 129 and just seven miles into the ride, I reached my first dam. Santeetlah Dam — quiet, understated, and easy to miss if you didn’t know what you were looking for. Completed in 1928, the dam holds back the Cheoah River, forming Lake Santeetlah, a long, narrow reservoir tucked neatly into the folds of the Nantahala Mountains. Originally built to generate hydroelectric power, the dam feels more utilitarian than monumental, especially compared to some of the larger TVA projects ahead downstream. The lake above was calm and glassy, reflecting the surrounding hills, easing me into the rhythm of tour.
Another short seven miles and dam No.2. Between the historic Tapoco Lodge and Deals Gap sits Cheoah Dam — an imposing, brutal/deco style structure, tucked deep into the mountains. At its completion in 1919, it was the world’s highest overflow dam, had the largest turbines in the world, as well as the longest span and highest voltage transmission lines. It was a welcoming sight as I began to climb elevation and into the oncoming wilderness.
Hello Dragon, my old friend. There’s not much left to say about the Tail of the Dragon that hasn’t already been said. You either love it or hate it. I’ll admit — it’s a thrilling stretch of road, it’s fun to get your photo taken, too. But the traffic, the racetrack mentality, and the occasional chaos usually keep me away, though I’ve been plenty of times. And still, the road is an important connector, so I held my breath and rode through.
Near the north end of the Dragon is Calderwood Lake Overlook, offering a place to stop and regroup before turning around to slay the Dragon again. Looking south from the pullout, far below in the Little Tennessee River valley, Calderwood Dam is barely visible, almost hidden by the Smokies. Completed in 1930, it exists solely for hydroelectric power.
If you look on a map, you’ll see these sections of water referred to as lakes, named after the respective dam they follow. They are a chain of river-like reservoirs, connected by dams, before ultimately flowing into the Little Tennessee River. Riding alongside them for miles and miles, the shape and paths that these lakes follow, it’s hard to not mistake them for such.
Miles passed in a rhythm of curves and elevation changes. No signs of civilization, just nature. Dense forest closed and opened, greens and blues, occasionally revealing vast views. And then, almost predictably, another dam appeared.
Completed in 1957, Chilhowee Dam marked the last structure before the Little Tennessee River flowed freely again. I was stopping often — not for rest, but because the sheer scale of these structures was mesmerizing. The amount of concrete. The logistics. The idea of building something like this a century ago, in this terrain, with the technology of the time — it was impossible not to be impressed. Signs warned of “DANGEROUS WATERS,” but the scene was calm and cool on a bright fall day.
The three dams along this stretch were originally constructed to support aluminum production, providing massive amounts of power to area smelting operations. Industry and wilderness have always had a complicated relationship here.
I continued riding north, so damn happy to be behind handlebars. Eventually, the river widened, towns appeared, and I reached Lenoir City, Tennessee, a convergence of water and infrastructure.
I arrived next at Tellico Dam, completed in 1979, it was the last dam built by the TVA. Unlike most others, it wasn’t primarily about power or flood control. Its purpose was mainly economic development — an idea that sparked controversy. A “pork-barrel” project, it seemed to offer more harm than good. The project flooded historic communities and threatened endangered fish species. The Little Tennessee River is also one of the richest archaeological regions in the Southeast, and plaques along the road quietly mark ancient settlements now submerged.
Across the river stands Fort Loudoun Dam and Lock, completed earlier in 1943. At nearly 4,200 feet long, it’s a massive piece of infrastructure and the uppermost TVA dam on the Tennessee River. Unlike Tellico, it serves many crucial purposes controlling floods and providing power.
The dams were fascinating — but the road was calling again. I turned south, chasing the afternoon light back toward North Carolina. The Smokies glowed. Leaves turned in color as I rode past.
At Deals Gap, the road splits — further south on U. S. 129, or east on N.C. 28. Signs at the gap promised Fontana Village and “A Dam Good Time Ahead.” It was in fact true, as there were still two more structures on my list to tour.
This section of N.C. 28, sometimes called the Hellbender, is every bit as rewarding as the Dragon but far less crowded. It flows smoothly through the mountains, hugging Cheoah Lake, the same body of water formed by the second dam I visited.
Further along, I passed the Santeetlah powerhouse, a small brick structure built in the 1920s, still quietly generating electricity from Lake Santeetlah. Even though a few miles of mountains separate the two, it’s generating power from Santeetlah Dam, my first stop earlier in the day. It’s a fascinating reminder of how deeply engineered this landscape is.
As golden hour filled the valleys, I reached Fontana Village for fuel and supplies — a brief pocket of civilization before returning to wilderness. Fontana Dam came into view just before sunset. The wilderness was glowing, calm, and quiet. The natural mountain landscape was cut with a behemoth of concrete.
The dam itself is massive, as big as the mountains themselves. At 480 feet tall, Fontana Dam is the tallest dam in the eastern United States. Completed in 1944, it created Fontana Lake, the uppermost reservoir on the Little Tennessee River and the primary source of control for the dams downstream. Like many TVA projects, it was built to meet rising electrical demands and support wartime production.
I stood and stared for a while, still marveling, imagining how it was built, especially given the timing and unforgiving area of terrain. The sun finally dropped below the horizon as dusk settled in. I saddled up and headed back, satisfied. As a history lover, architecture enthusiast, and motorcycle rider, I can confidently say — it was a dam good tour.
