Raven Fork (Part 1 of 5)

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 I had been on an off-trail jag, looking for old trails from the past that were no longer maintained.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

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

The Heart of the Raven Fork Wilderness

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

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



Dashed line across Breakneck Ridge
and down to Three Forks Pool

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

"I Get Where I'm At"

A few months ago, I heard an interview with Kevin Costner as he and his band were preparing to play at the Grand Ol Opry. He was dazzled at the prospect of playing at such a venerable venue. To him, the Grand Ol Opry is hallowed ground, made holy by such great souls as Roy Acuff, Minnie Pearl, and Tennessee Ernie Ford. In the interview, he made a statement that was grammatically heinous, but it got to the heart of the matter. He looked around, then looked at the interviewer and said: “I get where I’m at.”

He gets it. He understands the history and heritage of that place. He was honored and humbled to have the opportunity to play there.

I think most of us here in Jefferson County get where we’re at. Our out-of-town friends and relatives tell us how lucky we are to live here. We love the mountains, lakes, and rivers. We love the farms and fields and turkey and deer. We live in a beautiful place.

And yet, there are a few who don’t get where they’re at. So I’ve written a letter…

Dear Roadside Grass-Cutters,

I have a favor to ask of you. As you cut the grass along Jefferson County’s roads this season, could you please lift up your blades whenever you come to a pile of trash? I think most people would agree that shredded, scattered litter along the side of the road looks worse than uncut grass.

Please understand, I’m not blaming you. I know your job description tells you to cut the grass, so you cut the grass.  It’s not your fault that there is litter all over our county roads, and it’s not your job to deal with it. The fault really lies with two groups of people: the slobs who throw their trash on our public roads (if they want to litter their own yards, that’s their right, but the roads belong to all of us) and the county leaders who haven’t come up with any consistent plan for litter pick-up. Say what you want about the federal government, but at least they have enough foresight to send a crew of workers to pick up litter along I-40 before the grass crews arrive. Our county leaders haven’t figured that out yet.

In spite of the fact that I’m frustrated and embarrassed by my county’s roads, it is kind of funny. I mean, our leaders talk about bringing in tourists and new business, and yet they don’t do anything about the appearance of our county. Do they really believe tourists will think a trashy county is worth visiting? I’d like to think that simple community pride would prod our leaders to do something about the litter problem, but that may be too much to hope for. Maybe the fear of losing tourist money will work.

So, dear grass-cutters, I know it’s not your job to mow around the roadside litter. It will take an extra bit of effort on your part, and that’s not fair to you. But unless the folks who throw their trash on the ground or the folks in local government whose job it is to deal with the trash have a change of heart, you are my last hope. I’ll continue to pick up trash in my neighborhood, and I suspect other local residents will do the same, but simple, random acts of cleanliness won’t be enough. It’s going to take a larger effort by our county government to keep our county clean. I know what you’re thinking – I’ve had the same thoughts… we citizens shouldn’t rely on the government to keep our roads clean. You’re right. In an ideal world, people wouldn’t throw trash out their car windows. In an ideal world, we all would pull together and clean up our roads. But our world isn’t ideal. A tiny percentage of litterers can make our entire county look like a pig sty, and it’s the job of the local government to take charge and clean up the mess. I’m sorry, but that’s just the way the world works. 

So, could you do us a favor and not shred the roadside trash? A lot of folks, including me, would really appreciate your extra effort. Thanks.

Greg Hoover

Love The One You're With

Cherokee Lake, Jefferson County, Tennessee

Back in the 1970s, Stephen Stills sang, “If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with.” Even as a teenager I realized that, morally, he was on thin ice, but I guess you could say that about most popular music. It was sometime during this period in my life that I began to realize that a celebrity may have great musical or artistic talent, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he has anything worthwhile to say. Great music is often matched with lyrics which, if taken seriously, lead to a shallow, meaningless existence. Nevertheless, there is a sense in which “love the one you’re with” is good advice…

 

I’ve had a life-long love affair with the Smoky Mountains, and I’m thrilled that I live just an hour away from them, but I also love Yellowstone, Acadia, Yosemite, the Black Hills, and the Grand Tetons, and I’d be thrilled to live near any one of them. I suppose if you held a gun to my head and made me choose, I’d say the Smokies are my favorite national park; although, to be honest, I don’t know if I prefer the Smokies because I truly believe they’re the best national park, or because they are close by and a guy ought to learn to appreciate his home territory. Love the one you’re with.

Part of the secret to a happy life is simply to learn to love where you are, whether that’s the coast, the mountains, the desert, the suburbs, or cornfields. Every place has its own charm which may consist of panoramic views and fabulous sunsets or it may consist of birds, bugs, and weeds. No matter where you are, Nature is always nearby – sometimes right out in the open but sometimes lurking around the edges.

• Fielden Store Road, Jefferson County, Tennessee

For a lot of city folks, their closest encounters with Nature typically consist of pigeons on ledges and weeds in vacant lots. Not exactly national park material, but Nature nonetheless. And if you are destined to live there, you might as well learn to see the beauty in it. Even a dandelion in the crack of a sidewalk can be a happy reminder that Nature won’t go down without a fight, and while most of us hate dandelions because they are a blemish on our picture-perfect yards, a field of yellow dandelions is a beautiful sight.

If I want a serious, Saturday-sized dose of nature, I’ll go to the Smokies or some spot in Cherokee or Nantahala or Pisgah National Forest, but I can also appreciate the beauty of the farmland along Fielden Store or Indian Cave Road just a few minutes from my home. My in-laws live in a quiet spot where pretty much nothing happens but the weather… and even that doesn’t happen very often. It’s a pleasure to simply watch the cows, horses, tractors, mockingbirds, swallows, and the occasional blacksnake do today what they did yesterday and what they’ll do tomorrow. Love the one you’re with, even if it’s a slithering reptile. (If it has round pupils, you could even pick it up, but keep in mind that even non-venomous snakes are reluctant to love the one they’re with, especially if that one is a human.)

I try to get out and walk several times a week, either in my neighborhood or at Cherokee Dam; although during the summer it’s likely to be behind a push mower. I must admit that I’m usually just ready to get it done because I’m doing it for exercise, and it’s just another item to be checked off my day’s To Do list. But every now and then I’ll be overcome by the fact that walking in a place that I love should be a pleasure, not a pain. I can sometimes get myself in a leisurely, observant frame of mind by reading something by Henry David Thoreau, a committed walker if there ever was one. Or, Robert Frost’s poetry speaks of being acquainted with the night, or leaning against his hoe to talk to a neighbor, or walking along an old wall, replacing the stones that have somehow tumbled down during the winter because “something there is that doesn’t love a wall.” Of course, James Taylor’s “Walking Man” must be listened to during an autumn walk just as Aaron Copland’s “Appalachian Spring” fits a springtime amble.

Just one of a thousand Smoky Mt scenes

I recently discovered a Copland instrumental called “Down A Country Lane” that fits any quiet back road during any season. The first time I listened to it as I walked down an empty, country road under a starry October night, I cried. Really. I don’t know why. Maybe it was the cold air in my eyes. Maybe it was the fact that I’d just spent a couple of hours with my grandkids, and I was thinking about generations coming and generations going. Or, maybe that’s what you do when you are glad to be alive in a place where you are glad to be.

Love the one you’re with, and before long, it will become the one you love.

Four Generations

Almost Great Fishing (in the Smokies and Elsewhere)

I recently returned from a week of fishing on the AuSable River in Michigan. It’s a well-known, well-tended river with big brown trout who feed at night. So most of our fishing took place from 9 pm to 1 am using dry flies. In case you don’t know, a dry fly is simply a feather and fur imitation of an insect – in this case, mayflies – that floats on the surface. You know a fish has taken your fly when you see the fly disappear from the surface, sometimes in a loud, visible splash, sometimes in a silent, invisible sip. Did you catch the part about seeing your fly disappear? That’s what makes night fishing for trout hard – and interesting – because what is normally a visual form of fishing becomes purely auditory. You listen carefully in the vicinity of where you think your fly is floating, hoping to hear an unusual splash or sip. After awhile you are able to distinguish the sound of a fish from the sound of river turbulence. The river sounds wet, while the fish sounds alive. It’s a subtle, but real, difference that you eventually, half-way figure out.

When my wife, Phyllis, asked me how the fishing was, I replied, “Almost great.” She showed the appropriate amount of interest with her response: “Good. I’m glad.” What I didn’t tell her was that it was the kind of “almost great” where you end up with very little to show for your efforts. It wasn’t a horseshoes & hand grenades kind of “almost.” It was the other kind. Think of it this way. In baseball there are two ways to “almost” hit a home run. One way is to hit a triple. You don’t make it home; you end up on third. The other way to almost hit a home run is to hit a deep fly ball that is caught on the warning track. With the first almost you end up on third with the fans cheering. With the second almost you walk back to the dugout, in silence or maybe in a shower of beer bottles. My “almost great” fishing trip was a warning track out. I hooked several very big trout… and lost them all.

I’ve had quite a few “great” and “almost great” days fishing in the Smokies – but not usually because of the fish. As a matter of fact, if I focus strictly on the body count after a day of Smokies fishing, nearly all of my fishing in the Smokies has been either lousy or decent, with only an occasional great day mixed in just to keep my hopes up. Some days the fish are cooperative and stupid, which fits my fishing talents perfectly, but they are small. Those are the decent days. Other days they are too smart or nervous or bored for a guy like me to catch. Those are the lousy days.

Camping at Forney Creek

But if I’ll expand my paradigm just a bit to include not just the fish, but the whole scene – water, trees, flowers, birds, otters, solitude – then fishing in the Smokies is always great. As an old fly fisherman once said, “The fishing is always good, even if the catching isn’t.” That’s a perfect description of fishing in the Smokies.

Three Forks Pool deep in the Raven Fork Wilderness in the Smokies

In fishing a Smokies river you’ll spend a little time hiking by the river but much more time hiking in it. It is possible to fish these rivers from the riverbank, and you might even catch more fish that way because wading in the river often spooks the fish. I’ve tried fly fishing from the bank, but I invariably end up in the river – waist deep, in the middle, wading against the current, hopping on and over rocks. I seem to be drawn to the noise and the movement of the water. Fishing like this, you are not just looking at a pretty river. You are involved with the river. You become a part of it. At these moments you belong in the river just as surely as the water, rocks, and fish. Somehow, having a fly rod in your hand, searching for fish, provides a focus, a participation– what the ancient Greeks called koinonia and we Americans call communion –  that you can’t get by just sitting by or hiking next to the river.

Hazel Creek

How’s the fishing in the Smokies? Great, always great.

Mount Cammerer: Love at First Sight (Part 7 of 7 on the Appalachian Trail)

My first visit to Mt. Cammerer, on the eastern end of the Smokies, was on the eighth and final day of a week-long backpacking trip on the AT, from Fontana Dam to Davenport Gap. Today the distance is 72 miles. Back then it was about 69 miles. Strange, but true.

The previous day, our seventh, had been quiet and thoughtful. The hike was easy, so we weren’t focused on the pain and sweat. The clouds from 24 hours of rain were trying to break up, and we had some commendable views. We were in no hurry, so we made a lot of rest stops, even though we didn’t need the rest. We were easing into that end of the trip mode of reflection and sadness. Our last night at Cosby Knob was uneventful. It felt like the trip was finished.

But it wasn’t quite.

On our final morning, the reality of schedules reared its ugly head. A couple of our wives were to drive from Atlanta to pick us up on Highway 32 in Davenport Gap at 3 pm, so we couldn’t tarry. We left the shelter by 8:45 and soon began a long, steep ascent. The best part about today was the lack of views. Forests mixed with heavy clouds made the panoramic views few and far between and forced us to make the half-mile side trip to Mt. Cammerer to search for one last vista. None of us had ever been there before, nor did we know much about it.

It turned out to be the highlight of the trip, which seemed appropriate. My partner and I had ascended a total of about 19,000 feet since our start at Fontana. After leaving Cammerer our hike would be all downhill, so Cammerer was a literal highpoint of sorts, even though it wasn’t the actual highest point on our trip.

Mount Cammerer was great, and it’s been great the dozen times I’ve been there since this first encounter. The views are very good – almost 360 degrees. There’s a unique rock and timber lookout tower on top, wedged between large slabs of exposed rock. Even the side trail leading to it is magical. There’s a sense of anticipation as you walk up this hallway of eight foot high laurel and rhododendron, with the sky as your ceiling.  It was love at first sight.

Cammerer from the north

I suppose if we had been immersed in a thick fog, providing no views, then we wouldn’t have been impressed. Or, if Cammerer had been just one of a dozen great spots on that day, we would have taken a quick look and moved on. Instead, Cammerer was the most dramatic spot with the best views in the last two days. The fact that we were all a little bummed out that the trip was just 3 or 4 hours shy of being over probably made us especially vulnerable to the drama of a final panorama. Whatever the topographical and psychological reasons, that first encounter was impressive.

Cammerer Lookout Tower (from the east)

We spent 45 overwhelming minutes there. The clouds had broken and risen. There were clouds above us, patches of fog in the valleys, and streaks of sunshine spotlighting the mountains and valleys. We took out our maps and compasses and identified several peaks and lakes: English Mountain, the Big Creek watershed, Mount Sterling, Interstate 40 winding its way through the hills, Douglas Lake. I didn’t know it at the time, but eight years later I would be living in those hills just beyond Douglas Lake.

Mt. Cammerer was great; we met our wives at Davenport Gap at 3 pm, just as planned; Phyllis and I soon moved to Athens, Georgia, for seven years and added a couple of great kids along the way. Then, in 1987, the four of us moved to Jefferson County, an hour away from Big Creek, Cosby, and trails to Mt. Cammerer.  Sometimes there are happy endings.

Sausage-lust in the Mountains (6 of 7 on the AT)

I’ve had the good fortune, three or four times, of spending an entire week backpacking in the mountains. That’s one of the chief advantages of spending many, many years as a college student – there’s always a break on the horizon. In my pre-children years, I’d often spend those college breaks backpacking.

One thing became very obvious to me on those trips. Spending seven continuous days hiking and camping is a very, very different experience than hiking and camping for seven days spread out over the course of several months. Knowing that you’ll step into the woods on Saturday and step back out of them the following Saturday changes everything – the physical exertion, the packing, the planning. It also gives you a different outlook. There’s a sense of immersion in the wilderness that you just can’t get by being out for just a night or two.

The first time I spent an entire week in the woods, I hiked the 70 miles of the AT in the Smokies. It was on about the fifth day that I had my sugar and meat conniption. I had planned my food so that I ate the same thing every day. Breakfast was granola bars and chocolate (powdered) milk, lunch – the meal you eat all day long between breakfast and supper – consisted of cheese crackers, raisins, and peanuts. For supper I’d have a couple of packets of dried chicken noodle stew – just add boiling water. I had intentionally omitted candy. Same routine every day. That was a mistake.

By the fifth day I was obsessing about… well, the list would be long. Let’s just say I was obsessing about everything except granola bars, powdered milk, cheese crackers, raisins, peanuts, and dried chicken stew. I really wanted some chocolate candy and a Coke. But when we stopped for a break at Pecks Corner shelter, what I really, really wanted was the big sausage log that another hiker was eating. Murder was out of the question. Too many witnesses. Robbery was an option, but I’d never actually robbed anyone before, so I wasn’t real confident that I could pull it off. Sleight of hand might work, but he wouldn’t lay it down. He protected that sausage log like a mama bear protects her cub. I think he could see the sausage-lust in my eyes.

During the conversation in the shelter we discovered that he and his partner had just started at our destination, Davenport Gap, the day before. They were spending a week on the AT, going the opposite direction from us. That meant offering to trade food with him was out of the question. First of all, all I had was junk. Powdered milk, cheap cheese crackers, raisins. If he had traded a couple of slices of his meat stick for some of my food, it would have been a clear case of babysitting on his part. I just couldn’t lower myself to ask. I’d been self-sufficient all week. I didn’t want to give in now and have other people start taking care of me. Second of all, he was just starting on his trip. You just can’t try to get a guy to give up some of his prized food possessions that early on the trip. So, I just sat there and burned with desire for some smoked sausage. I know man doesn’t live by bread alone, but right then a bite of sausage would have been nice.

In my defense, I thought about trading for the meat before I considered murder and robbery. A week in the woods hadn’t destroyed all my scruples, but they were in a weakened state regarding meat products.

Our arrival at Tricorner Knob that evening prompted our usual routine. Claim a bunk, some prefer top, others prefer bottom. Find the spring and get water, usually 50 or 100 yards down one side or the other; a well-worn trail showing the way. Read or take a quick nap before supper. Some guys carry a pair of tennis shoes to put on now. I didn’t because of the extra weight, but I seriously consider it every time I backpack. If this trip had been shorter, I might have included them, but an extra couple of pounds was a lot to carry for a week. Now that we were at the evening’s shelter, I burned with desire for my partners’ tennis shoes. Apparently, this was just a good day for coveting my neighbor’s stuff. Again, in my defense, I’m pretty sure that was the only one of the 10 commandments I broke that day. For me, that’s a pretty good day – which is another reason for wives to encourage their husbands go backpacking – it’s almost impossible to get in trouble with the police or God when you spend all your time walking, eating, and sleeping. You’re just too tired and preoccupied to get into any mischief. [To be continued]

The Unabomber (5 of 7 on the AT)

When you spend a few nights on the Appalachian Trail in the Smokies you’ll meet some interesting people. Sometimes “interesting” is good, sometimes not. (Like that old curse: “May you live in interesting times.”) About half the time, you’ll have one hiker in the shelter who is just plain strange. I don’t know why, but these guys almost always arrive late, after dark like possums or vampires. There are two types: the guys who don’t speak at all to anyone and the guys who are eager to share their vast reservoir of experience with the rest of us, even if our body language is making it absolutely clear that we aren’t interested in hearing it.

The quiet guys make you wonder what they are up to, but at least they aren’t annoying. The talkative guys, however, can really get on your nerves. A talkative one showed up at the Spence Field shelter about an hour after sunset.

 “Is this Russell Field? I lost my maps a week ago.”

 “No, this is Spe…”

 “It doesn’t matter. I’ve been out for 6 months. I’ve been in Colorado and Virginia and started at Big Creek two weeks ago. They let us through-hikers sleep wherever we want.”

 “Actually, this shelter is full. You’re supposed to make reservations.”

 “Not me. Just sleep where I want. I’ll just sleep here on the floor. You guys’ll have to put your packs somewhere else” (A pause to take a breath and change subjects, which he does periodically.) “You know, breathable jackets don’t really breathe. It’s physically impossible for the water vapor to escape.”

 At this point, no one is listening, and everyone has his back to the intruder. We are busy putting on our breathable jackets, which we wouldn’t hike without. We all swear by them.

 “I’m telling you, it’s the biggest sham ever perpetrated by the backpacking apparel industry.”

 “Okay,” I’m thinking, “I’m always willing to concede the point that public opinion is manipulated by Madison Avenue, not to mention the CIA, the Pentagon, and the New York Times, but if this guy mentions aliens…”

 “I think it’s alien technology that has a more sinister purpose. I’m presently doing research for my dissertation. I’m not in a grad program right now. Stinkin’ experts don’t respect the truth, but I’m on the verge of a breakthrough. You’ll read about it when I publish my results.”

 I’m thinking how sorry I am that I let my subscription to Mad Magazine lapse; looks like I’ll miss his exposé on breathable jackets. Everyone else is thinking, “Don’t make eye contact. Don’t speak. It will only encourage him.”

 Everyone, that is, except one of the college guys who’s a bit too daring. “I know what you mean, man. When I was a kid I was abducted by them little, gray b-#@&-s.”

 “Then you know of what I speak. They are up to something. That’s why I spend my time away from everyone and everything. The X-Files are real, man. Not the werewolves and vampires. The alien agenda.”

 I’m thinking, “I don’t know exactly what the ‘alien agenda’ is, but I hope it involves taking this guy with them. Soon.” It was at this point that I began thinking we normal ones should draw straws to determine who will stay awake all night standing guard. We never actually posted a sentry that night, but we all tried to stay awake until we were sure the guy had gone to sleep.

 He was gone when we awoke in the morning. Someone asked, “Where’s the Unabomber?” and we all got the joke.  

 “I saw a bright flash of light from the sky last night, and never saw him again. He’s probably on Neptune by now.”

 One of the college guys made the closing remark as he shouldered his pack and walked out the front gate: “He must be glad to be home.”