Upper Ramsey Cascades (Part 2 of 2)

Recently I was able to explore above Ramsey Cascades by finding a small path to the top of this popular spot and sloshing my way upstream for about an hour. There were several rock-and-water barriers that I had to hike around, but there were often small, pink pieces of surveyor’s tape to show the best route through the brush and thickets. A few people, but only a few, had been here before.

The Upper Ramsey Cascades – as far as I know, it doesn’t have an official name – was about a half mile from Ramsey Cascades. It’s hard to compare waterfalls because they have different shapes and volumes of water, but in some ways the Upper is much bigger. Its drop is not as steep as the lower Ramsey. It’s a long, sloping series of 10, 30, or 50 foot cascades, and for this reason it’s hard to say where it begins and ends. Some folks might say it’s 100 feet high, others would say 200 or more, and they’d all be right. Standing at the bottom, you think you can see the top, but as you make your way up through the woods, you see cascade after cascade after cascade coming into view. It’s so long and sloping that there’s no place you can stand and see the entire cascade, so it’s impossible to take a picture of the entire thing. In fact, I took just one picture (from the bottom looking up) and gave up.

Only as I hiked up alongside this upper cascade was I encountering new territory. This was the reason I came, not to see any fabulous new views or to make any dramatic discoveries but simply to see a bit of Ramsey Prong that I hadn’t seen before. So I weaved my way along a vague path decorated with a few pink strips of plastic until I reached a point where I could safely re-enter the river. I suppose this is what I would call the “top,” probably 200 or 300 feet from the bottom where I had to get out of the river to circumvent the cascade.

An unnamed pool between the lower and upper cascades

It was at this point that I unpacked my fly rod, assembled it, and tied on a Light Cahill, a yellow mayfly imitation about the size of a dime. I spent the next hour gradually working my way upstream, casting to likely looking chutes and pools. Whenever I fish I fight the urge to get my hopes up, but if there was ever a piece of water that had potential, this was it. The number of people who fish this stretch of water in a year must be incredibly small. In that respect, this water is every fisherman’s dream, about as close to virgin water as can be found east of the Mississippi. On the other hand, the quarter mile of water above the upper cascade was fast and rough. If any fish were there, they had to be native survivors from 50 or 100 years ago, or they had to have been stocked in the days when the NPS still stocked these Smokies rivers. Migrating from below was not an option.

I spent about an hour sloshing and climbing over rocks, and the answer to one of my questions was obvious from the start: “No the landscape doesn’t level out above the upper cascade.” This is rugged country, more than average for the Smokies.

The bottom of the upper cascade

More of the upper cascade (it just keeps going and going...)



I desperately wanted to catch a fish to answer my other question, but it was not to be. I didn’t get a single strike – no splashes, no tugs, nothing. This, of course, was the worst possible outcome, not only because catching fish is better than not catching them, but also because of the nature of proof. Catching a fish would prove that there are fish in this water, but not catching a fish proves nothing. The river could be fishless, or it could full of fish, but I just couldn’t entice any of them to show themselves.

Which means I still don’t know about the fish. Which means I’ll have to keep coming back until I either catch a fish or am skunked enough times to convince myself that there are no trout up there. Of course, if I come back and manage to catch some fish, then I’ll have to keep coming back because I will have found a lonely stretch of good water – a trout fisherman’s dream.

Such is the gloriously twisted logic of fishing new water. Whether you catch fish or you don’t, both lead to the same conclusion: keep fishing, even if – no, especially if – you have to walk three hours and past two waterfalls to get there.

Ramesy Cascades Do Over (Part 1 of 2)

Recently I was able to scratch an itch that’s been nagging me for several years: I did a little exploring above and beyond Ramsey Cascades.

For many years, I assumed that every interesting feature in the Smokies had a trail going to it. If a trail stretched four miles to Ramsey Cascades, then stopped, it must be because there’s nothing more to see. It was as if the water cascading down that rock face didn’t actually come from anywhere. It just magically appeared at the top of the cascade and came tumbling down.

(Lower) Ramsey Cascade

To make a long story short, someone informed me that there’s another cascade about a half mile upstream from Ramsey Cascades. (Actually, he told me it was a mile, but I’ve measured the distance using GPS coordinates, and it’s only half a mile. But, in his defense, it’s an hour-long, upstream slog, and it does feel like a mile when you are doing it.)

Soon after I learned about this second cascade, I hiked the trail to Ramsey Cascades, crawled through rhododendron and between boulders to the top, and sloshed my way further upstream to see the second cascade. Once I saw the cascade, I lingered for a few minutes, then left because I was tired and it was getting late. It was a long hike back, but within fifteen minutes I was already disgusted with myself. I had intended to fish a little between the two falls, but didn’t. I had stopped at the foot of the second cascade, but hadn’t crawled around to the top of it to see what was further upstream. Were there more cascades? Did the landscape level out? Were there fish upstream? The answer to all those questions was, “I don’t know because I didn’t bother to find out.”

Finally, a couple of years later, I decided that first trip would be my mulligan, so I went back, hoping to get it right this time. This wasn’t a once in a lifetime, “bucket list” kind of trip. It was just an excursion to fill in a couple of missing details. And for that reason, it took me awhile to get around to it. (The fact that it’s a hard, eight-mile day might also have had a little something to do with it.)

The four mile trail to Ramsey Cascades is a fine hike, of course, but it isn’t easy. It’s rocky and uphill, and it was made even harder by the fact that it was just the warm up for me. On this particular day, this four mile march was nothing more than the price to pay for the opportunity to explore above the falls.

The first question to be answered at Ramsey Cascades is how to get to the top. I had been to the top a couple of times, and both times I had crawled through a tangled mess of shrubs and rocks. The result, eventually, was that I’d emerge into the river about 10 or 15 yards upstream from the top of the Cascades, giving me the option of moving downstream closer to the precipice or heading upstream toward the second cascade. It’s a route that’s messy, but safe.

I had been told of another route, a light path leading to the top, which was much easier. I found this path, but I’m not going to say exactly where it is, and here’s why. Yes, it was much easier than my previous route. This path was even marked with small pieces of pink surveyor’s tape, so it was fairly easy to follow. But there was one significant detail that I hadn’t understood – this new route emerged from the thicket at the top of the cascade within 2 or 3 feet of the edge. I suppose that some people could simply walk along this narrow ledge at the top of the precipice, but I suspect that the four people who have fallen to their death at Ramsey Cascades walked where they should have crawled on hands and knees, perhaps in this very spot. So I crawled like a trembling, newborn kitten, not wanting to become a statistic on a wooden sign and leave Phyllis a widow.

Once I was across the ledge and in the river, I began to slog upstream. This type of river hiking is not usually intimidating, but it can be slow and tiring, which it was. I was wearing my felt-bottomed fishing boots, which made my wading less slippery, so as I stepped from one spot to the next there were no dramatic slips and slides.

Within 15 minutes I encountered a 20’ waterfall consisting not of boulders but a wide wall of rock. It was the kind of obstacle that can’t be climbed, only avoided. So, I waded to the shore and found a path leading around and up, and once again, there were strips of pink surveyor’s tape showing the way. As on many other occasions in the backcountry, someone had been here before and had done me the favor of providing a few helpful clues. Several times during the day, I’d encounter an impassible cascade and would move to the riverbank to walk around. I’d have my head down searching for good footing, and when I’d look up a pink clue would be hanging just a few inches from my face. I’d like to say that great minds think alike, but since small minds think alike, too, let’s just say I had picked the same route as the trailblazer and leave it at that. [To be continued]

Name By Committee (Part 3 of 3)

Bone Valley, Bearwallow Branch, Snake Den Ridge. Those are names that tickle the imagination, that have local, rural character. It would make a good writing assignment for school kids. Choose a name, then make up an imaginative story of how the name came to be.

Then there are the names with no charm, no imagination required: Mount LeConte, Mount Guyot, Clingmans Dome. How did these sites get their names? Explorers of the 1850s such as Arnold Guyot measured, mapped, and named many of these peaks, but ultimately a nomenclature committee sat down in the 1930s and decided to honor various people by renaming the most prominent features in the park. That’s it, a committee. No stories about cattle dying in a blizzard (Bone Valley). No descriptive names like Big Balsam or Black Top. No imagination. No sense of place. Just a motion, a second, and a vote of those in favor and those opposed.

The scientists and explorers of the mid 1800s measured and mapped these peaks, then named them after themselves and their friends, rather than the names given them by the Cherokee and the local white settlers. Some guys never even hiked up the mountains that are named after them. Granted, many major peaks had several names, so the geographers and committees did create some order out of the chaos, and some of the names do honor men who are worthy of being remembered, but those names diluted the local character that saturated the topography. White Rock and Big Balsam became Mt. Cammerer and Mt. LeConte.

A well-known Smokies mountain is Smoky Dome. The Cherokee called it kuwahi, meaning “place of the mulberries” or “mulberry mountain.” It is 6,643 feet above sea level, making it the highest peak in the park and the third highest point in the eastern US. I love those old names because they are simple and descriptive – the place where a lot of mulberries grow or where the mist lingers. Of course, you probably don’t recognize Smoky Dome because Smokies explorer Arnold Guyot and the nomenclature committee renamed it Clingmans Dome.



Thomas Clingman was a North Carolina politician, Confederate soldier, explorer, and businessman who explored the Smokies in the 1840s. He is sometimes described as a “regional promoter” and a “colorful character” who had a long-standing dispute with Elisha Mitchell about who had been the first to measure the tallest mountain in the eastern US. Because the highest mountain is now called Mount Mitchell, you probably know who finally won that argument. Clingman had to settle for the third highest being named after him. Maybe Mitchell and Clingman’s spat was a serious scientific dispute, but it sounds more like two kids fighting over a toy or the last cookie in the jar. Reading between the lines, Clingman seemed to be a conceited self-promoter who enjoyed being in the center of public attention. (Maybe there should be a Clingmans Cave somewhere.) Of course, maybe I’m just bitter because I prefer the old names that have a sense of place that “Clingman” just doesn’t have.

A later nomenclature commission finished the job with names like Charlies Bunion and Mt. Kephart. I’m thankful that these explorers and committees didn’t have more friends; otherwise, we’d have no Eagle Rocks or Defeat Ridges left. They’d all be named Smith Peak or Jones Ridge.



The actual Charlie on Charlies Bunion
(from NPS archives)



Harvey Broome once suggested that we not even name mountains and rivers because people would be less likely to go to places that had no names. Planes and trains couldn’t run without named destinations. Erasing all the names could solve the problem of over-visitation of our national parks. He extended the logic, suggesting war would be impossible because people could not fight a country which they could not name. Might be worth a try. Or, just keep the old names. Local character would survive, and wars would end. After all, who’d fight over a spot called Maggot Ridge or Devils Den?

To give credit where credit is due, there is one decision that I whole-heartedly endorse: dropping the apostrophes from all the park names. I don’t know exactly whose idea this was or when the change was made, but it’s a change that has simplified the lives of countless printers and writers. Clingman’s became Clingmans. Cade’s Cove became Cades Cove. Quick. Easy. Painless. So put a list on your refrigerator entitled, Wise Decisions by the Federal Government. Item 1 could be, Creating the national park system. Item 2 would be, Dropping the apostrophes in the Smokies. If they ever have a third good idea, you’ll have a list started and conveniently located.

For the website only:

A pretty good book on the origin of Smokies names is Place Names of the Smokies by Allen Coggins. It covers a lot of names, but doesn’t really go into much detail. For example, for Panther Branch he might tell you that it’s named after the mountain lions (which were also called panthers) that used to inhabit the park. Well, yeah, I could figure that out myself. I’d like to know why that particular creek rather than some other creek was named Panther Branch. Or, why this creek is called Panther Branch instead of, say, Rhododendron Branch. Nevertheless, there’s some good information in the book, so it’s probably worthy of a spot in the Smokies section of your bookshelf.

Also, there are several books on the history of the Smokies which include chapters on some of the explorers, including Arnold Guyot, for whom the second highest mountain in the park is named. The standard history text, written in the 1960s, is Strangers in High Places by Michael Frome. It is my personal favorite. Other valuable histories of the park are: The Wild East by Margaret Brown and The Great Smokies: From Natural Habitat to National Park by Dan Pierce. All are available at any of the visitor centers in or near the park. By the way, there is a visitors center outside of the park, about a mile and a half down Hwy 66 from I-40’s exit #407. Look for the brick building with a green roof on the right and a Chamber of Commerce sign out front.

My hope is that some day I'll publish a book drawn partly from these blogs. It will be called Hallowed Hills, Holy Waters.  Of course, you'll want to drop whatever you are doing and run out and buy it immediately!!

Every Name Tells a Story (Part 2 of 3)

The African explorer Henry Stanley reported that the name of the Zambezi River in southern Africa came from the local natives’ word “zambezi” – meaning “river.” Apparently, the local natives called their river “the river.” It was the white explorers who began using the word “Zambezi” as the name of the river. That’s probably how the Oconaluftee River near the town of Cherokee, NC got its name. The Cherokee word for “river” or “by the river” was “oconaluftee.” That common noun (with a lower-case o) for “by the river” was converted by the white man into the name (with an upper-case O) of that particular river. Just as zambezi became the Zambezi River, oconaluftee became the Oconaluftee River.

The naming of our Native American tribes involved a similar process, but with an added twist. Most of today’s tribal names are not the names that the tribes called themselves; they are names given to them by the neighboring tribes and white frontiersmen. For example, the Cherokee called themselves “ani-yun-wiya.” Today, we should call them “Ani-yun-wiya,” but we don’t. We call them “Cherokee” which is probably a variation of the name that the Choctaw or Creek tribes called them – “tisolki” or “tsalagi.” It meant “the people in the land of caves” or “the people who speak a different language.”

To understand how this process works, picture the white trappers and traders of the 1700s and 1800s gradually moving west in search of land and game. Before moving farther, they’d ask the local tribe about the next tribe who lived further to the west. Of course, the host tribe would give the word that they called the neighboring tribe rather than the word that the neighboring tribe called itself. The white frontiersmen thought that was the proper name of the tribe when in reality it was just a word meaning, very roughly, “foreigners, not us.” So, not only did common nouns become proper nouns, but those nouns originated from neighboring tribes and not from the tribe itself. Thus, the Ani-yun-wiya (meaning roughly “us”) came to be called the Tsalagi (meaning roughly “not us”) which to white ears was Cherokee (now the name of the tribe).

It’s also interesting that almost without exception, a tribe’s name for itself meant “the people” or “the best people” or “the beautiful people.” A tribe’s word for its neighbors usually meant “enemy” or “inferior people” or “those who speak a different language.” The only difference between then and now is that today people in every nation will show others the courtesy of calling them by their own, official name, but with the oft-spoken understanding that our way of life is superior to theirs. Americans frequently call the US the greatest country in the world. Of course, that’s what Canadians say about Canada, Mexicans say about Mexico, Poles say about Poland, etc. etc. A lot has changed over the millennia, but ethnic or national pride seems to be hard-wired into our cultural DNA. Us versus Them.

But back to the names of the rivers and ridges in the Smokies. . .

I just picked out several USGS 7.5 minute topo maps and looked at the names of the various topographic features. Here’s a list of those with the most character: Doghobble Branch, Killpecker Ridge, Panther Den Ridge, Bee Gum Branch, Potato Ridge, Roaring Fork, Bone Valley, Brushy Mt., Cherokee Orchard, Trillium Branch, Peregrine Peak, Rocky Top, Breakneck Ridge, Bearwallow Branch, Eagle Rocks, Shanty Mountain., Mill Creek, Edens Garden Creek. Those are the kinds of names that have character – local, rural character. Those are names which tickle the imagination. It would make a good writing assignment for school kids. Choose a name, then make up an imaginative story of how the name came to be.

Buzzard Rock near Devils Den

Then there are the names with no earthy character, no imagination required: Mount LeConte, Mount Kephart, Mount Cammerer, Mount Guyot, Clingmans Dome.

Charlies Bunion (center), Mt. Kephart in background

How did these sites get their names? A government committee. [To be continued]

Local Character Assassination (Part 1 of 3)

The town of Gatlinburg used to be White Oak Flats. The town I live in used to be called Mossy Creek but is now Jefferson City. Now I like Thomas Jefferson as much as the next guy, but “Mossy Creek” has character – a rural charm that “Jefferson City” just doesn’t have, which is exactly why the city fathers changed the name 100 years ago. They were embarrassed by the unsophisticated name. Likewise, Carson-Newman College was once the Wampus Cats. Today we are the Eagles. Same motives, same process, no charm, no regional connection, no character. I’d call it character assassination, where the character that’s being killed is the earthy, down-home connection that is born among the local residents. It’s what the poets call “a sense of place.”

This kind of local character assassination took place in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, but on a fairly limited scale. Some names were changed, but there are still a lot of funky, local names in the park.

For example, in the park, you’ll find places like Devils Den, Panther Creek, and the Cat Stairs, names which provide some interesting images and room for the imagination to wander. I’ve seen several Devils Dens in the Appalachians, and they all are fields or slopes of huge boulders – scattered, piled, and balanced on each other, giving the impression that the Devil himself would live there or simply that a guy would have a devil of a time trying to walk through. The Devils Den on the southern slopes of Greenbrier Pinnacle is exactly the same. I spent a couple of hours one afternoon scrambling and sliding my way through it. I didn’t see the Devil, but it did look like the kind of place where he’d feel comfortable, although maybe a bit too serene for his taste – too many singing birds and chirping frogs and not enough weeping and gnashing of teeth.

There are at least six Panther Creeks, Panther Branches, etc. in the park, reminders that mountain lions used to live in this area. From the west you can see the rocky escarpment that forms the upper end of the Cat Stairs on the western end of Greenbrier Pinnacle. I assume the name Cat Stairs has something to do with mountain lions, as well. I’d like to think that it used to be a favorite haunt of these big cats. I can visualize them prowling around the cliffs and ledges of this mountain. I’d also like to think that there’s a cat or two living there still; although the official park literature says not. (Although, every year there are several alleged sightings of these cats in the park, often by knowledgeable people who ought to know.)

There are still a few Mill Creeks and Mill Branches in the park, which is a lot less than there used to be. When the park was being established in the 1920s and 30s, there were over thirty Mill Creeks in the Smokies, a reminder that local folks often give rather utilitarian names to local features. The creek with several grist mills on it would be… Mill Creek, of course. The fact that just about every valley had a creek with one or more mills on it meant that nearly every valley had a Mill Creek. Since the folks who lived in these valleys didn’t wander very far from home, the only Mill Creek each community needed to worry about was their own. The fact that there were dozens of Mill Creeks would eventually drive the map makers crazy, but it caused no confusion for the local folks.

Small (unnamed) falls on Mill Creek

Several years ago I spent a few weeks reading some of the writings of the African explorers Henry Stanley and David Livingstone. I believe it was Stanley who mentioned that the name of the Zambezi River in southern Africa came from the local natives’ word “zambezi” – meaning “river.” Yes, that’s right, the local natives called their river “the river.” No need to single it out with a special name because it was their one, big, local river. If a guy told his wife he was going to the “zambezi,” she’d know he was going to their river, just as my wife knows that if I’m “going to the river,” she could find me on the Holston somewhere downstream of Cherokee Dam. It was the European explorers who began using the word “Zambezi” as the name of the river. They turned a common noun with a lower case “z” into a proper noun with an upper case “Z” because they were mappers and explorers ranging far across the continent. They needed different names for different rivers. I suspect that many of the names of the rivers in Africa actually mean “river” in the local dialect

That’s probably how the Oconaluftee River near the town of Cherokee, NC got its name. [To be continued]

Don't Do It! (Part 6 of 6)

After spending 4 ½ hours hiking, sliding, and finally crawling up Porters Creek manway, we arrived at the Appalachian Trail on the main ridgecrest with a surprise. For the past hour we thought we had been headed far east of Charlies Bunion and Dry Sluice Gap, farther east than we had hoped. Instead, we came out onto the AT where we had originally intended – just a few yards away from Dry Sluice Gap and about a quarter mile east of Charlies Bunion. Trusting the cairns all day had taken us up the tough, “don’t do it” route, exactly what we had wanted to do. While we had been ascending, I had been thinking: “If this is an easier, safer route then I really won’t be able to come down the old ‘don’t do it’ route. I’m not even sure I can descend this easy route.” But as it turned out, we had ascended the “don’t do it” route, and it hadn’t been too bad. Trust the cairns.

Once we were on the AT we spent a few minutes walking to Charlies Bunion – just a five minute walk to the west. But we soon had to make a decision. It was getting close to 2 pm, so we didn’t have a lot of day light left on this mid-December day. Should we walk about 20 minutes to the east and try to find an easier route down Porters Mountain? What if such a route doesn’t exist? What if it does exist, but its intersection with the AT isn’t obvious? What if there is more than one spot that looks like a Porters Mountain trail? If we walk 20 minutes and haven’t found it, how much longer do we walk looking for it? What if we do find it, but it’s not easier?

We could potentially waste an hour looking for another route that we weren’t certain even existed. So, we decided to go down the way we had come up. This would be exactly what the old Sierra Club trail guide had warned against: “Nobody should attempt to descend this trail from the AT. The latter section is the most difficult and dangerous stretch of trail described in this entire handbook. Don’t do it!”

Until that moment I had assumed that we might not do it. We would ascend that segment, but we wouldn’t try to descend it. But lack of daylight pushed us down the way we had ascended. So we stepped off the AT and back onto the old Porters Creek manway. We were able to stay on two feet most of the time, but occasionally I’d switch to a crab walk using all fives – two hands, two feet, and my butt – to drag and bounce down the slope. The result? Dirty hands and feet and butt, but otherwise fine. There was some slipping and sliding on wet rocks and a lot of holding on to those same trees, rocks, and roots that had helped us on the ascent, but it was enjoyable – as long as I kept my butt or hands on the ground and stepped carefully, often crab style. In fact, descending in this manner enabled me to see more of the surrounding forest, slopes, and valleys than on the ascent. Like before, being cautious and deliberate made it a bit stressful, but interesting – just the right level of adventure for a couple of middle-aged hikers in decent, but not great, shape.

We got past this steep, topmost section in about 15 minutes, reentered the creekbed, and soon encountered a four foot high cairn that we had passed on the way up and had wondered what it meant. Now we knew: “Brave hearts to the front, cowards to the rear. It is a good day to die!” I know, I know, that’s a bit overdramatic, but I love that quote by Crazy Horse, and unless I decide to climb a waterfall and somehow manage to survive and write about it, this may be my best chance to use it.

But, of course, we didn’t die. In fact, the hike back was beautiful, long, and uneventful – as most hikes in the Smokies are. We arrived back at the car just as dusk was settling in. Sometimes when you are warned not to do something, it’s best not to do it. But this wasn’t one of those times. Instead, we had been careful, managed not to get lost, survived without injury, and loved every minute of it. We were glad we did it.

And the next time we’ll be better prepared. I’ve always thought of walking or running as being the best ways to prepare for a hike. Now I can add crab walking to that list. On flat land. Up stairs. Down stairs. Just keep your butt near the ground and scamper around on your hands and feet. When someone asks what in the world you are doing, you can casually say, “Getting in shape for a hike” as if the answer should have been obvious.

Be sure to pay attention to the look on their face.

NOTE: An earlier article in the series of six on Porters Creek manway has detailed directions for this old, old route. Porters Creek manway (aka Dry Sluice manway) is an extension of Porters Creek Trail. The manway begins at the wooden #31 marker at the campsite at the end of Porters Creek Trail.

Caution: Slippery When Wet (Part 5 of 6)

On our December hike up the old, Porters Creek manway, there was one particularly memorable moment when it seemed that we were going east when we should be going south. We had pulled away from what seemed to be the main channel of the river and were following the rock cairns as they led us along a small tributary. We considered backtracking to the main branch, but we decided to continue on the small tributary because backtracking isn’t something you want to do unless absolutely essential. In other words, “The best thing about here is that we’re, well, here.” So we followed the cairns as they led us up a sometimes wet, sometime dry, always slippery streambed. It was fun and tiring and getting steeper by the minute. We didn’t know where this route would deposit us – somewhere on the AT, but where exactly? But things were going well. This off-trail hiking isn’t too hard when you have a trail to hike on! It was somewhere on that streambed that we learned to trust the cairns.

The higher elevation meant that the creekbed narrowed, so of course the rhododendron took advantage of the situation and squeezed in even tighter. Greg, who stayed a few yards ahead of me, would alert me with his standard rhody warning: “I see some rhododendron in our future.” The water was flowing, so we’d stay to the right or the left of the water, trying to keep our feet dry but giving the rhododendron branches their opportunity to reach out and grab us. If rhododendron is anything, it is relentless. It fights its battle by slapping, taunting, and grabbing; bending but not breaking. It’s like being pecked to death by a duck.

Then, suddenly, the water simply disappeared underneath us, and we were walking in a dry creek bed: a “dry sluice.”

Did I say dry? Well, it was a waterless creek bed. However, this cold, shady piece of land was very moist. The rocks were consistently slippery. It was slow, careful hiking. We were often using our hands as well as our feet as we would scramble slowly up the rocks, boulders, and tree trunks that littered the creek bed. Let me say it again: the rocks were slippery. I was reminded of the warning that the NPS gives about climbing on waterfalls; although, there was rarely a chance for any tumble farther than five or six feet. However, we also knew that it’s very, very possible to get bruised and broken by just a short, quick off-balance fall. Greg survived one potentially disastrous spill in which he ended up hanging upside down on a log, but other than an occasional slip or slide there were no other dramatic, near-death experiences. But to tell you the truth, there easily could have been. We had to be very careful in choosing our footing, and our years of experience in fishing and wading Smokies rivers really did seem to help. In fact, I think this part of the hike was as risky as the final, steep quarter mile when we were on a 45 degree slope and pulling ourselves up to the top with the help of roots and small trees.

Sometimes wet, sometimes dry, always slippery

Around 4,000 feet spruce trees began to appear, and above 4,500 feet we saw some fine walls of ice where trickles of water in a shady gully or north facing slope had frozen over. The final 30 minutes were risky but manageable – assuming we didn’t do something stupid. There were a few places where we could stand up on two feet and walk up the slope – but very few. We spent much of our time on all fours, dragging ourselves up the muddy, rocky slope. We were still in a forested area, so there were small trees, rocks, and roots that we used to keep from sliding backward. In such places, standing up and trying to walk really could have resulted in serious injury. It wasn’t a straight, vertical drop, but a lengthy, head-over-heels tumble over rough ground could do just as much damage. The secret was to not do something clumsy, and somehow we succeeded. Maybe this last quarter mile deserved to be upgraded to a seven on the danger meter – below climbing on a waterfall or grabbing a wild boar’s tail, but higher than poking a copperhead with a stick. [To be continued]