Wet Feet, Cold Supper, and a Good Day on Raven Fork (Part 5 of 5)

For about four hours, Greg Harrell and I walked along and in Raven Fork. The water level was low, and there were many exposed, streamside boulders and gravel beds for us to walk on, but at some point it became easier to just walk in the water. Every time we off-trail hike along a river, we end up in the water. We call it going over to the dark side. I don’t know why. It just sort of happens that one of us tires of rock hopping and steps in to the water while the other tip-toes along the rocks at the edge, trying to stay dry. It’s at this point that the wet one taunts and tempts the dry one to join him. “Come on down, you sissy, the water’s fine. Everybody’s doing it. Come over to the dark side.” At that point the dry hiker knows he’s been too timid, not wanting to get his feet wet. The male ego that expands with a good taunting compels him to get wet, so he steps in.

Hiking in the river is a bit slippery, but on a hot, summer day it’s delightfully comfortable and clean. Sweaty and dirty? Just take off your pack and dunk yourself. The water can be breathtakingly cold or refreshingly brisk. Your choice. And the soggy boots and socks are but a small price to pay.

This river hike was such a pleasant, easy, off-trail experience that I felt our purpose shift as we worked our way downstream. At some point we were no longer simply on an off-trail adventure; we were now looking for good fishing spots for our next trip here. And there were plenty of them -- dozens of runs, riffles, channels, chutes, and plunges. And, best of all, lightly fished. Surely not unfished, but several miles from the nearest road.

Sure, lots of other fishermen have had the same thoughts: drive deep into the mountains, hike away from the road, fish virgin water. And some of them have pursued those thoughts all the way to the river with a fishing rod in their hand. But how many do it, how far do they walk, and how often? The answer is probably “not” – not many, not far, not often. In other words, Raven Fork is not such a secret that fishermen will get mad at me for divulging its name in print. It’s not an untouched secret, but it is remote, so we will come back. Maybe not often – after all, it’s a three hour drive to get here, then the walking begins – but regularly.

The day ended with a 3.6 mile walk on Enloe Creek and Hyatt Ridge trails back to our tents. After a day of rough, wet, off-trail hiking, an officially-maintained trail feels like an interstate. You can shift into overdrive and set the cruise control. However, the fact that almost every step of the first 3 miles of this final stretch was uphill caused my transmission to grind to a halt several times. At least we were carrying 10 pound day packs, not 40 pound backpacks. We had covered exactly 10 miles today.

That evening we ate our uncooked meals consisting of granola bars, peanut M & Ms, and a few other items that I can’t remember. One thing about going cookless is that the meals are not memorable – unless you have no fear of fat grams and sugar. Then you can eat wonderfully and recklessly – chips, cookies, nuts, candy. It’s like being let off your leash. But if you have any dietary scruples at all, then you look forward with anticipation to bedtime, but not to supper. Supper is just something you have to do.  I don’t know how the younger guys feel, but at my stage in life, that’s fine with me. Bedtime is usually the highlight of my day anyway.

As darkness settled in we heard a couple of calls from a Barred Owl asking, “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for ya’ll?” He seemed to know we were eating a cold, uncooked supper and took this opportunity to taunt us a few times before he began his nightly hunt and feast. Mice would die tonight. He would eat like a king while we slept, but I wasn’t jealous. I had my tent, sleeping pad, pillow, and memories of another good day in a wild part of God’s creation. It is well, it is well with my soul.

The Most Beautiful Spot in the Smokies? (Part 4 of 5)

It took about two hours for Greg Harrell and me to work our way along Breakneck Ridge and down its north slope to Three Forks Pool on Raven Fork. Three Forks is a pleasant spot in the river where two small creeks converge just as they flow into the main branch. Here the terrain flattens just enough to slow the river’s flow and to provide a flat, riverside area to rest or camp. Actually, camping here is now illegal, but that doesn’t seem to have completely deterred everyone. There were several campfire rings and small piles of firewood nearby – remnants of small acts of civil disobedience. Or, just spots where some guys decided to flaunt federal law and play hide-and-seek with the rangers. It’s a nice spot, but I wouldn’t call it the most beautiful spot in the Smokies as the old National Geographic article had done.

In fact, it was here that Greg and I decided that we would start our Top 1,000 list – our list of the 1,000 “best places in the Smokies.” The point is that there is no single spot that is the best or prettiest or whatever, and anyone who claims there is needs to get out more and look around. There are hundreds or thousands of river valleys, pools, waterfalls, heath balds, grassy balds, beech gaps, meadows, cliffs, boulder dens, rhododendron thickets, hardwood forests, log cabins, rock walls, old churches, mountain top panoramas, wildflowers, and spruce forests that could all qualify as the most beautiful sights, but none are better than the others. Don’t even try to come up with a single best location. Just put them all in the top 1,000 and move on. So, is Three Forks Pool the most dramatic, impressive, beautiful spot in the Smokies? Absolutely not, because there’s no such thing, but Three Forks, like many other bends in the river, is in the top 1,000. It’s tied for first with 999 others.

But Three Forks is special because it’s so hard to get to. In fact, that is probably the secret ingredient that qualifies some sites for special recognition within the Top 1,000. Knowing that you are enjoying a spot that only a handful of people see each year is not only good for the ego (“We walked four hours to get here. How many people would do that?”), it’s also good for the soul. The stillness is somehow stiller, the wildness is wilder, and the isolation is that healthy kind of loneliness that you get when you separate yourself from the pack because you are following a different drummer, taking a path less travelled. In this case, literally a path less travelled, or no path at all. There are reasons why people use phrases like “off the beaten path” or “the road less travelled” to describe their great, solitary, life-changing experiences.

The route we took from our car at Round Bottom up and over Breakneck Ridge to Three Forks takes a total of 3 to 4 hours. However, because we started our day at McGee Springs campsite, we were less than two hours into our hike when we arrived at the river. After lounging and fishing (Greg caught 3 brook trout and one brown on a Thunderhead dry fly) for about an hour, we were ready for part two: Raven Fork. We hoped to find remnants of the old Raven Fork trail leading us downstream for about 4 miles down to the Enloe Creek trail and campsite. The fact that there had still been a light trail across Breakneck Ridge was encouraging because the river would probably be more heavily travelled.

To make a long story short, if more people travel along the banks of the river, we weren’t able to prove it. We followed a faint trail out of the old (illegal) campsite at Three Forks for 15 or 20 minutes. It then disappeared into the river, never to emerge again. No pieces of blue tape. No unnatural openings in the riverside bushes. No worn trail. No government cover-up.

Of course, there could have been a trail. On those hikes which we do find an old trail, there is usually no clue to its presence until we step on to it. It makes such a small dent in the underbrush that you can be standing three feet away without seeing it. I suppose that’s good news because you can push your way through a thicket of briers or rhody with the feeling that you are nowhere close to the old trail, only to suddenly find that you are standing on it. Although, I suspect that it’s just as common to step on and across the old trail without realizing it. Or, to bushwhack your way almost to the trail only to give up just a couple of feet shy of your destination. That may have happened to us on Raven Fork, but of course we don’t really know how close we got to the old trail that may or may not still exist.

So we walked along and in the river. [To be continued.]

A Link in the Chain on Breakneck Ridge (Part 3 of 5)

When tromping around outdoors I know it’s best to always be prepared, as the Boy Scouts say, but over-preparation can make a backpack pretty heavy, which becomes an issue for a guy in his 50s. That’s one of the ironies of backpacking. You are more likely to get into trouble (broken bones, hypothermia, exhaustion) when you are old – the very stage at which it’s impossible to carry equipment to cover those emergencies. Of course, one way to resolve this dilemma is to hike with young guys – preferably former Boy Scouts – who are still willing and able to carry all the extra stuff. It’s sort of like life insurance. Travelling in groups spreads the risk – or, in backpacking, the weight – to manageable proportions, and if you can free ride on someone else’s equipment without their realizing it, so much the better.

For example, I have been known to suggest to some of my younger friends that one should never backpack without a first aid kit. If they see the wisdom in that and stuff one in their backpack, then I won’t have to carry one. The same ploy works for water filters, tarps, rope, knives, can openers, magazines, maps, even extra food. Of course, this strategy isn’t always successful because my “younger” friends are in their 40s, so they aren’t exactly wet behind the ears. But some of them are still conscientious enough to carry stuff that we might need but probably won’t, thus making my load lighter.

So that evening at McGee Springs campsite we hung our food bags on the bear-proof, steel cables and retired to our tents. It was a quiet, uneventful night, as most nights in camp are – no bears, no deer, no skunks, no noise; at least none that we noticed. We slept pretty well under the spruce, buckeye, and birch trees. I enjoy sleeping outdoors, but the real purpose of this trip would come tomorrow: Raven Fork – the long, beautiful river that flows from the slopes of Hyatt Ridge, Hughes Ridge, and the main ridgecrest between Pecks Corner and Tricorner Knob – the large, wild watershed that forms the heart of the southeastern quarter of the Smokies.

The old Raven Fork Trail begins high on Hyatt Ridge near McGee Springs. Its first mile weaves along the crest of Breakneck Ridge, which Greg insisted on calling Brokeback a few times, just to aggravate me. (I’m sure he was joking, but it was good to be sleeping in separate tents.) Breakneck sounds intimidating, and I suppose there might be an interesting and perhaps tragic story about its origin, but the hike itself wasn’t too formidable. Greg and I lost the faint trail a few times in tangles of briers, rhododendron, witch hobble, and dog hobble resulting in a few scratches and bumps, but for the most part the old trail was still recognizable.

There was even an occasional piece of old, brittle, blue tape tied to a branch to help us stay on course. Greg and I are both typical guys who like to be self-sufficient and to figure things out for ourselves, but these small, plastic clues are perfectly fine. They are fragile reminders that others have been here before and were kind enough to share their knowledge with those who would come later – namely, us. Those little, blue messages from the past let us know that we are the latest incarnation of “wilderness enthusiasts,” as some of the books say. Sometimes you can derive a lot of satisfaction not by being the first to do something, or the best. Occasionally just being a link in a chain is enough. People have done this before us, and people will do this after we are gone. The fact that we don’t even know these people adds a bit of intrigue to the story. If we continue these off-trail and old-trail treks, I’m going to start bringing a roll of surveyor’s tape with me, so I can add a few pieces along the way so that a few years from now another hiker – the next link in the chain – can find his way. He won’t know who put the tape along the path, which is not a problem because it’s the where and why, not the who, that’s important. [To be continued.]

Raven Fork: Cook Less, Sleep More (Part 2 of 5)

The equipment that Greg Harrell and I carried on our two-nighter to Raven Fork in the Smoky Mountains was pretty sparse, but not sparse enough to weigh less than 35 pounds. As the years have gone by, I’ve shifted my backpacking philosophy from “How much can I stuff in my backpack?” to “How few things can I get by with?” (I think that would make a good philosophy of life, but for now let’s just stick to backpacking.) This has resulted in a change in priorities from cooking and clothing to sleeping. I’m willing to commit a few extra pounds in my pack to a comfortable tent, a good sleeping pad, and a small pillow but am less inclined to carry the poundage of clothes that I used to carry. On this trip my wardrobe consisted of the clothes I was wearing, plus one extra T shirt, one extra pair of socks, and a light rain jacket. No warm clothes because it was the middle of July, and if the evening got chilly (we were camped above 5,000 feet), I’d dance around while I ate and then crawl in my sleeping bag.

According to one expert (my wife), by the end of these trips I smell like a wet goat and have occasionally just thrown some of my clothes in the garbage. Not a glorious end for hiking clothes, but sometimes the only realistic option. So on these trips it’s important to wear clothes that have no sentimental value, such as the NASCAR T shirt you were wearing when you proposed to your wife or the Vol T shirt with the mustard stains from the 1999 Fiesta Bowl. On the other hand, after you complete a trip like this with lots of sweat and dirt and fond memories, your clothes may gain some sentimental value.

The closest I’ve ever come to having a special backpacking T shirt was when I ran out of toilet paper near Mt. LeConte and had to tear strips off the bottom of my T shirt for two days. I wore the surviving 50% of that T shirt whenever I’d backpack as a memorial to that trip. Of course, any guy who saves a memento like that had better have several keepsakes and cards from his wife or girlfriend (one or the other, not both) publicly displayed in prominent spots around home. Otherwise, trying to explain your choice of priorities is a lost cause. “Yes, Dear, I did throw away your anniversary card – which, by the way, really warmed the cockles of my heart – but I kept that ratty, backpacking T shirt, and here’s why….” Yeah, definitely a lost cause.

On this trip I carried a roomy one-person tent that weighs more than it should, but it’s a pleasure to sleep in at the end of the day. I have an inflatable sleeping pad that is entirely too bulky, but makes a world of difference in blotting out those inevitable rocks and roots that are nonexistent until you lie down for the night. I also brought a small pillow. A few years ago a pillow would have been an extravagance worthy of ridicule and shame, such as: “Don’t forget your night light, little fella.” Or, “Hey, where’s the remote?” Yes, what were once luxuries are now essentials.

Of course, if you’re going to carry a pillow, pad, and tent then something significant has to go. What were once essentials are now expendable. My ultimate solution has been to stop cooking, thus eliminating pots and pans, stove, and fuel. That’s probably 2 or 3 pounds of stuff, which may not sound like much, but keep in mind that this is a sport in which guys have been known to cut the tags off clothes and tea bags to save weight. Instead of rice, macaroni, and stew, I now rely on granola bars, crackers, and beef jerky, which can get a bit monotonous after a day or two, so I include an occasional can of tuna or bag of chips to spice up the menu. If eating were important to me, I don’t know what I’d do on these trips. Fortunately, eating on a backpacking trip is just something I do to stay alive and keep moving, so I don’t need cooked veggies, smores, hot chocolate, and a hot breakfast. And of course, with no cooking, there’s no clean-up, which is important to a guy who scores above average on the laziness scale.  [To be continued.]

Raven Fork (Part 1 of 5)

This trip started in October, 1952. That’s when National Geographic published an article entitled “Pack Trip Through the Smokies.” I didn’t run across this article until about 55 years later as I was searching for old articles about the Smokies. I had been on an off-trail jag, looking for old trails from the past that were no longer maintained. This article described several trails that do still exist and one that doesn’t. The one that no longer exists led to Three Forks Pool on Raven Fork in the southeast quarter of the park, which the article described as “the most beautiful spot in the Smokies.” Of course, just about any article you read about any national park will describe its location of interest as the most beautiful spot, so you have to take all these claims with a grain of salt. Nevertheless, it all sounded interesting.

I was able once again to find a little bit of information in my old 1973 edition of the Sierra Club’s Hiker’s Guide to the Smokies. This guide had been my Smokies bible back in the 1970s and 80s when I was a young, rabid backpacker. I have since replaced it with updated hiking guides, but in recent years it has resurfaced as a treasure chest containing a few hidden jewels. The particular gem I found this time was the Raven Fork Trail, the route of the wilderness backpacking trip described in the 1952 article.

The Heart of the Raven Fork Wilderness

This trail no longer exists on recent maps and guide books. (It barely existed in 1952.) In fact, my most recent hiking guide specifically says that there is NOT a trail along Raven Fork. That sounded a bit suspicious to me. It’s one thing to simply not mention the presence or lack of a trail. It’s entirely different to specifically point out that there is no trail along Raven Fork. If Phyllis came home and asked me what I’d done all day, I’d be stupid to say, “Well, one thing I didn’t do was eat all the Oreos and take a three hour nap on the couch.” She’d know immediately that I’d been up to no good instead of cutting the grass; although the fact that the grass wasn’t cut would have been her first clue. So, I strongly suspected that the guide book wasn’t telling the whole truth. Maybe it was helping the NPS to return the old trail to pure wilderness by promoting the idea that there’s not a trail. Yes, this had all the markings of government sanctioned disinformation. It was time to blow the lid off this cover-up!

My 1973 guide actually described Raven Fork Trail as a manway, not a trail. In other words, it still existed as a faint trail, being maintained not by the NPS but by the feet of outdoorsmen who fished and hiked along the banks of this fine stream. So it was certainly possible that 35 years later the manway could be completely overgrown. On the other hand, 35 years worth of fishermen could keep it trampled and visible, so on a warm July afternoon Greg Harrell and I took off for Big Cove Road on the Cherokee Indian Reservation. This road would lead us to the Round Bottom parking area where our excursion would begin on Beech Gap Trail (called Hyatt Bald Trail in some books because it goes to Hyatt Bald, not Beech Gap; makes sense.).  



Dashed line across Breakneck Ridge
and down to Three Forks Pool

Some of life’s mundane details kept us from leaving Jefferson City until 5 pm, so we didn’t get on the trail until 8 pm, and the last hour of our two-hour hike to McGee Spring campsite was in the dark using flashlights. The moon was full so, although it was bright, it was too low in the sky to provide much light during the first hour or two of night. After setting up our tents in the dark, we had a quick bite to eat and crawled in for the night. [To be continued.]