Keepers of the Secret (Part 6 of 6)

Well, the end of the story is that we left the cascade with two hours of light left, and I soon slipped into the “are we there yet” mode, which meant that the trip was pretty much over for me. My head tells me to slow down and enjoy the journey, but my heart sometimes gets impatient. That’s especially true when the sun is getting low in the sky. I like to hike in the dark, but I’m not particularly fond of hiking off-trail in the dark because it bears an uncanny resemblance to being lost.

We finally stepped out onto Forge Creek Road eleven and a half hours after we had started our hike. The sun was low in the sky, behind trees and ridges. We hitched a ride with a family who were driving around the cove in their pickup truck, looking for deer and bears. One of the women riding in the back of the truck asked us what we had been doing. (From the looks and smell of us, we could have said “wrestling wild boar,” and she probably would have believed us; although, we weren’t bloody enough to be truly convincing.) We said we had been hiking in the backcountry all day. We could tell from her blank expression that she had no idea what that meant. She just smiled and nodded, and so did we, being too tired to start an explanation from scratch.

Why don’t more people explore? Why don’t we search out secret places? It’s not that most people can’t get into the wilderness; it’s that the thought never even crosses their minds, even to the point of not even knowing what “the wilderness” is. I’d like to blame it on our soft, modern, consumeristic, materialistic culture, but I’m not sure it’s to blame. After all, Thoreau wondered the same things almost 200 years ago – “quiet desperation” and all that. Whatever the causes, in the end, it’s not that most of us can’t get into the wilderness; it’s that most of us don’t realize that there is another reality out there – like a parallel universe or a secret society. Alice had her Wonderland. Neo had the Matrix. Americans have National Parks.

I think on my next bushwhacking trip, I’ll go to no place in particular. I’ll just walk out into the woods with a map and compass, but no agenda, no trail, no destination. That would certainly relieve the challenge of schedules, routes, and running out of daylight. Who knows, maybe I’ll discover some out of the way, secret spot – a grove of trees, a rocky outcrop – that would be worth keeping to myself. The only thing better than being the keeper of an old secret would be discovering a new secret and passing it on to a select few. Or, better yet, taking the secret with you to your deathbed. What a great picture: the old hiker calling his apprentice to his bedside and whispering in his ear, “North 35 degrees, 33 minutes….” A fit ending to a life spent wandering in the woods.

The thing that made this Molly Creek trip special is, I suppose, that we had figured something out. We had discovered a secret – inside information that only a few people have – and we had investigated it to see if it was true. No one held our hands. No one helped us except the mapmakers in 1931 (and the ranger who had told us about the map). The fact that the cascade had actually been removed from later maps made the trip even better. Some mapmaker had consciously made the decision to take the symbol off their edition of the map. Was it a conscious effort to keep people away, to protect the secret? Likewise, the NPS no longer maintained a trail to Molly Creek Cascade. Was this purely a financial decision, or were they saving a piece of wilderness from human impact? Either way, it not only felt like we had been someplace special, but that we had done it in spite of the efforts of others to keep us away. We were now “keepers of the secret” – part of a brotherhood so secret that we don’t even know who the other members are. We need a secret handshake to identify each other.

And by the way… Molly Creek isn’t the real name of the creek. I’ve changed the name to protect the secret; after all, what good is a secret society without a secret to preserve? But there’s plenty of accurate information in this story to help you find the creek and cascade if you are interested. And, I’m happy to report that we never did use the GPS to find our way to M--- Creek Cascade. Next time, maybe we’ll leave it at home so we’ll have no dirty little secrets to hide.

On the Precipice of Molly Creek Cascade (Pt 5 of 6)

On our wet, sloshing hike down Molly Creek, after passing four or five small waterfalls, we began to wonder where we were and where Molly Creek Cascade was and whether we had already passed it. We both wondered aloud if perhaps the adventure of this off-trail hike would have to be its own reward. Maybe the cascade was so unimpressive that we had already seen it without realizing it. Maybe it was special only because it was a secret, not because of its grandeur. We were both okay with that. The hike had been a challenging, interesting experience so far. We were deep in the Smokies wilderness, on a creek that humans rarely laid eyes on. Yeah, that would be reward enough.

Then, without any noisy fanfare, we got to the bottom of one of these 10 foot falls and looked downstream once again, and we could see only the tops of trees. It was an impressive, even intimidating, sight. Peeking over the edge (I was on my hands and knees with water running under me), we saw a long, rocky, cascading descent. Looking over the edge of a cascade such as this is not very safe, but there we were, at the top. What else could we do? So, we crouched near the precipice and stared, pretty dang proud of ourselves. The challenge of this off-trail trek (which had now lasted four hours) would have been an adequate reward. Seeing a rarely-seen cascade would be a nice bonus. The fact that Molly Creek Cascade really is impressive made us feel almost unworthy of the honor of being there and seeing it.

Getting to the bottom of the cascade was hard work. It was too long and steep to crawl down as we had done with the others, so we worked our way to the surrounding slopes and crawled up, around, over, and through the dirt, boulders, fallen trees, and the rhododendron. It was a wild scene in a wild place. I was too focused on the hike and the cascade to grasp the significance of it all, but now I can see that this trip was everything that I want in a wilderness experience. I’d rank it as one of my best experiences in the Smokies.

One reason this trip was special was simply that it was off-trail. Even if we had gone nowhere in particular, the fact that we were walking (and crawling, sliding, wading, and falling) away from the trails was supremely satisfying. Anything resembling a trail usually turned out to be an animal trail leading to places not fit for humans. The off-trail part of the trip was more physically challenging than a typical hiking trip.

I’m trying not to exaggerate the difficulty of this hike. The physical act was tiring, but it wasn’t something that is beyond the physical capabilities of an average guy in decent, but not great, shape. There were some uncomfortable moments, but nothing life-threatening. We got wet and dirty, but no broken bones. In a sense, there’s no dramatic story to tell. We weren’t Stanley and Livingstone (more like Laurel and Hardy, really). We were just two guys who had heard about a secret spot in the backcountry that might be worth a visit, so we spent a day in the wilderness to see for ourselves. There were, I suppose, a few risks, and a couple of slips and falls could have resulted in broken bones. But the main features of the entire affair were sweat, a few aches and pains, and a modest sense of adventure.

In fact, the biggest risk was the potential confrontation with the Federal bureaucracy. A few weeks before this hike, I had asked one of the rangers in a visitor center about off-trail hiking in the park – were there any special regulations or restrictions? In the process of talking to me, he commented that he had been a ranger in the Smokies for over 10 years, and in all that time no one had ever asked him about off-trail hiking. So, either not many people hike off-trail, or those that do don’t bother to ask the rangers about it. I myself was tempted not to ask, being afraid that he might say there was paperwork and permission involved. The National Park Service is part of the Federal government, after all – the same people who brought us the mother of all paperwork – the Internal Revenue Service. Happily, I asked and there was no paperwork and no condescending lecture from the ranger. Our little chat was actually rather pleasant. [To be continued.]

Down the Creek and Over the Falls (Part 4 of 6)

 

A miscalculation about the opening of the Cades Cove Loop Road (the road opening is delayed until 10 am on Saturdays and Wednesdays during the summer) had forced us to begin our day hike on a trail outside of Cades Cove. This was the first pin to fall, creating a chain reaction that eventually forced us to bushwhack down Molly Creek. Because the route down a creek is more obvious than the route up a creek, we wouldn’t get lost. And we didn’t. But that doesn’t mean the hike will be easy. It wasn’t.

Because the rhododendron pushed us up the slope, we couldn’t always see and hear the creek very well. We didn’t know how big and loud the Molly Creek Cascade would be. Could we expect to hear it when we got there? We didn’t know for sure, so we had to rely on one of our gadgets, an altimeter. Hoping that the 1931 map was reasonably accurate, we decided to drop down off the slope around the 3,500 feet elevation point. We hoped that the cascade would be somewhere between 2,500 and 3,500 feet. Consequently, starting at about 3,500 feet, we hiked in the creek.

Our first hour in the creek was slow. Rhododendron hung low over the water, blocking our path. We stepped carefully on rocks and in shallow spots. We both had good, waterproof boots on, so our feet stayed dry. But the hiking was slow.

Did I mention that by this point it was the middle of the afternoon? We had already hiked up to the AT, hiked east to Rocky Top, backtracked to Spence Field and continued another couple of miles to Russell Field. A total of about 11 miles, plus a couple of miles down Molly Creek. We were beginning to wonder how many more hours this trip would take. Hiking out of the forest after dark on a trail was a bit of a problem; hiking after dark off-trail could be very bewildering. So, we needed to speed up, but couldn’t.

At least, we couldn’t until we got our feet wet.

At some point in the afternoon, we both managed to step into the creek in a knee-deep hole. Obviously, that was not life threatening, but it did mean that water had now poured in over the top of our boots. Those waterproof boots that had been keeping water out was now holding the water in. Our feet were soaked.

Wet feet are not really a good thing on a hike. However, getting our feet wet did give us one less thing to worry about. We no longer had to step carefully to keep our feet dry. Wet feet gave us the freedom to wade in the creek with reckless abandon. So that’s what we did. Knee deep water? Just slog on through. Don’t waste time looking for rocks along the edges. Just charge ahead. A waist-deep run with huge boulders on both sides? Don’t get out of the creek and climb up the slope above the boulders – just wade through the middle, making sure you don’t wade so deeply that your pack gets wet. Needless to say, our pace sped up dramatically from that point on.

Three hours after we had begun following the creek at Russell Field, we began to encounter a series of small waterfalls, each maybe 10 feet high. We wondered if each one was Molly Creek Cascade or if putting them all together was the cascade. None of them really looked like a “cascade” to us, but we did stop below each one and take a picture, just in case.

These small waterfalls also slowed us down because they were at points in the river where the creek gorge was steep-walled on the sides. It was almost impossible to get out of the creek and hike around these falls. So, we took the path of least resistance and broke the cardinal rule of Smokies safety – we crawled down the wet rocks in and along the edges of these small waterfalls, keeping all four hands and feet on the rocks at all times. It was wet, slippery, and tiring. And moderately dangerous, or stupid, whichever synonym you prefer. It was also fun, as stupid or dangerous things sometimes are, if you survive. At that moment we were living examples of the joke about a red-neck’s famous, last words: “Hey ya’ll. Watch this!” [To be continued.]

Cades Cove on July Fourth: What Were We Thinking? (Part 2 of 6)

 

I had only recently found out about Molly Creek Cascade while reading Memories of Old Smoky by Carlos Campbell. In this book he reminisces about his hiking and camping experiences in the Smokies from the pre-park 1920s through the 1960s. It’s not the greatest piece of literature you’ll ever encounter, but it does give a feel for the park’s early years, when hiking equipment was primitive, facilities were scarce, and men (and women) were men. It’s embarrassing to read about the level of discomfort they simply took for granted as part of a life lived outdoors.

It was my reading of Campbell’s book along with Harvey Broome’s Out Under the Sky of the Great Smokies that had re-ignited my interest in off-trail hiking. I had used a map and compass to do some off-trail hiking before, but quite a few years had passed since then. Reading Campbell’s and Broome’s descriptions of their off-trail hikes was interesting. Although, they didn’t call it “off-trail hiking.” They just called it “hiking” because back then there were fewer trails; and most of their hiking was, by default, off-trail. Many of their descriptions of their hikes involved crawling over downed trees, through shrubs and brush, over boulders, and up rock faces. It was a very different experience from our hikes today in which we have maintained trails with names and written descriptions in trail guides that we can carry with us on our hikes. To tell you the truth, reading their simple descriptions (they weren’t bragging of their accomplishments; they were merely telling where they went and how they got there) of their hikes and their simple equipment made me feel like a sissy. I decided it was time to hike like a real man – on my hands and knees, through rhododendron thickets, in creeks, over boulders, without a GPS. There was actually a time when hikers did this on a regular basis, with more primitive equipment. It was simply the way things were.

So we got up early on a Wednesday in July and arrived at Cades Cove at 8:30 am. And it was crowded. More so than I had ever seen it. The picnic area at Cades Cove was full at 8:30 in the morning! The reason was that it was the fourth of July, and it was a Wednesday. We had known that it was the fourth of July, but the significance had not fully sunk deep down into the part of our consciousness that plans hiking trips. I had actually never bothered to visit the Smokies on the fourth of July, and today’s crowds reconfirmed the wisdom of that strategy.

The other planning error we made was really, really stupid. It was Wednesday. We knew that the Cades Cove loop road is closed until 10 am on Wednesdays to give walkers and bicyclists a few traffic-free hours in the cove. Our problem was that neither one of us had known it was Wednesday. I’m a teacher and my buddy is a self-employed engineer. Neither one of us was working that week, and we weren’t in the position of needing to know what day it was – so we didn’t.

We arrived at Cades Cove, but we couldn’t drive to Molly Creek until after 10 am. We’d have to sit and wait for 1½ hours, which wouldn’t have been a major flaw except that we intended to not only find Molly Creek Cascade but also continue up the creek to the Appalachian Trail. From there we would hike west to Gregory Bald. We’d then backtrack and hike back down the Russell Field Trail back to the car. The day could very easily stretch into a 12 hour hike. You can do the math and see that starting at 8:30 and hiking for 12 hours would get us back at the car before dark. Starting around 10:30 wouldn’t. So we changed our plans.

We decided to begin our hike outside the loop road. We’d start on the Anthony Creek Trail from the picnic area. It would take us to Bote Mountain Trail, which would take us to the AT near Spence Field. From there we could hike about a mile east to some of our favorite spots in the Smokies – Thunderhead and Rocky Top – rocky, open peaks with panoramic views of Gregory Bald, Cades Cove, the Eagle Creek watershed, and even a small sliver of Fontana Lake. These are great, great spots, so neither of us was disappointed by our change of plans. [To be continued.]

 

Wanderlust

I have favorite trails, favorite fishing holes, favorite songs, favorite roads, favorite movies, favorite books… the list is long. But it wasn’t until recently that I decided on a favorite word: wanderlust. Or, wanderlust! with an exclamation point. It’s a word that, if enunciated properly, should have sort of a growling drawl to it – it’s of German origin, after all – with a bit of lingering emphasis on the “s” in “lust.” It should also be accompanied by some sort of vigorous hand gesture, like a fist pump. Of course, the fact that the word “lust” is a prominent part of it adds the sort of sauciness to it that makes it almost inappropriate around children or gentlewomen. I can picture a guy with a cigar clenched between his teeth. I can’t picture my preacher’s wife saying it. (Okay, actually I can picture Molly saying it, but she’d at least look over her shoulder first to make sure no one else was listening.)

 

Settling on a favorite word has not been a life-long quest. I haven’t lain awake at night wondering and wrestling over my options. In fact, I’m not sure having a “favorite word” is something to be proud of or to bother writing about. After all, only a nerd would have a favorite word, and although nerds are actually the ones who will run the world, no one wants to be called a “nerd.” So writing about a favorite word is an exercise in treading on thin ice.

 

Nevertheless, a strong desire to travel is something I somehow picked up from my mother, either through nature or nurture or both. When I was just a kid, she’d entrust the road maps to me as we’d drive from Florida to California or New York. I was the navigator, and I still am. I enjoy surrounding myself with maps and planning a trip almost as much as I enjoy actually travelling.

 

But I lust after the travelling, too. The actual getting in the car and driving for days, noticing the odd names of the towns and roads, hearing the change in accent of the waitresses in the restaurants, watching the landscape change, asking for tea and getting a cup of hot tea (instead of iced tea as God intended). I’ve never been very interested in flying, mainly because it’s like being in a time – or in this case, a space – machine. You step into the chamber in Tennessee, sit in a seat for a few hours, and step out in Colorado. It’s magic.

 

People who prefer to travel by air don’t really have a serious case of wanderlust. They have destinationlust, I guess. They like to visit new places, without truly travelling. They like to be there, but they don’t like to actually go there. I know that sometimes flying just makes more sense – both time-wise and money-wise – but I still prefer a long, hard road trip that starts at dawn and ends well after sunset, and maybe even dawn tomorrow. I’ll blame it on my Dutch and English ancestors who apparently had strong Puritanical tendencies which require a dose of pain and suffering in every meaningful life experience.

 

I’ve been on a few hikes with folks who seem totally unconcerned about where we started, where we’ll end, and how we’ll get there. They just enjoy being outdoors. While the rest of us huddle around the map to check the names of creeks and ridges and the topo lines that define them, they sit quietly, eating an apple and staring at the trees or listening to the river sing. Now that I’ve written that, I see that just walking and then sitting is a perfectly reasonable approach to a day outdoors, but I can’t do it. I’ve gotta know where I am and where things are.

Which reminds me… a rather significant event in my life happened at 35° 33’ 44” North and 83° 48’ 2” West. It was the Fourth of July… [To be continued.]