The Rites of Spring

I lifted my small thermometer out of the water. Fifty degrees. So, the water temp was either 48 or 52. I know my thermometer is two degrees off, but I can’t remember in which direction. I hope the fish aren’t so obsessive that a couple of degrees will matter, but trout have been known to be unreasonable at times, especially in early spring.

Fifty degrees is supposedly the magic number, the temperature that gets the trout out of their winter doldrums, which of course means that it gets me out of my winter doldrums, too. That’s why I’m standing waist deep (with waders and several layers of fleece) in the Little River, just inside the Townsend entrance to the Smokies. The third week of February is sliding into the fourth week of February, which is about 2 or 3 weeks earlier than I usually make this little pilgrimage, but forsythias are blooming and the 10-day forecast shows daytime highs hovering around 70 degrees. I know I should hate and fear global warming – and during those lingering 90 degree days of September, I will – but right now I’ll just call this early spring the silver lining of an ominous, dark cloud, and in the spirit of playing the cards you’re dealt, I’ll go fly fishing for a few little trout.

And I really do mean “little.” There are allegedly some large trout scattered in a few random corners of the park, but the largest trout I’ve ever caught in the Smokies was 12 inches. After catching several 5 and 6 and 7 inch trout, a 12 incher looks huge, so for those of us who spend time fishing in the cold, sterile waters of the Smokies, the concept of “context” is an essential ingredient to maintaining our composure. In the larger rivers below the TVA dams in this region, a 12 inch rainbow is modest. Not worth a picture. Not worth actually measuring. But in the Smokies a 12 inch rainbow is a prize worth celebrating. If I tell my fishing buddies that I caught a 12 inch rainbow in the Little River, they’ll understand that I had a good day. (They’ll also suspect that I’m lying and will ask to see the pictures.)

I also said “a few,” which will almost certainly be the case today. It’s a bright, sunny day. The sky is blazing blue. These are the reasons I came today, and these are the reasons the fishing might be slow and sparse. Fish prefer cloudy, wet, falling-barometer weather. Most humans, including me, prefer the opposite. If I were really, deeply serious about catching fish, I’d wait for nasty weather, but today isn’t really about catching fish. It’s about getting outside on a glorious spring day and taking a walk in a river, with a fly rod in my hand.

The fact that the fly rod is a light, delicate rod (a nine foot, slow action, four weight), rather than a big, brutish thunderstick is another essential part of the day.  If I’m going to catch any fish today, I’m going to do it properly, delicately, gentlemanly, as befits a wild rainbow in a mountain stream in early spring. There will be plenty of time later for big water, big rods, and big fish accompanied by ugly weather, mosquito bites, and sleep deprivation.  The wild-eyed frenzy of night fishing on the South Holston or the AuSable is still months away. For now, the act of fishing is just an excuse for getting out. This leisurely trip to the Little River requires only a slow pace and low expectations. It’s my annual, first rite of spring.

So, I fished for three hours without a bump or a tug or a splash, and that’s OK. After a day of getting skunked I often say “It was just good to be out,” but the first trip of early spring is one of those rare occasions when I actually mean what I say. In fact, my male ego can probably handle one or two more skunkings in these cold, mountain rivers. One of the best things about trout fishing is that trout live in beautiful places, and it’s always a delight to visit them in their home territory, even if they are sometimes poor hosts who refuse to come out to welcome me.  

So, spring is here, and I celebrated it by getting skunked on the Little River. A perfect beginning. Another season of trout fishing has begun.

But I do hope someone will tell the fish. Please. 

A November Trip to the Cat Stairs (Part 1 of 2)

Finally! After a week or two of January-like weather, November was acting like November again. We’d had a couple of “arctic blasts” so far (or, what the Weather Channel often calls a “polar vortex,” a term that I prefer not to use because it sounds like either a ride at Disney World or a high-caffeine energy drink), and today would be a bit chilly, but it would be sunny with a chance of the thermometer topping out in the low 40’s. So Greg Harrell and I agreed to visit the Cat Stairs, one of our many favorite areas of the park.

The Cat Stairs are those cliffs that you see along the western end of Greenbrier Pinnacle. They are visible from Myrtle Point on Mount LeConte as well as a few places on the eastern side of Gatlinburg. Greenbrier Pinnacle is not exceptionally high (about 4,600’ at the western end, above the cliffs), but I’ve come to realize in the last few years that being on the highest spot is over-rated. I prefer being on rugged, lonely spots with good views, which means I often end up on medium-elevation spots, looking up and around at all the glorious peaks which surround me. If you want to take me to court on this one, the Chimney Tops would be my Exhibit A. The Cat Stairs would be Exhibit B. 

The sky was a deep, crisp blue and the temperature was 26 degrees when we stepped out of the car at the small pullout on the road to Ramsey Cascades trail. The branches of the trees were covered in a thick layer of hoarfrost, and the sun was just beginning to creep over the stateline ridge, which made the ice on the tree tops glow like white-hot fireworks. That same sunshine was also beginning to warm the icy treetops just enough to send a steady shower of ice chips, clumps, and crystals down on us all day long, even though the air temperature would hover just below freezing for much of the day. It was wonderfully typical November weather in the mountains.

The name “Cat Stairs” has a romance to it that couldn’t be ignored, so unlocking its secrets became our main Smoky Mountains project for a few years, searching for routes through or over the cliffs to the top. Yes, there’s an old trail (appropriately named the Greenbrier Pinnacle trail but no longer maintained by the Park Service) that goes to the top, but why use a trail when you can blaze your own path that few if any people have ever set foot on? To make a long story short (and this time, I really mean it – it really is a long story involving about 6 or 7 trips spread out over 12 months), we found two viable, rocky ravines through the cliffs and one route around and above the northwestern end of the cliffs. Then, of course, there are several interesting routes to take you to each of those routes – Cable Route, Chestnut Grove, Harrell’s Folly, plus a few that we haven’t named. Not to mention the fact that as you hike east along the base of the cliffs, those cliffs gradually become less vertical cliffs and more boulder fields, with many winding routes to the top. So there are lots of options, but only two real routes through the heart of the cliffs.

So on this perfect November day, we hiked the old path along Bird Branch to the Barnes graves and homesite and began our ascent up a dry, east-running ravine that eventually turns into a delightful boulder field, with rocks ranging from the size of a microwave oven to car and truck-sized. There are a few young, chestnut saplings scattered along this route, so we call it the Chestnut Grove route, although the term “grove” is a bit of an exaggeration.  [To be continued]

Sugar Fingers (Part 4 of 4)

On our July hike up the largest of the Sugar Fingers on Sugarland Mountain, Greg Harrell stayed ahead of me, as he usually does, but not too far ahead because he knew that I was really struggling, possibly because he may have heard a little whining from me at some point during the day. Sometimes he was close enough that I didn’t even have to think about what route to take up and over the cliffs and outcrops. I’d just follow his route. Other times, he was far enough ahead that I didn’t know what route he had taken, which was fine. Blazing one’s own path is a fun part of these sorts of trips, if you don’t allow yourself to get spooked by the uncertainty of the challenge. This was one of those trips in which you couldn’t possibly get lost, but you could run into a dead-end every now and then by scrambling up a steep rock face maybe ten or fifteen feet high, only to realize that you can’t finish the last ten feet due to lack of handholds and footholds. You also can’t go easily back down because you can’t see the footholds that you used on your way up. In those moments, you aren’t stuck between a rock and a hard place; you are stuck between a rock and open air… which is just as bad, or maybe worse. It should go without saying that we try to avoid such places. It should also go without saying that those places can’t always be avoided.

This trip was also an adventure because this was all new territory. For the last two or three years, most of my off-trail hiking had been on old, favorite routes – Drinkwater Pool, Trout Branch, Styx Branch, Cat Stairs. Some of these routes are ones that we discovered and created from scratch. Others were old routes from previous generations that were passed on to us, like a torch, which we would pass on to others. I love those standard, familiar trips, but it was good to experience the excitement and uncertainty of terra incognita again, helping to create new paths out of thin air, rock, and dirt.

At the end of our nine-hour day we looked like a couple of coal miners at the end of a long day underground, or maybe chimney sweeps emerging from the fireplace… plus an acre of waist-deep stinging nettle at the end of the trip. My day was miserable. I vowed never to hike again. But now that a few days have passed and it appears that I may live, I’m reconsidering my vow. I may be getting too old for this stuff, but I’ll probably revisit a few of the other Sugar Fingers this fall, when temperatures are friendlier, and I have less grass to cut, and the yellow jackets have died the slow, lingering death they deserve.

And if I find that I’m too old or tired or beaten up to hike up from the valley again, my ace in the hole will be that all these ridges are also accessible from the top, from the Sugarland Mountain trail. I’m sure there are no worn paths yet because this is all too new. But a few hardy souls may find the spots where these side ribs meet the spine, and they’ll wander down as far as their sense of adventure will allow. And maybe I’ll be one of them. Or maybe you.

The Truth (and other casualties of hiking) Part 2 of 2

Over the years, I’ve noticed an interesting pattern – on a long, hard hike, women often try to be encouraging, even to the point of outright lying. They’ll say things like, “Oh yes, you’re doing great!” Or, “You’re getting close. Just a little farther.” Or, the outright lie, “Yes, you’re almost there.” Even though they know that I’m not almost there, and I know that I’m not almost there, but they don’t know that I know that I’m not. So they lie, expecting me to believe, which sort of makes one wonder about the veracity of the encouragement that we give each other on a daily basis. How often are we faced with this decision: do I give some words of encouragement or do I tell the truth? When you can do both, then do it with grace and enthusiasm, but when you can’t do both, most of us choose to stretch the truth almost to the breaking point. It’s a quaint American custom, but it really isn’t so bad. Lying out of kindness or comfort is better than lying out of greed, pride, and selfishness which, now that I think about it, is also an American custom.  

The other half of the story is hearing what their male hiking partners say. Indeed, I may have found the one area of life in which guys are more truthful than women. On this particular evening hike to the Chimney Tops, a woman had just lied to me: “Yes, just a little bit farther. You’re almost there.” Her lie was so brazen, so deliberate, that I almost called her out, but before I could work up the nerve to chastise her, her husband – who was ten or twenty feet behind her – leaned in toward me, looked ahead to make sure she couldn’t hear him, and he whispered, “Dude, it’s nothing but up from here, and you’re not even close. It’s worth it, for sure, but I don’t know, man. I don’t know.”

I appreciated hearing the unblemished truth from this weary stranger, but as he warned me of the fate that awaited me, I noticed one possible blemish on his version of the truth. He failed to mention that he was a smoker – I saw the pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket – which would mean that his estimation of the difficulty that lay ahead was a bit exaggerated because his lungs were in a weakened state. I wondered if he was one of those guys that you see occasionally on a trail – they’re slogging slowly uphill, gasping for air, so they stop for a break… to rest… and to suck on another cigarette. I’ve never understood why any rational human would take up smoking, but I’ve also heard that most smokers started when they were in their mid-teens, which sort of answers my own question – you know, the part about “rational” humans. And I understand even less why someone who is gasping for air on a hike would think the delightful mixture of smoke, tar, and nicotine would somehow help. I suppose it helps in a different way, not to help the air flow, but to soothe the nerves and to give courage. Which is really the main reason I’m not a smoker (or drinker) – it’s not so much the health hazard; it’s the fact that I think comfort and courage should come from within oneself, rather than from an outside, psychoactive crutch. About the only crutch I use on a regular basis is a hiking stick.

After his sincere warning, he put his head down and hustled to catch up with his lying wife. He seemed a bit sheepish for having told the unadulterated truth, but I’m sure he was proud of himself for having done his good deed for the day. He had made a valiant effort to save me from the fate he had suffered a few hours earlier – a (literally) breath-taking uphill march, ending in breath-taking views from the top.

I went on, in spite of his efforts, and he was right about one thing – it was well worth it, as the Chimney Tops always are.

The Third Chimney

For several years I’ve been snooping around many under-the-radar nooks and crannies of our beloved Smoky Mountains, and one of the great spots in the park for engaging in this quest is the area surrounding the Chimney Tops. Rather than lament the fact that this area has just been burned, I’m going in the opposite direction. Several formerly-cluttered (with rhododendron, thorns, and blowdowns) ridges and rocky outcrops are now open and visible, and I am looking forward to hiking on them.

For example, most folks have probably never noticed that there’s a long ridge that leads from the Second/Lower/North chimney down to a nice, rocky outcrop just above the Newfound Gap road. It’s not extremely visible or obvious, but if you look for it, it’s there. In fact, enough people have found their way to that spot that a 3’ high rock cairn has been built on this rocky prominence. For several years some of us have been calling it the Third Chimney. We invented that name after we had bushwhacked up to the Second Chimney from this lower, Third Chimney, and as we were looking back down the route we had just followed, one of us said, “You know, if that ridge and outcrop were denuded by fire and rain, that would be known as the Third Chimney.” However, we never expected that the denuding would actually happen. Well, the fire has begun the process.

To see the full effects, you need to get beyond the Chimney Tops trailhead – probably Cliff Tops on LeConte or Big Duck Hawk (off-trail). If you can find a way to get this view, you’ll see the long, now-open ridge leading down to the Third Chimney. There are also a couple of magnificent, rocky ridges leading up to the First and Second Chimneys on the east side. I’ve been up all these ridges before, but it was almost too much work to be fun. They were heavily cluttered with briers, blowdowns, and other junk. Not anymore. The fire has opened them up. If the NPS doesn’t forbid hiking on them, they will be every bit as interesting (or “scary,” whichever synonym you prefer) as the ridge between the First and Second Chimneys.

Chimney Tops, upper left

Third Chimney, far right

Zoomed in on Third Chimney

On a related note, the burning in the park – I’m not including the tragedy in Gatlinburg — is not nearly as bad as I expected. There were a lot of burned patches, but they were scattered and mostly minor. We saw many places where the ground and shrubs had burned, but only the bottom three or four feet of the trees had been scorched. We saw very few places where entire trees had been completely burned. It looks to me like there are two questions: Did the scorching of the trees seriously harm them? And, did the burned ground kill and remove all the shrubs and their roots systems that were holding the soil in place?

If those scorched trees die, then there will be many small, deforested patches in the Sugarlands section of the park for many years. Likewise, if the root systems of the groundcover were destroyed, there will be some modest mudslides which may uncover more bare rock. Both of these effects will be noticeable but neither will be catastrophic. The park will bounce back quickly, but we won’t know how far it needs to bounce until May, as we see whether or not the trees were seriously harmed by the scorching of their trunks, and how well the soil stays in place this winter and early spring.

The real catastrophe was in the hills surrounding downtown Gatlinburg and other outlying areas outside the park, but as we’ve seen in many different times and places, ecosystems and forests aren’t the only things that can bounce back. People bounce back, too. I suppose this is where I am supposed to say that the people around here are special, and they will rise again. Instead, I’ll be a bit more realistic… the folks around here are like folks everywhere. Some people will give up, but most will pick up the pieces and move on. Both the national park and its surrounding communities will rise from the ashes, not because they are better or stronger than every place else and everyone else, but because nature and people are resilient, everywhere. The will to live is powerful. They get knocked down, but they get up again. That’s what forests do. That’s what refugees do. That’s what victims of all sorts do. That’s what the people of Sevier county will do.

Spring Ephemerals: River Bugs (Part 3 of 3)

When we speak of “spring ephemerals,” we are usually talking about those forest-dwelling plants that bloom during those few weeks when the temperatures have warmed the ground, but the leaves on the trees have not yet filled out enough to create a heavy shade. It’s a brief window of opportunity.

There’s another kind of ephemerals. In fact, in scientific nomenclature, their Order’s name is Ephemeroptera. These ephemerals are animals, of the six legged variety. Insects.

For most of us, even those of us who are hard-core, deeply-devoted animal lovers, insects are not held in high esteem. For the most part, we see them as disgusting, dirty little creatures who should be waved away and perhaps slaughtered en mass. And I must admit, I feel that way about quite a few of them. I’ve had some unfriendly encounters with mosquitos, roaches, yellow jackets, and ticks, and I tend to show no mercy on any of them. And, of course, the up-and-coming object of our scorn is the ubiquitous stink bug.

In the mountains, woolly adelgids have nearly wiped out all the beautiful hemlock trees. All those slick, shiny, silver, bare trees you see on the slopes are dead hemlocks, killed by an invasive bug.

Yes, there are lots of reasons to hate bugs. But, like snakes, we humans tend to over-react in our vilification of these creatures. After all, honey bees make honey, lady bugs seem cute and harmless (although, granted, there are about a trillion too many of them), and butterflies are actually pretty (although, they lose a little bit of their glamour when you see them huddled together on a pile a horse manure). Nevertheless, they all have a role to play in the grand, ecological circle of life.

Some insects are actually dainty and pretty. Here I’m thinking of a set of bugs that live briefly as adults in the spring, for just a day or two, then they copulate, lay their eggs, and die. These are the mayflies that live in and around rivers, and are eaten by birds and trout.

Stoneflies are easy to describe. They look like colorful roaches. Their wings lie flat on their backs. Likewise, Caddisflies are easy. They look like small moths. Their wings lie on their backs in the shape of a little pup tent. Mayflies, on the other hand, look like… what? They are sort of butterfly-shaped in that they hold their wings up and usually together, but their wings are smaller relative to their body length than butterflies. Mayflies have very delicate bodies, and they often hold their front pair of legs up, as if they were praying. When they float on the surface of a river or lake, or if you catch one in mid-flight and let it sit on your finger, they look like little sailboats. If it doesn’t hold its wings up like a sailboat, then you’ve caught something other than a mayfly.

Mayflies live for a year or two as “nymphs” – small, disgusting-looking creatures who live in sand and under rocks at the bottom of the rivers. After spending their entire lives on the river bottom, they will swim to the water’s surface and burst out of their nymphal body. The delicate, adult form of these mayflies will then float along the surface of the water for a few seconds as their wings unfold and dry out. Once that is accomplished, they fly into the nearby trees and bushes where they’ll rest for a day or two as their new bodies continue to mature. At this point, their only remaining task is to breed, lay their eggs in the water, and die. In this respect, they seem to serve no significant purpose other to provide food for fish and birds. They are merely a small link in the food chain. But they are a pretty, delicate link.

And if you are a fly fisherman, they serve as the backbone of your sport. These mayflies – Blue Wing Olives, Quill Gordons, March Browns, Dark Hendricksons, Sulfurs, Light Cahills – are the prototypical fly fishing insects.  The sport was born and raised on mayflies.

The Smokies are not the best place to observe these mayflies because Smokies streams are rather sterile when it comes to vegetation and insect life. Our mountain streams have a decent variety of mayflies, but not great quantities. Nevertheless, if you hang around Smoky Mountain streams in April and May, you’ll probably see them. They’re the cute ones. They fly slowly and clumsily, so they are easy to catch in the air. They don’t bite or sting. The tragic part is the ephemeral part – that is, they live as winged adults for just a day or two. Then they die on the water after laying their eggs so that next year, another crop will “hatch” to feed the birds and the fish, and to reproduce. It’s a nice, self-contained, intricate system – but it does feel like a tragedy, like a military mission in which accomplishing the mission is all that matters; the individuals are expendable. And in this case, every single individual will die, but the mission – copulating and laying the eggs which will become the next generation – will succeed.  It’s the insects’ version of D-Day at Normandy. Success will come, but not without massive death and carnage. It’s what we call the “circle of life,” but don’t blink or you’ll miss it because it’s ephemeral.

Spring Ephemerals: Porters Creek (Part 2 of 3)

 

Spring ephemerals are that set of forest-dwelling wildflowers that are sun-loving, and therefore must live their dazzling-but-brief lives in that window of opportunity when the weather is warming but before the leaves on the trees are fully out. In other words, here in the Smoky Mountains these sun-loving forest-dwellers bloom in April.

One of the best (and best-known) trails for viewing this early spring extravaganza is the Porters Creek trail in the Greenbrier section of the park. Ten years ago, Greenbrier’s trails, trees, flowers, and rivers didn’t even exist. Or, rather, they didn’t exist to me.

At that time, I did my Smoky Mountain trout fishing in the Little River around Tremont and Elkmont and my hiking on established trails. Quite honestly, the trails in the Greenbrier section of the park are few in number and not very exciting. Ramsey Cascades trail is good, but the rest of them (Porters, Old Settlers, etc.) are extremely average, just wandering around in the woods, going no place special.

However, in the summer of 2007 I had several epiphanies. First, I realized that there are native brook trout in some of Greenbrier’s rivers. Second, I discovered off-trail hiking. Suddenly, I loved hiking in the Greenbrier section of the park for the same reason that I had previously disliked it – the lack of trails. Greenbrier is a wilderness wonderland. I also discovered that one of its trails – Porters Creek – has a well-deserved reputation as a great April wildflower walk. The park’s Spring Wildflower Pilgrimage (about the third week in April) makes the Porters Creek hike one of its premier events. People from across the US attend the Pilgrimage. The Smokies doesn’t have a lot of impressive wildlife (lots of salamanders, but no buffalo or wolves), but it is a botanical wonderland. And the opening act in this floral performance is the emergence of the early spring wildflowers – the spring ephemerals.

I’ve learned that I can trust the forsythia bushes in my yard to tell me when to go to Porters Creek. When they start to really, truly, fully bloom, I know the wildflowers on the Porters Creek trail are beginning their annual show. Some years I go to Porters every weekend in April, and each week the show is somewhat different. Hepatica and Bloodroot are replaced by Phacelia and Trout Lilies, which are replaced by Dutchmans Breeches and Trilliums, which are replaced by Bishops Caps and Wild Geraniums, which are replaced… well, the list goes on. These various species become old friends who show up every year, on schedule, just to say “hello.” It’s like a family homecoming, except that you are actually happy to see everyone… except maybe the Stinging Nettle, the one plant that is just plain mean-spirited and hard to get along with. Sort of like your old Uncle Bob who is always mad about something, so you say very little and try not to sit next to him at the dinner table. Don’t even think about asking him who he’s going to vote for.

The first mile of the Porters Creek trail is an old road. There is a fine and varied population of spring ephemerals in this portion of the trail, including some nice beds of Dwarf Crested Iris and a well-hidden set of Pink Lady’s Slippers – both are high-status flowers among wildflower fans. And don’t miss the sprinkling of delicate Bluets on the mossy rocks along the riverside, and the occasional Showy Orchis along the edges of the trail.

This first mile of the trail ends with a loop that can be a bit confusing. There’s a side trail that leads to an old barn and cabin, and another trail (Brushy Mountain trail) that leads to Brushy Mountain and Mount LeConte. The Porters Creek trail follows the creek by staying left. At this point, the trail changes from a wide dirt road to a narrow, rocky trail. The next half mile of the trail actually has very few wildflowers, and many people give up here because it appears that the show is over. They’re wrong.

Keep going up this barren half-mile until you reach the somewhat-scary, narrow footbridge at the 1.5 mile point. A few folks with vertigo can’t cross here, which is a shame, because the best part of the show is just beyond this footbridge.

Almost immediately after the footbridge the landscape changes into a park-like openness with a thick carpet of greenery. Early in the season, this carpet will be a breath-taking, snow-white bed of Fringed Phacelia, with a smattering of yellow Trout Lilies. Later, it become Bishops Cap and Trillium and Wild Geranium. I won’t list all the species. Instead, I’ll just repeat – don’t stop after the first mile. Go the second mile, all the way to Fern Branch Falls at the 2.0 mile point. The real show is that last half mile, past the footbridge.

I’ve had some agnostic friends over the years who just couldn’t bring themselves to believe in God. I understand their reluctance. An infinite spirit world inhabited by angels and demons and an omnipotent God who created all this out of nothing is an absurd idea. Preposterous. Utterly ridiculous. Childish.

But places like Porters Creek in April remind me that the only thing more ridiculous than belief in a Spirit-Creator is the belief that such beautiful places (and our ability to appreciate beautiful things) are the result of a long, lucky sequence of random events. I just don’t have that much faith… in Chance.

For me, Porters Creek in April is holy ground.

The Climbing Wall on Styx Branch (Part 3 of 4)

 

The main feature of the upper reaches of the east fork of Styx Branch is the Climbing Wall – a long, steep cliff/cascade. In scrambling up the exposed rock of this “wall,” there are several routes one can take, but just because you can that doesn’t mean you should. So we each scrambled up the steep, rocky slope, each of us using his own judgment of what route would qualify as a should. Sometimes we had the same definitions of should and sometimes we didn’t, but we both survived. And, as we had hoped, all this happened under the bright glare of the sun. Our jackets and long sleeves were in our packs where they belonged. The sky was as deep a blue as I have ever seen. In the shade the temperatures were a little above freezing. In the sun on the exposed rock, we wore T shirts.

One of the significant features of this type of trip up an exposed scar or cliff is that it sometimes is so steep that you need to stay focused on the rock and only the rock. Move hand and grasp. Next, move foot and plant firmly. Next, move the other hand and grasp. Next, move the other foot…. These rocky climbs are not vertical, but they are at least 45 and occasionally 60 degrees, and they are sometimes long. It has never happened to me, but I suspect a long, sliding, tumble can cause just as much damage (and more pain while it is happening) as a vertical fall. You don’t dwell on this fact, but it does form the background noise in your brain as you look for your next solid handhold.

Whenever we find a nice, level spot we turn around and look at the ridges and valleys behind us – in this case, it was Parton Peaks, NoName Ridge, Anakeesta Ridge… the entire wilderness playground of the rugged, southern side of Mount LeConte. And up above us was the main body of Mount LeConte herself, our ultimate destination. We still had over 1,000’ of vertical elevation before we’d reach Myrtle Point, which would be hard but entertaining. “Work” in the best sense of the word

On this day, I really struggled. Probably a combination of fighting a cold all week, eating too many sweets and hamburgers and pizzas the past 6 months, and a few too many birthdays. As Greg sat on the rocky scar about 100’ above me, I said, “I’ll be there in about 45 minutes.” He thought I was joking. I hoped I was joking. Thirty minutes later I dragged myself alongside him and sat for a few minutes. He casually asked, “Did you bring your headlamp?” He was as subtle as possible, but we both knew the underlying message.

On these trips I always bring a headlamp because I seem to struggle more than I used to. My mojo on any given day is the wild card that determines whether our off-trail hike will be an efficient adventure that ends before sunset or a long, tiring slog that ends with our hiking back to the car in the dark. In recent years, a headlamp is as necessary as food, water, and toilet paper.

In fact, this trip was the first time I had the thought: Will this be the last time I make this trip? Or, if it’s not, when will my last trip happen, and will I know it’s my last trip while I’m on it or will I only realize it years later? Those are melancholy questions that never occurred to me until the last couple of years. [To be continued]

Styx Branch: The Right Choice (Part 2 of 4)

 

Greg Harrell and I parked at the Alum Cave trailhead and walked quickly along the first 1.5 miles of Alum Cave trail. This first section of the trail is heavily shaded by rhododendron, so the snow from previous snowfalls was still on the trail. I put my pair of micro-spikes on my boots, so I was able to walk on the thin layer of ice and snow with complete confidence, even reckless abandon. Although, the phrase “reckless abandon” doesn’t quite fit my walking style. More than once Greg has told me that if I accumulated any more hikers lined up behind me, I’d have to apply for a parade permit.
 

About 100 yards past Arch Rock the trail makes a sharp left turn on a small foot bridge over a small stream – Styx Branch. This is the spot where Greg and I left the trail and began picking our way up the creek, stepping carefully on the rocks and gravel beds of this modest stream. Later in the winter these river rocks would be covered in ice and snow, so we would leave our spikes on, but we were still in mid-December and the heavy snows and deep freezes of January and February hadn’t filled in all the wet nooks and crannies with ice. So I removed my spikes and never put them on again until the end of the day when we hiked back to the car from the top of Mount LeConte via Alum Cave trail.
 

After just a few minutes of hiking and rock-hopping, the Styx Branch valley began to open up and became an open avenue that was steep and rocky, but easy to maneuver. The rhododendron was not squeezing and filling in every unoccupied square inch of ground, which was a nice change of pace. There’s probably some sort of topographical or botanical or historical reason why some valleys and slopes are full of rhody and other are not, but I’ve never been able to figure out why. But I’ll gladly accept the breathing room as a brief respite from the usual onslaught.
 

Less than an hour after we left the trail, we came to our main decision point of the day at 4,700’ – left or right? Either route leads to its own wonderland, so there’s no wrong choice here. We went right simply because… well, I don’t know. I guess one of us said, “Let’s go right” and the other one said, “Okay.” No debate. No drama. It’s easy to make the right decision when there are no wrong options.
 

As we worked our way up to 48… 49… 50… 5100’ there were several small tributaries feeding into Styx’s main flow. Most of these small tributaries flow down from the right, so we tend to bear left at these junctions as we hug the east side of the ridge that splits the Right Branch from the Left Branch of Styx. These creek junctions can be frustrating because each one is a “fork in the road” where you have to decide whether to go left or right, and the right choice is not always obvious. On the other hand, these junctions can be liberating for exactly the same reason. After all, if your goal is to explore the wilderness, then there are no wrong choices, and “getting lost” is just another way of saying that you’ve explored new territory.
 

The main feature of the upper reaches of this east fork of Styx Branch is the Climbing Wall – a long, steep cliff/cascade that is simply a scar where at some time in the past a heavy rain created a quick flush of water which scoured rocks, shrubs, and trees from the cascading creekbed, exposing the bare rock that we now call the Climbing Wall. And, of course, to ascend the Climbing Wall, you climb… using hands and feet and a modest dose of good judgment. As is the case with many of these exposed rock cascades, there are some places you can go and some places that you can’t. But the complicating factor is that just because you can climb up a section of the cliff doesn’t necessarily mean that you should. Knowing the difference between can and should is the key, which makes climbing a wet, rocky cascade in the Smokies exactly like daily life – just because you can doesn’t mean you should  -- one of those times when frolicking in the wilderness is a perfect metaphor for living a happy, meaningful life. [To be continued]

Rediscovering Drinkwater Pool

We almost lost Drinkwater Pool, which is a shame because it was one of Harvey Broome and the Smoky Mountains Hiking Club’s most cherished, wilderness sites. I developed an obsession with Drinkwater Pool a few years ago, but couldn’t seem to find anyone who knew exactly where it was. Harvey Broome wrote lovingly about it, and he’d drop occasional, unintentional hints about its location, be he never gave step-by-step directions. However, through a careful reading of Broome’s writing, plus several trips above Ramsey Cascades, and finally some pictures by Herbert Webster on the UT Libray’s website, we now know for sure (and are putting in writing) the location of Drinkwater Pool (and Drinkwater Gap and Buck Fork Cascade).

Sources

First, let’s start with the sources. The book Harvey Broome, Earthman is a big piece of the puzzle. The primary chapters of interest are: “Guyot at Last!” (p.11 ) and “Mount Guyot via Buck Fork Creek” (p.73) and “Buck Fork and Ramsay Prong” (p.81). Likewise, Broome’s book Out Under the Sky of the Great Smokies is equally important, particularly his entries for July, 1955 and July, 1957. There’s also a passing reference in Carlos Campbell’s book entitled Memories of Old Smoky. It would be helpful if you would read these passages by Broome either before or after (or both) reading the rest of this document.

In trying to make sense of the various descriptions of Drinkwater Pool, the actual trips up and down Ramsey Prong and Buck Fork were done by me and my most consistent hiking partner, Greg Harrell, from 2009 to 2012. Later in the process we received some help and confirmation from Ken Wise and his UTK library photo archives website.

Topography Above Ramsey Cascades

We know for certain that Drinkwater Pool is an exceptionally beautiful pool on Ramsey Prong, somewhere above Ramsey Cascades. Of course, there are thousands of beautiful pools on hundreds of creeks in the Smokies, so we can’t simply walk up Ramsey Prong and pick out the prettiest spot. It just doesn’t work that way. Nevertheless, it’s somewhere above Ramsey Cascades, so let’s talk a bit about the topography above RC.

Today there’s a rough path that leads to the top of RC. (Ramsey Cascades is the first/left star on the map below.) According to Broome’s July, 1955 entry in Out Under, the official trail used to end at the top of RC, not the bottom as it does today. Once at the top one must slosh upstream, either rock hopping your way up or simply giving in and wading. While there was once a trail that paralleled the river, it was barely discernible in the 1950s and has long since disappeared. About a half mile above Ramsey Cascades is another, nameless cascade. It is not as vertical as Ramsey Cascades; it consists of a long, tumbling series of plunge pools, one immediately after another, that rise over a hundred feet vertical over a distance of about two hundred feet horizontal. We’ll call this the Second Cascade. (The middle star on the map below.) [Our altimeter and GPS readings, which aren’t always highly accurate, tell us that this Second Cascade rises from 4,515’ to 4,645’ (about 130’ vertical) in about 200’ horizontal.] 

At the top of the Second Cascade, the creekbed levels out for a few hundred yards, after which there is a Third Cascade. (The third/right star.) [Our GPS readings indicate this Third Cascade begins about a quarter mile beyond the top of the Second Cascade.] This TC is not as consolidated as the Second Cascade. That is, it’s a series of plunge pools, but there is sometimes a bit more level creekbed between them – sometimes 40 or 50 feet apart. It’s not exactly a single cascade, but it is a series of adjacent plunges and terraces, so it’s easier to talk of them as a Third Cascade simply because they are strung together with a very clear beginning at the bottom and a very clear end where the creekbed levels out at the top. From here Ramsey Prong continues up to the Stateline Ridge near Mt. Guyot.

Notice also that about a mile south of Ramsey Prong is another river that runs parallel to it – Buck Fork. Buck Fork and Ramsey Prong flow down into the Middle Prong of the Pigeon River. The ridge running parallel and between Ramsey Prong and Buck Fork is Guyot Spur. If you look carefully at the map above you’ll see a low swag in Guyot Spur just below the “u” in Guyot. This gap is near the second/middle star. There’s also a swag (gap) in Guyot Spur near the third star, at the number “5125” near the “t” in Guyot. These gaps are important because Harvey Broome writes of “Drinkwater Gap” which is a gap in Guyot Spur near Drinkwater Pool. These two gaps in the spur are the two main candidates for Drinkwater Gap.

Making Sense of Terminology

A complicating factor in making sense of Broome’s references to DWP and its location in relation to these three cascades is the unusual, changing terminology that Broome uses. He often writes of “Ramsey Falls” and rarely if ever uses the name Ramsey Cascades. Other times he makes reference to “cascades” and “second cascade” and “upper cascades,” and there’s even a reference to “Buck Fork Cascades.” Let’s make sense of this terminology….

In the Earthman book, we find a chapter entitled “Mt. Guyot via Buck Fork Creek.” On the first page (p.73) of this 1928 hike description, there is a note by Anne Broome telling us several interesting pieces of information. First, what we today call Ramsey Prong was in 1928 called Buck Fork. This 1928 hike begins by hiking up the route of today’s road from Greenbrier Cove to the Ramsey Cascades trailhead, following the Middle Prong of the Little Pigeon (in 1928 called East Fork). Broome says, “Stay on the left side of the stream, now the Buck Fork, for approximately four miles more, until the trail crosses it to the right, just at the foot of Buck Fork Cascade. A few sentences later, Broome mentions the Wild Cherry Orchard (a section of today’s Ramsey Cascades trail), then he writes, “The Buck Fork Cascade is easily the climax of the trip.... Another half mile scramble [past Buck Fork Cascade]… brings one to the striking Drinkwater Pool.” In a footnote to this hike description, Anne Broome informs us that this hike up Buck Fork in 1928 is essentially today’s Ramsey Cascades trail. Broome’s Buck Fork of 1928 is today’s Ramsey Prong. Sometime in the 1930s, presumably as part of the many nomenclature changes that accompanied the creation of the national park, the old Buck Fork was renamed Ramsey Prong and the river just south of Ramsey Prong was given the name Buck Fork, as today’s maps show.

All this could easily lead us to assume that Buck Fork Cascade in the 1928 hike description is today’s Ramsey Cascades and that DWP is about a half mile beyond that. Probably not. Anne’s footnote also mentions that in 1928 the Buck Fork trail bypassed today’s Ramsey Cascades. (This is confirmed by Carlos Campbell in Memories on p.117 in which he says that in the early days (the 1920s), the footpath up this creek passed a few hundred yards to the north of today’s Ramsey Cascades. In fact, at that time the SMHC wasn’t even aware that Ramsey Cascades existed.) This means that the Buck Fork Cascade that Broome mentions as the highlight of the trip is not Ramsey Cascades but is instead either our Second Cascade or the Third Cascade. Having visited both the Second and Third Cascades several times, I can attest that the Second is the more dramatic of the two. I believe that our Second Cascade is the Buck Fork Cascade in Broome’s 1928 hike. If so, Drinkwater Pool is about a half mile beyond the Second Cascade. (Broome’s estimates of distances are not always highly accurate. His “half mile” might be anywhere from a quarter mile to a full mile. Nevertheless, we can take his estimate as a reasonable ballpark figure which can be used for general locations but should not be adhered to as a precise measurement.)

This hypothesis that Buck Fork Cascade is our Second Cascade is supported by another chapter in Earthman entitled “Guyot at Last!” This describes the hike that Broome took in 1926 with a teenager named Dys. It was on this trip that Broome encountered and named Drinkwater Pool. He describes a beautiful cascade that they encountered:

Notice the reference to a vertical fall of 100 feet in 100 yards. This does not describe Ramsey Cascades nor does it describe our Third Cascade, but it does describe the Second Cascade quite well. (Our estimate is about 130 vertical feet in about 200 feet horizontal.)

Broome continues,

  

He describes the ups and downs of the trail which ultimately leads to the pool (6’ deep) and plunge falls (6’ high) they named Drinkwater. From his hike description (p. 74 in Earthman) for the SMHC he estimated that Drinkwater was half a mile beyond the 100’ high cascade that he eventually (in the 1928 hike description) calls Buck Fork Cascade. We also see that DWP is that last or highest plunge pool in this section because Broome says that above and beyond it, the creek ran fairly straight and level for about 200 yards. This indicates that DWP is at the top of either the Second or Third Cascade. Given the fact that the Second Cascade is the more dramatic, it is probably the beautiful cascade he and Dys admired on this hike. About a half mile beyond this Second Cascade would put DWP near the top of the Third.

Before we move to Broome’s references to DWP in his other book, Out Under the Sky of the Great Smokies, we should note one more detail. Earthman (p.81) includes a 1941 description of a hike entitled “Buck Fork and Ramsey Prong.” This 1941 description uses today’s nomenclature for the rivers. Broome mentions the Middle Prong instead of East Fork. He speaks of Buck Fork, but it is clearly the Buck Fork shown on today’s maps. He also writes of Ramsey Prong, which didn’t even exist in his 1928 hike description.

 

 

For this hike, they would go up today’s Buck Fork, then cross over Guyot Spur at Drinkwater Gap (“its lowest and narrowest point”) and reach DWP on Ramsey Prong. He also speaks of going downstream from DWP to “the Cascades and Falls.” The Falls is certainly today’s Ramsey Cascades (which in the 1920s they were unaware of but by the 1940s they were aware of) and the Cascades is what Broome had at one time called Buck Fork Cascades but we are calling the Second Cascade. Finally, the “graded foot trail” that they would finish on would be today’s Ramsey Cascades trail which ends at the “Falls” (Ramsey Cascades) in this description.

My conclusion from all of this is that on our map we have stars at today’s Ramsey Cascades, the Second Cascade, and the Third Cascade. Our Ramsey Cascades corresponds to Broome’s Ramsey “Falls”; our Second Cascade corresponds to Broome’s “Cascades” (aka Buck Fork Cascade), and our Third Cascade is a series of pools and terraces, the topmost pool being Drinkwater Pool. [In the Dutch Roth photos in UT’s archives, there are several pictures labeled “Ramsey Falls” that are clearly today’s Ramsey Cascades. There are several pictures labeled as Ramsey Cascades that are clearly NOT today’s Ramsey Cascades. They are probably our Second Cascade, although I haven’t yet tried to identify their exact locations.]

Now, Out Under the Sky....

In Broome’s July, 1955 entry he speaks of Ramsey Prong, Ramsey Falls, hiking 1.5 miles on a road to the turn-around, and the trail ending at the Falls. All this conforms to today’s Ramsey Cascades trail except his use of the name “Ramsey Falls” instead of “Ramsey Cascades.” After they hiked past Ramsey Falls, he writes of camping at the “second cascade” In his July, 1957 entry two years later he specifically speaks of their campsite at the foot of the second cascade. So, the Second Cascade on our map is almost certainly Broome’s “second cascade” which in the 1920s was called Buck Fork Cascade, in the days when Ramsey Prong was called Buck Fork.

Location of Drinkwater Pool

Continuing with Broome’s 1955 entry, the next morning they left their campsite at the base of the second cascade and moved up the valley on the old, obscure trail and reconnected with the creek several hundred yards below Drinkwater Pool. Having explored this section of the creek, I can assure you that the entire length of the second cascade is 100 yards at the most, and is probably more like 200’. To hike upstream and emerge from the woods to the creek several hundred yards below DWP means that DWP cannot be part of the second cascade. It must be significantly beyond the top of the second cascade. This fits Broome’s 1955 entry (p. 166) in which he says they were caught by a thunderstorm about 300 yards below DWP while they were still about a half mile above their campsite at the base of the second cascade.

Clearly, then, DWP is significantly beyond the Second Cascade. In fact, it is almost certainly a part of the Third Cascade; undoubtedly the top of the Third Cascade. In Broome’s July, 1957 entry he speaks of DWP being the “culmination of a succession of limpid pools.” Soon after, he describes hiking down from DWP as moving “headlong back down the great terraces of the stream.” This sounds like a series of plunge pools and terraces – which is exactly what the Third Cascade on our map is – not quite a single cascade, but a succession of pools/terraces and five to ten foot waterfalls creating those pools. Combining this description with Broome’s statement (in Earthman, Guyot at Last, p.21) that the creek above and beyond DWP is straight and flat for 200 yards requires that DWP be located at the top of the Third Cascade – that is, it must be the last (uppermost) obvious pool of the Third Cascade, after which the creek becomes flatter and tamer. (In Broome’s April, 1950 entry in Out Under he mentions a moment at which he was “half-way to the upper cascades and Drinkwater Pool.” While I may be making too much of the details of his words, it may be significant that he says “upper cascades” rather than “second cascade.” Those “upper cascades” could very well be our Third Cascade, which is, as we’ve said, not a single cascade but actually a series of plunges, pools, and terraces.)

Happily, this location at the top of our Third Cascade fits well with the topography of Drinkwater Gap. Recall that our map shows two candidates for the title of Drinkwater Gap. While the topo map might give one the impression that the gap in Guyot Spur adjacent to the Second Cascade is a more obvious, significant gap than the gap adjacent to the Third Cascade, this is not the case. A close examination of the map and the location of the Second and Third Cascades shows that Ramsey Prong is much closer to the crest of Guyot Spur at the Third Cascade than at the Second Cascade. To hike from the Second Cascade to its adjacent gap involves a climb of about 300’, whereas a climb from the Third Cascade to its adjacent gap involves a climb of only about 100’. The climb from creek to the crest of Guyot Spur is surprisingly quick and easy from the Third Cascade; from the Second Cascade it is a predictably tough push through the rhododendron to the crest. This is important because in Broome’s April, 1950 entry in Out Under he says: “We reached the low point in the divide between Ramsey and the Buck Fork after five or ten minutes of bucking the rhododendron. The altimeter showed an ascent of 150 feet from the pool, although it seemed much less than that.” The topography virtually requires that Drinkwater Gap is the gap adjacent to the Third Cascade, not the Second. Again, having explored this section, the hike up from the Third Cascade to the gap in the crest really does take no longer than 10 minutes. It is shockingly quick and easy. The climb up from the Second Cascade to its gap is two to three times longer as measured in both time and distance.

Therefore, Drinkwater Pool is at the top of the Third Cascade. Its approximate GPS coordinates are: 83 17.446W; 35 42.309N. Drinkwater Gap is the spot on the topo map where “5125” is printed. In the picture below, the “falls” of DWP are about 6 feet high (and the depth of the pool is about 6 feet), which conforms to Broome’s description.

Drinkwater Pool: Top of the Third Cascade

There are a couple of details that don’t fit well into this interpretation, but only a couple, and they are rather minor; furthermore, I think I can explain them (at least, to my own satisfaction).

The main problem is that Broome says in his July, 1955 entry (p.162): “I spotted Drinkwater from far downstream by the casket-shaped rock on its shelving rim.” Early in our explorations, as Greg Harrell and I became hone in on the location of DWP, we were unable to find a casket-shaped rock at the top pool of the Third Cascade. I should add, however, that there are several rocks that one can lie on (see the picture of Greg Harrell and Charlie Roth below; Charlie is lying on the most likely candidate).

After more thought on the casket-shaped rock, here’s what we’ve concluded. We were thinking about this casket-shaped rock the wrong way. Broome told us about a casket-shaped rock, so we hike up the river looking for the rock that looks most like a casket. When we find it, we think we’ve found DW Pool. But that approach is backward.  We should find a pool that we think is Drinkwater and then look to see how we would describe the rocks that we see there – could any of them reasonably be described as “casket-shaped” rather than “car-shaped” or “house-shaped” or “bowling ball-sized” or “refrigerator-sized” or whatever. In other words, there are thousands of rocks that could be called “casket-shaped” – is one of those thousands at Drinkwater Pool? I’d say, yes, the rock Charlie is lying on in the picture below could reasonably be called “casket-shaped.” The fact that there may be other rocks in the river that look a bit more like a casket is irrelevant and misses the point.

Greg Harrell (standing), Charlie Roth (lying on casket rock)
Drinkwater Pool: Top poof of Third Cascade

There are some “Drinkwater Pool” pictures on the internet of a casket-shaped rock that sits at the base of the Third Cascade, but there is simply no possible way, based on a careful reading of Earthman and Out Under, that DWP is at the base of this, or any other, cascade. Only at the top of a cascade can the creekbed above run “straight and almost level for nearly 200 yards” (Earthman, p.21). People who claim this is DWP because of this casket-shaped rock are mis-thinking exactly as I described in the previous paragraph. They look for the “best” casket rock and then name that pool Drinkwater – which is exactly backward from the way rocks and other features are described by hikers.

A nice casket, but the wrong place -- at the base of the Third Cascade

The other nagging detail in this mystery is Broome’s description of the length and width of DWP. Broome mentions that DW Pool was about 25 feet long and 12 or 14 feet wide. Our top pool doesn’t fit those dimensions, unless…

I would estimate that the pool is 25 feet across from one bank to the other, and 12 or 14 feet long from the falls to the rock shelf.  In other words, Broome and I might be using exactly opposite terminology, which makes sense if we were standing in different places. What I mean is this… every time I’ve approached DWP, it’s been in the river, sloshing our way upstream to the top of the Third Cascade. Looking from downstream, the dimension from one bank to the other would be “across” or “width,” not “length.” On the other hand, if Broome were standing on the river bank at the side of the pool, that dimension from bank to bank would be described by him as “length” rather than “width.” In other words, Broome and I were standing in different spots as we looked and described the pool.  

Do we have any pictures of DW Pool from the past that are labeled as Drinkwater Pool?

For several years of my obsession, I couldn’t find any.  There is a fuzzy, black and white copy of a single, small plunge falls accompanying a description of a 1974 SMHC hike to Drinkwater Pool. It is attributed to Charlie Klabunde, a long-time member of the SMHC. In 2012 I asked Charlie if he remembers anything about the picture or the location of DWP. He said he can’t remember the location of the pool, and he does not remember how that picture came to be on the page with the DWP hike. He doesn’t know if that picture really is DWP.

This (below) is an old Dutch Roth picture of the top pool of the Third Cascade – the pool I believe to be Drinkwater Pool. It’s not labeled as Drinkwater Pool. Its label says:  “Just above the cascades on Ramsey Prong.” It’s probably safe to say that there is some significance to this spot. After all, there are hundreds of fine plunge pools on Ramsey Prong. So, why choose this one?  Unfortunately, one picture and a vague title don’t tell us what that significance is. And I must admit… I really, really wish Dutch had labeled this “Drinkwater Pool.”



Finally and thankfully, in 2013 Brian Reed (a member of SMHC who is presently living in exile in Florida) informed me that he had found some online pictures by Herbert Webster of Drinkwater Pool. Apparently, Webster knew Harvey Broome and had hiked with him to Drinkwater and had taken pictures of it. These pictures have been posted on the UT-Knoxville library website by Ken Wise.  Here’s an excerpt from the UTK library page:

Within a few years, he was visiting the mountains regularly, venturing into the backcountry with many of those whose names are synonymous with early twentieth century exploration of the Smokies—Dutch Roth, Jim Thompson, Carlos Campbell, Guy Frizzell, Wiley Oakley, and Harvey Broome—and capturing on film the vanishing way of life of the mountaineer, the Smoky Mountain backcountry, and his own adventures in the wilderness. The images in the Herbert M. Webster Photograph Collection rank with those of Dutch Roth and the Thompson Brothers as an enduring historical record of the Great Smoky Mountains.

The Herbert M. Webster Photograph Collection is maintained as part of the U.T. Libraries’ Great Smoky Mountains Regional Project.

Visit http://digital.lib.utk.edu/collections/webstercollection/  and search for Drinkwater.  These pictures match perfectly our thesis that DWP is at the top of the third cascade.  This is the photographic evidence from the past that had been eluding us for the first few years of our search.

Finally, I don’t think the top pool of the Third Cascade is fabulously beautiful. Or, more accurately, it is fabulously beautiful, but no more nor less than a thousand other pools in the Smokies. I honestly don’t know why Harvey Broome was so mesmerized by it. Based on my own hiking experiences, it probably had to do with the fact that they were in a fabulous wilderness and the moment Harvey and Dys stepped out of the woods and back into the creek, this pretty spot mixed with the magic of the moment simply spoke to them in a special way. Anyone who has spent much time hiking off-trail has had that same experience… many times. [Greg Harrell and I were both stunned by the beauty and drama of Mill Creek Cascade on our first, truly off-trail hike. We sloshed down from Russell Field over many, small falls and plunges. Around 3,000’ we found ourselves at the top of a long cascade, seeing only air and treetops in front of us. It was magical. We are reluctant to go back because we’re afraid we might be disappointed with it, simply because magical moments are nearly impossible to re-create.]