Accepting the Challenge of Porters Creek Trail (Part 1 of 6)

“No wild parties while we’re gone.” “Thou shalt not eat of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.” “Stay out of the cookie jar.” Warnings that are wise, but hard to resist.

My old 1973 Sierra Club Hiker’s Guide had this to say about the Porters Creek Trail:

“This trail consists of two sections which are very different in character. For four miles it is an easy walking trail through an undisturbed forest. After that it turns into an unmaintained manway and becomes very steep, rising 2,000 feet in the last mile. This section is for the experienced hiker only and even for him only one way. Nobody should attempt to descend this trail from the AT. This latter section is the most difficult and dangerous stretch of trail described in this entire handbook. Don’t do it!”

What I heard was slightly different from what appeared on the printed page. I heard what I wanted to hear, which was:

“Blah… blah… blah… blah… I dare you to try this one… Blah… blah… blah… blah… You big sissy… You aren’t man enough to try it, are you? Blah… blah….”

I took the “Don’t do it” as a personal challenge, an affront to my manhood. When I read the warning to Greg Harrell, his response was typical for him: “Sounds like we need to give it a try.” So we did.

I had been studying the topographic map of the Greenbrier and Sawteeth section of the park, and couldn’t quite tell how the 1973 trail description fit in with the wiggles and bumps that appeared on the map. I learned that the old manway ended very close to Dry Sluice Gap, which was about a quarter of a mile east of the cliffs of Charlies Bunion on the main ridge crest. So I knew the target that we were shooting for, but the exact route was a mystery. This trip could be pure, trial-and-error bushwhacking that might even take more than one trip to figure out. On the other hand, the 1973 trail description did talk of an “unmaintained manway,” so there might be some semblance of a path. But that was 1973. If it was an unmaintained manway in 1973, what would it be 35 years later?

Sometimes in studying a topo map, you can get a good feel for the ruggedness of an area not by a close examination of the map but by actually stepping back several feet and just looking at the overall color of the map. If your topo lines are brown or black, then where does the map look dark instead of the typical light green? Where does the shading look a bit deeper and darker? On my map of the Smokies, the brown topo lines squeeze closely together and create a fuzzy, brown mass along the north side of the 6 miles of ridgeline from Mt. LeConte along the Boulevard and the AT past Charlies Bunion to Porters Mountain. If you are familiar with land forms and topo maps, those tight topo lines speak of deep, steep, shady ravines. These are the places that get very little sunlight, and even less during the winter months when the sun is low in the sky, so they are moist and cold. The springs and rivulets high on a north-facing slope will probably freeze over in December, providing beautiful walls and columns of ice until March. If these sites are off trail, you can be sure that very few people have seen them.

Lest I exaggerate the trail’s danger and our boldness, let’s get something straight. If a trail was truly dangerous, the hiker’s guide probably wouldn’t even mention it. So, we’d take their warning to heart and be careful, but we knew this trip would probably rate about a 5 or 6 on the danger meter – where 0 is walking along the sidewalk at Sugarlands Visitor Center and 10 is pulling a wild boar’s tail. It’s also worth noting that a guy might pull a wild boar’s tail because he’s very brave or very foolish, and it’s sometimes hard to tell the difference. So we headed to Porters Creek, knowing that the real purpose of the book’s warning was to keep the lawyers out the picture if something went wrong. Happily, the question of whether to sue or not to sue never arose because no one got hurt. [To be continued]

Thanks Mom.

My wife mentioned something to me the other day that I had never thought about. She was trimming the dead leaves off one of our house plants and told me that this was the original planter, dirt, and roots that came from my mother, who died over 20 years ago. That’s a simple, unplanned connection to the past. My mother didn’t buy this small plant with the idea of passing it on to her one, immediate descendant. No, it was just one of the houseplants that remained after her rather sudden death. It was a remnant, an after-thought, just a plant in an empty apartment that needed to be cleared out by the end of the month. Thankfully, my wife had the foresight to save it.

Most of our connections with the past are like that. Yes, there are statues and plaques and other memorials to help us remember those that went before us, but most of our “memorials” are old plants, old dishes, old pictures, old tools. Stuff that you find in the attic.

And, of course, memories.

One odd memory that sticks with me is my mother’s habit of reaching over to hold me back every time she suddenly hit the brakes. In the days before seat belt laws, my mother made it a habit of protecting me from injury by reaching across and putting her hand on my chest. She continued to do that all of her life, even when I was nearly 30. At the time, I was embarrassed by it, but now I think of it fondly – a mama protecting her child to the very end. Car seats and seat belts have eliminated this endearing reflex from our culture, and although I know our children are now safer in their seats and belts, I still mourn the loss of such an obvious sign of love and protection.

One of my vivid, childhood memories involves the Smoky Mountains. I was about five years old, and my mother and I were traveling from our home in Florida to visit relatives and friends in Ohio. Because there were only a few interstates at that time, we generally drove US 441 from Orlando through Georgia, western North Carolina, and most importantly, through the Smokies. This was my first real road trip, and it was all great because it was all new and different. But the highlight, by far, was the night that we parked our Studebaker in a small, gravel pull-out next to the Oconaluftee River in Cherokee, NC. We slept in the car that night with the wild, relentless sound of the river filling our heads. (Florida’s rivers don’t make noise.) It took me a long time to fall asleep. The sound of the river mesmerized me. That night by the river was magical… and probably illegal. Although, those were simpler times, so maybe there wasn’t yet a law against sleeping in your car on the side of the road.

Did I say that night by the river was the highlight? Well, it was the highlight of my life up to that point. Remarkably, the next highlight of my life came the next morning. How lucky can a kid be to have the two highlights of his 5 years of life happen within 12 hours of each other! That foggy, cool, early morning drive through the Smokies was a step into another, better world. It was love at first sight. I learned new place names as my mother showed me the Chimneys and took me to Cades Cove and Clingmans Dome, all places that I would visit many times as the years rolled by.

My mother wasn’t a very outdoorsy person in terms of camping, but she did love the outdoors enough to make sure that most of our family vacations involved America’s national parks. And somehow, some way her love of the outdoors managed to rub off on me. She and I never talked about that, and I don’t think I ever thanked her for it, but I think she must have realized that the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. Most of my family vacations now involve national parks – the same ones she took me to – but only in recent years have I come to see that as a memorial to her. Those times and places sunk deeply into who I am and were so important to me that I wanted my two kids to have those same, wonderful experiences: bears, buffalo, geysers, redwoods, birds, red rock canyons, deserts, mountains, cacti, rivers, even the long hours in the car watching the fields and farms pass by. I love them all, and I have my mother to thank. That love and those memories are an unwritten memorial to her.

Thanks Mom.

Freedom on the AT, Parts 1 & 2

Freedom on the A.T., Part 1
Not long ago I did a quick, one-night backpacking trip on the Appalachian Trail in the Nantahala Mountains of North Carolina. It was a “bucket list” kind of thing – a section of the AT that I’d been intending to do for about 20 years but hadn’t gotten around to. So my wife and daughter kindly dropped me off at Wayah Bald, and I hiked down to Wallace Gap, spending the night (with half a dozen Boy Scouts from Florida) in one of those old, three-sided shelters that are scattered along the entire 2,100 miles of the AT.

This is probably the moment where you are expecting me to whine a little bit about the crowded shelter and having to share it with several others, mostly kids, from Florida. (They might have been Gator fans for cryin’ out loud!) But, believe it or not, I didn’t mind their company. First of all, they were mostly Juniors and Seniors in high school, so they were beginning to show subtle glimpses of maturity. (If they had been middle school boys, then yes, I’d be whining right now.) Second, they were Boy Scouts, so they were interested in the outdoors and didn’t talk about video games and reality TV the entire time. And finally, crossing paths with kindred spirits (we all were hiking the AT, after all) in these shelters usually has a good, communal feel to it. It’s a reminder that the world hasn’t gone completely crazy, and there are still people who can sit around and be entertained by the wind, stars, trees, campfires, and civil conversation. There is hope for the future, and you’ll sometimes discover that hope in these old shelters on the AT.

Oddly enough, my 20 hours on the AT between Wayah Bald and Wallace Gap started out unenthusiastically. It was raining; the trip was a last second, hurried decision; the scenery and topography would be average. In short, I was doing this mainly to get it done, not because I was drawn to the magnificence of the scene, but after an hour or two I began to get my groove back. I began to feel an old familiarity that I hadn’t realized that I had ever lost.

It soon occurred to me that it had been quite a few years since I had hiked on the AT outside of Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Since we live only an hour from the Smokies, I’ve spent the past 20+ years fishing and hiking mostly in the park. Sure, I fish some other rivers, and I’ve also visited Maine, Michigan, and the Rocky Mountains a few times, but most of my regional camping has been inside the Smokies – mainly because the Smokies are higher, more majestic, and wilder than anything else in the south. I keep going back to the Smokies for the same reason that you keep returning to your favorite restaurant and ordering the same meal. It works. It ain’t broke. Don’t fix it. It’s not quite an obsession; it’s more like a habit, but a good habit. And since so many of our habits are immoral, fattening, or just plain stupid, whenever you develop a good one, it’s in your best interest to ride it as long as you can.

But it was good to be on the AT outside of the Smokies again. Part of the familiarity that I was recovering was the rural feel of the surroundings. I was reminded that most of the 2,100 miles of the AT is not raw wilderness. On the AT outside of the Smokies, you will encounter more roads, towns, farms, and fences. Not enough to be annoying, but enough to remind you that you are on a carefully planned trail that twists and turns not only because of the lay of the land but also to avoid roads, private property, and “no trespassing” signs. There are glimpses of semi-civilized, rural America scattered all along the AT.

Another part of the familiarity that I recovered on this trip was a sense of freedom. There’s absolutely no paperwork, no itinerary, required to hike the AT outside of the Smokies. No park ranger will arrive after dark and check your papers – because there are no papers to be checked.


Freedom on the A.T., Part 2

On a recent backpacking trip on the Appalachian Trail in the Nantahala Mountains, a few miles south of the Smokies, I was reminded of the freedom that is an essential part of that experience.

When I’m camping or fishing in the Smokies, I don’t resent being checked by park rangers occasionally because I’m always legal. In fact, I’m glad they stop and check, just as I like the cashiers at Lowe’s to check my ID when I use my credit card. If someone steals my card and tries to use it, I’d want those cashiers to refuse the purchase and to notify the authorities. Likewise, I want the park rangers to catch guys who are (illegally) using corn and worms to catch trout in the park. Tennessee has very, very few rivers with any sort of “artificial only” fishing restrictions and absolutely no “fly fishing only” rivers, so in those rare places where there are a few, meager restrictions, I want those restrictions to be enforced. Otherwise, the rivers would be emptied of their fish pretty quickly.

On the other hand, the one time I was checked by a park ranger, my joy that he was enforcing the rules evaporated pretty rapidly as he continued to ask me what kind of vehicle I was driving, where I was parked, whether I’d be spending the night, did I have a fishing license, and was I carrying any live bait. I began to wonder if he would be taking out the waterboard to extract information on my links to al Qaeda. But once he was convinced of my innocence, we chatted awhile about the mountains and rivers. We both loved the Smokies, so we had that in common. We parted amicably. (But not as buddies. I pointed out a hornets’ nest in a nearby tree and said, “Hey, you wanna throw rocks at it?” He didn’t realize I was kidding and began to lecture me about our responsibilities to care for the natural world, and of course, the dangers of aggravating hornets. Note to self: Guys with badges and guns have no sense of humor.)

My overnighter on the AT in the Nantahalas was fairly quick and routine – walk on the trail, sleep in a shelter, finish on Old US 64 just west of Franklin. But as I walked along the trail, I would occasionally see a simple, worn path leading off to the side, ending at a small, worn campsite. These obscure campsites don’t show up on any maps. There are no cables to hang your food bag on, no facilities of any sort, unless you call a spot worn thin by previous hikers and a simple rock, fire-ring “facilities.”

These side trails and campsites are 100% unofficial, unsanctioned, undeveloped, unauthorized – and completely legal. And pleasant. I’d turn off on one of these short, side trails and find just a worn spot in the grass and a campfire ring – and a good view, or a level spot, or a small spring, or an opening in the trees providing an unhindered view of the stars. There was always something there to attract a hiker. There was always a reason why the path led where it did. I’d walk down the path, arrive at the campsite, look around, and think, “Yeah, I see why people camp here.” Then, at that moment, I’d realize that my footsteps had just added to the worn path. It was a great example of many different individuals making separate, individual decisions, yet making the same decision. That’s how these unofficial trails and campsites are made and maintained. You see the same thing – informal paths in the grass – in cow pastures and on college campuses. Students and cows voting with their feet. Simple, primitive, laissez-faire democracy.

It’s funny, isn’t it, that a small, worn spot in the woods can provide a taste of the fundamental American values of freedom, choice, and even a little risk. Those worn spots aren’t just a metaphor for freedom. They are the result of freedom. They are freedom. Not the crazy, selfish, irresponsible freedom that harms self and others. No, it’s the simple, healthy liberty that enables you to relax and breathe because no one is looking over your shoulder. There’s no one in a suit or uniform to exert their authority, to check your papers. There’s also no one to protect you because freedom entails risks. It’s just you and that haphazard campfire ring. That, my friends, is a good reason to get out of the Smokies every now and then and bask in the harmless, healthy anarchy of the Appalachian Trail.

High Rocks: There's No App For That (Part 4 of 4)

The seven mile hike on Bear Creek Trail up the eastern slope of Welch Ridge was wonderfully, deathly calm. It was so serene and lonely that if a tree had fallen, it would not have made a sound, regardless of whether or not I had been there to hear it. The solitude caused me to stop several times to simply appreciate the fact that this is how it would have felt in October, 1491, or October, 3,000 BC. Same birds. Same clouds and fog, although a bit less acidic than now. Similar trees, but probably not the identical species – all the chestnuts are now gone, and the hemlocks are fading fast. Definitely the same quiet, the same feel. That’s the kind of stuff you think about when you are lucky enough to spend an entire day in the mountains without seeing another human being. Even if you aren’t the contemplative type, the stillness and loneliness forces it on you, if for no other reason than there’s nothing else to do.

About three hours after leaving Melissa and John at the Forney Creek campsite, I arrived at the Welch Ridge Trail. This portion of Welch Ridge is very easy, but I was only on it for about half a mile. As I began walking on Welch Ridge, I was hoping the trail to High Rocks would be well-marked and obvious. If I missed it, I would be alerted by Cold Spring Gap Trail which would be about half a mile past the High Rocks side trail. If I reached Cold Spring Gap, I’d just turn around and try again.

After a few minutes I changed my mind. I began to hope that the High Rocks side trail was obscure and poorly marked. Maybe the trail would be overgrown and the wooden sign would have rotted and washed away. After all, the point of this trip is to have this peak all to myself, right?

Well, no such luck. After a mere ten minute stroll on Welch Ridge, I came to the well-maintained side trail to High Rocks, marked with a solid wooden sign pointing the way. For about two seconds I considered tearing the sign down and throwing it in the bushes, but my conscience intervened at the last second, as it occasionally does in moments of severe temptation. Hikers tend to be good, altruistic people. They love wilderness and solitude, but they tend to be accommodating of other hikers, too. Just one, big, happy family. That’s why the sign was still standing there for me to see.

The side trail to High Rocks was quick and easy. There was an interesting spot where a few stairs had been cut into some rocks. There were shrubs growing in and around the steps. It looked like part of an old, undiscovered Mayan temple.

A few yards beyond the Mayan stairs was the site of the old firetower (four concrete pads) and a deteriorating cabin with a large blue tarp over the top of it, probably a sign that the NPS is trying to save the cabin and would soon repair the rotting roof and floors. Nevertheless, the inside of the cabin was still partly intact. Windows, paint, and even a few old tools. Someone had taken an old metal chair out of the cabin and set it up on the exposed rocks next to the cabin. I’m thrilled and amazed that it’s possible to find hidden jewels like this – old cabins that have not been ransacked by looters and defaced by vandals. High Rocks is a good, lonely spot.

High Rocks

The view? Well, it’s good, I suspect. High Rocks is one of the highest spots in this neck of the woods, but thick clouds were speeding across the peak, so the visibility was about 30 feet. It would be a good view, weather permitting – but keep in mind that in the Smokies weather often does not permit. Even on a clear day, the view would not be 360 degrees, but I can say with confidence that the trip was well worth the effort. A pleasant hike on a beautiful trail. A good variety of experiences – rivers, ridges, a fine view (“weather permitting”), an old cabin, mist, wind, and isolation. It’s the real world at its best, or to quote a recent commercial: “There’s no app for that.”

Fall Colors on Welch Ridge (Part 3 of 4)

On a crisp October afternoon, my daughter, her husband, and I had paddled across Fontana Lake to the Lower Forney Creek campsite. As evening approached, Melissa and John sat in their camp chairs by the small fire they had built. Wood is not plentiful at these backcountry sites, but we can always find enough downed wood if we’ll just search away from the trail. I’m not much of a fire builder, which gives the appearance of a thoughtful, low impact, wilderness ethic, but the truth is simpler – I’m lazy. I like a campfire, but I can do without it. Fortunately, just about every other person on the planet enjoys a good camp fire, so unless I’m camping alone, I usually have a fire provided for me. I felt guilty for letting Melissa and John do all the work, but not guilty enough to actually get up and help. In their youthful enthusiasm, I don’t think they even noticed.

Later that night, well after we had settled into our tents and sleeping bags, it started to rain. Rain on a tent fly, one of life’s best sounds. We all slept well. Mud in the morning is a small price to pay for rain at night.

The next morning was cloudy and wet, but not rainy. I ate a brown and orange breakfast – cheese crackers, granola bars, ginger snap cookies, and filtered river water. Lunch will be the same, plus some peanut M&M’s. One of the best things about hiking is that I can eat chocolate and peanuts with reckless abandon – a guiltless pleasure with no consequences; although, I have discovered that if I hike more than 12 hours, something amazing and unexpected happens – I get tired of the chocolate and peanuts. That’s something that has never happened in the other, civilized part of my life. It’s one of those indescribable mysteries that can happen in the mountains.

After breakfast I took off on another excursion – a seven mile hike up Bear Creek Trail to Welch Ridge and High Rocks. Melissa and John had decided to lounge around the campsite and attend to three essential campsite chores: eating, reading, and napping. Through self-discipline and sheer determination they managed to accomplish all three in the seven hours I was gone.

I didn’t necessarily expect High Rocks to be the most dramatic spot in the mountains because I don’t think there is a “most dramatic spot” in the Smokies. There are numerous great spots, and I don’t waste my time debating which one is the very best. However, it did seem that High Rocks could be one of the most isolated spots in the park – a site rarely visited even by avid hikers. It’s not a famous or dominant peak; although it is high, almost 5,200’. It is too far from any roads for it to be the destination of a reasonable day hike, the shortest route being a 10 mile (one way) walk from the Road to Nowhere. Twenty miles is beyond the upper limit for a day hike for most folks.

And, High Rocks is not really “on the way” to anything famous. It’s sort of on the way to Hazel Creek; although it’s near just one of several trails to Hazel. Actually, High Rocks is at the end of a half-mile, dead-end, side trail off Welch Ridge Trail, so to go there you have to intend to go there. All I can say is, I didn’t see anyone else at High Rocks or on the trails.

So I set off on this cloudy, cool, almost-drizzly morning. I soon arrived at Bear Creek Trail and began ascending the eastern slope of Welch Ridge with Bear Creek flowing next to the trail. Like many trails in the Smokies this one is wide and smooth because it was once a railroad bed for the lumber companies of the early 1900s. The fall colors were vivid – mostly yellows at these lower elevations, with brilliant reds and corals kicking in at the higher elevations. I love all the colors, even brown, but there’s something about the reds and corals that just make me stop and stare, as if God had just invented them and was showing them to me to see what I thought about the idea.

I paused for a second to tell Him that I was impressed and pleased. [To be continued]

Forney Creek (Part 2 of 4)

My daughter and her husband and I wound along the twisting two-lane to the shores of Fontana Lake. We had my kayak and canoe in tow as we passed a variety of cabins, houses, and trailers in varying stages of disrepair. This is by no means a resort community. It’s one of those poor-to-working-class, rural areas that has a lot of simple, local character. Every home has a pickup truck in the yard, and it would not be a bit out of place to see a dead bear hanging from a tree branch and a pen of Plott hounds out behind the house. I’m pretty sure they all have indoor plumbing; although, an outhouse wouldn’t be a complete surprise either.

We easily stored two night’s worth of camping gear in our canoe and kayak and paddled about a mile west down the main channel and about two miles up the Forney Creek channel. When the water finally ended, we were at the moveable mouth of Forney Creek. It was mid-October, so the water was low, and the mouths of the rivers flowing out of the park and into the lake were covered with a lot of soft, muddy, bare land that would be underwater during the spring and summer. When the water levels are high from the spring rains, the mouth of the river will move fifty yards or more upstream to the edge of the forest.

So the most pleasant time to visit is the summer because you can paddle right to the edge of the forest. As soon as you step out of your boat you are surrounded by trees, shrubs, and flowers. By October the water level has dropped and you step out into a moist, lunar landscape. It’s just one more reminder that this lake, as beautiful as it is, is human-made and human-controlled. If scenic beauty were the main point, TVA would keep it full, but the phrase “scenic beauty” probably doesn’t show up in TVA’s mission statement. It’s all about power – electrical power, that is. The beauty of the lake is merely a pleasant by-product.

That used to offend me until I realized an inescapable fact: most of life’s necessities and conveniences have been manipulated by humans. Homes, clothes, and roads come most immediately to mind, but even our food and pets are joint efforts between nature and people. Corn began as a grass that we selected and cross-pollinated, resulting in the large ears of corn we have today. Or, your dog started out as a wolf or jackal that was genetically molded by people who wanted a domesticated canine for some specific purpose, such as herding sheep, retrieving ducks, or chasing badgers. That’s why there are no packs of wild poodles roaming the mountains and no “Do Not Feed The Dachshunds” signs in the backcountry. Like corn, those creatures don’t exist in the wild. They were created by humans for humans (although, I’m struggling to understand the purpose of poodles). Human ingenuity is often amazing, sometimes beneficial, and on rare occasions beautiful, as in the case of art, poetry, and Fontana Lake.

Even though this was prime leaf season, we saw only three trucks and trailers at the boat ramp and just one boat on the lake this afternoon. All the leaf watchers were clogging Cades Cove and Newfound Gap Road, as well as the roads in Pigeon Forge, Gatlinburg, Townsend, and Cherokee. The sky was a crisp, robin egg blue, so at least all those folks stuck in traffic had a nice day to do it in. In my more generous moments, I feel a tinge of sympathy for them because at least they tried to get outdoors and enjoy something without wires, silicon chips, and electricity, but that sympathy is quickly overshadowed by the sense of superiority that arises in the heart of anyone who has inside information about the secret workings of life, the best way to see the colors of a Smoky Mountain autumn being just one salient example.

 

The Lower Forney Creek campsite was less than a quarter mile from the mouth of the creek, so we brought a little more equipment than we normally would – a couple of folding camp chairs being the main additions to our sparse backpacking paraphernalia. Setting up camp was familiar and pleasant. My small tent smelled of dirt, leaves, and smoke, which is exactly how a tent should smell. Whenever I set up my tent, I think of where the dirt in it came from, and I spend a moment reliving that previous trip. This time it was Hazel Creek in May. It was the fishing trip that got blown out by a full day of rain. As I recall, I caught one small brook trout on a Parachute Adams, probably a size 16, in Sugar Fork before the water got too muddy and high. [To be continued]

The Road To Nowhere (Part 1 of 4)

I’ve never walked to Forney Creek because there are lots of places in the Smokies you can walk to, but there are only a few places to paddle to – and Forney Creek is one of them. So I paddle a kayak or canoe across Fontana Lake to the mouth of Forney.

Walking to Forney is perhaps a little easier than paddling. In fact, it was almost incredibly easy. We all came within a whisker of being able to drive to Forney and beyond. Just go to Bryson City and find Lakeview Drive – also known as the Road to Nowhere – and drive to its end, which is abrupt. I’m pleased that the Road to Nowhere goes by that name rather than the Road to Forney Creek or the Road to Hazel Creek. In fact, I suppose my favorite kind of road is the kind that goes to Nowhere rather than Somewhere, preferably the Middle of Nowhere.

Why is it called the Road to Nowhere rather than the Road to Somewhere?

The original boundaries of the park when it was established in 1934 were very similar to what they are today. The main exception was in this southwest quadrant of the park. The original boundary was a few miles north of its present location. The Little Tennessee River, Forney Creek, Hazel Creek and Eagle Creek were, for the most part, not in the park. In 1943 Fontana Dam was built, flooding the Little Tennessee River from Fontana Dam east to Bryson City. It also flooded the road that ran along the banks of the Little Tennessee, connecting Bryson City with points west. When the Federal government annexed the north shore of the new Fontana Lake, thus expanding the park’s boundary all the way to Fontana Lake, it promised to build a new road through this annexed portion to replace the road that now lay at the bottom of the lake. This new road would not only provide access to Fontana and beyond, it would also provide access to the numerous family cemeteries scattered along the creeks flowing out of the park and into Fontana Lake. These are the small cemeteries that you’ll bump into whenever you hike along a river in the Smokies.

The road construction finally began in the 1960s and extended about five miles into the park from Bryson City, across Noland Creek, but it stopped about two miles short of Forney Creek. Construction was stopped due to budget problems and environmental concerns; various studies were done and proposals were made in the subsequent years, and the project is now in the final stages of being completely abandoned. The Lakeview Drive will forever go to Nowhere In Particular. Forney Creek will remain a three mile walk from the end of the road.

Most folks nowadays are glad that the road project was aborted. About the only people who are upset are those who have loved ones in those cemeteries and those folks who think that the government ought to keep its promises. Under normal circumstances, keeping promises is a good thing, but we’ve all been in situations where we’ve made a stupid promise and later regretted it. This, I think, was one of those times. For many years I was worried that the government might actually keep its promise to build the road, thus ruining one of the great wilderness areas in the eastern US.

If it had been completed I would have grieved long and deep for the loss. Generally, I think the government should keep its promises; however, in this case, the promise was so potentially useless and destructive that I just hoped and prayed that the government would do what it often does – promise and not deliver. And, thankfully, that’s exactly what happened. In retrospect, as I think about politicians’ track record in keeping their promises, I don’t know why I was worried.

Why go to Forney Creek? Well, other than the fact that it’s a wild, pretty place, the fishing is pretty good. Another benefit is that it provides a great starting point for a hike to one of the most isolated, least visited spots in the park – High Rocks. [To be continued]