Anakeesta Ridge is easily recognizable from the road near Morton Overlook, just below Newfound Gap. It’s the mountain that’s missing big chunks of soil and vegetation on its high slopes. The geologists call this landslide-prone section of the park the Anakeesta Formation, which is very different from most rock in the Smokies. My Hiking Guide describes the geological underpinnings of this region, but I’m not going to repeat it all because I’d just be repeating words that I don’t fully understand. Instead, here’s a short, and possibly even accurate, summary. This section is composed of a particular type of metamorphic rock closely related to slate that is easily broken and eroded. So, the landslides that plague this section are the result of storms racing up the West Prong valley and raining on land that has thin soil on steep rocks that aren’t particularly sturdy. The soil and rock give way, then when it begins to slide, it not only pushes the landscape below it, but it also pulls down the landscape above it. Those who have witnessed these slides report that the trees seem to be surfing, roots first, on top of the landslide. The trees fall not from being blown down the slope by wind but by having the rug pulled out from under them – thus the “roots first” surfing analogy.
I assume this underlying slate is the reason why most of the steepest cliffs and mountain slopes are in this section of the park: Eagle Rocks, Sawteeth, Charlies Bunion, Jumpoff, Anakeesta Ridge, Alum Cave Bluff, Duck Hawk Ridge, Myrtle Point, Cliff Top, Chimney Tops, and dozens of unnamed rocky scars and ridges. If you like rugged terrain, including frighteningly steep cliffs, this Anakeesta section of the park is the place to be.
By the way, “anakeesta” is a Cherokee word meaning “place of the balsams.” This ridge just south of Mt. LeConte has long been called Anakeesta Ridge. The unique, erodible rock formation in this section of the park was named after that ridge. That was a good call by the geologists because the most dramatically visible scars are on the slopes of Anakeesta Ridge.
So it seemed to me that a guy looking for a good time might want to wander around the steep slopes and exposed rock of this Anakeesta Triangle, to get a sense of the power and drama that Mother Nature exhibits every now and then in the form of heavy rain, landslides, and mud-surfing trees. So Greg Harrell and I spent a few hours on a warm day in March wandering the slopes of Anakeesta Ridge.
About a month earlier we had hiked from the Boulevard and Anakeesta Knob across the ridgecrest of Anakeesta Ridge, hoping to see the landslides from above. Unfortunately, it had been a cold, cloudy day. We could see only a few yards in any direction which probably contributed to our taking a wrong turn down a nameless side ridge. But this blunder opened a new door for us – this side ridge had a lightly-worn path, and it seemed to lead down to Newfound Gap Road. We couldn’t see the road on that day because of the clouds, but we could hear an occasional car, and our map told us that it was less than half a mile away. This nameless side ridge might provide a steep but quick route from the road up to the top of Anakeesta Ridge.
So on this crisp, clear March day, we parked Greg’s car at the parking spot where Walker Camp Prong flows off the slopes of Mount Kephart and under Newfound Gap Road and began walking up the side of that nameless side spur of Anakeesta Ridge. Our hike to the ridgecrest would be steep, which became immediately apparent. Greg’s calculations (he’s the statistician on all our hikes) showed that we would ascend from 4,600 feet to 5,600 feet in 3/10 of a mile. Yes, 1,000 feet vertical in .3 mile horizontal. Compare that to the typical Smokies trail which rises 500 feet in 1 mile.
I never know what to call this type of hike. I tend not to use the word “climb” because the rock climbers with ropes and carabiners are the ones who “climb.” On the other hand, the word “hike” implies walking upright on two feet. The first hour of this hike was somewhere in between. We’d walk steeply but upright for awhile, then we’d switch to hands and feet, using rocks, roots, and limbs to pull ourselves up. I’ve heard people use the word “scramble” to describe this, but somehow that sounds quick and energetic, which definitely doesn’t apply here.
Whatever it was we were doing, it wasn’t dangerous, but it was dirty and slow. [To be continued]
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