Simple Gifts on Styx Branch (Part 4 of 4)

Hiking and scrambling up the east fork of Styx Branch, I was struggling more than usual. In fact, this trip was the first time I had the thought: Will this be the last time I make this trip? That’s a dark cloud that casts a gloomy shadow, and while I don’t live under that shadow on a regular basis, I do catch a glimpse of it every now and then… like today, on Styx Branch. At the Climbing Wall I almost told Greg that I had gone as far as I could, and I’d head back to the car while he went on to Myrtle Point, but I was afraid that if I did that, then I’d never come back and do this trip again. This would become my final trip to Styx, and I just couldn’t bear the thought of that. So to paraphrase the gladiators in Gladiator: “Someday I’ll make my last trip to Styx… but not yet. Not yet.”

After the Climbing Wall we were still in the scoured rock of the scar, but the incline was about 45 degrees, so we were able to revert to feet-only as we searched for sharp spots to plant our feet as we zig-zagged our way up the fragile, broken Anakeesta rock face. We stopped often, to let me catch my breath but also to turn around and appreciate the sky and the open view that every landslide scar affords. It’s the kind of moment of magnificence that will – if you have any sense of gratitude for life’s simple gifts – bring tears to your eyes.

A photo moment on Styx

Eventually the scar began to give way to soil, grass, and a young, fir forest which produces that “Christmas tree smell” that anyone who has ever had a real Christmas tree would recognize. There aren’t many things that we encounter in the wilderness that remind us of our other, civilized life – which is exactly as we’d like it to be. After all, we go to the woods to escape the trappings of that other life. Planes flying overhead and loud motorcycles on Newfound Gap Road are the most common artifacts of civilization that we encounter in the mountains. So, the Christmas tree smell is an exception to these occasional interruptions from civilization. It’s a pleasant reminder of a pleasant part of our other life.

After weaving our way through the fragrant, fir forest, we arrived at Myrtle Point about an hour before sunset. It was cold and windy, so we donned our jackets for the first time since the Climbing Wall several hours earlier. I had never really thought of it this way before, but Myrtle Point is the epicenter of our Smokies playground. From it we can see from Greenbrier Pinnacle to the Appalachian Trail to Mount Kephart to the Chimneys, a huge bowl of ridges and valleys, places that have become almost sacred in their meaning to our lives. It’s undoubtedly places like this that gave birth to the phrase “mountain top experience.”

As we sat on the open rocks of Myrtle Point we had the same conversation we always have when we sit here: To live simply is to live well; that man is richest whose pleasures are the simplest; if you’ll put yourself in a position for good things to happen, you’ll be pleasantly surprised how often they do.

As I think about it, the theme of that conversation at Myrtle Point has become a prominent theme in our other, civilized life, too. Most of life’s gifts to us are simple gifts, so one key to happiness is to learn to be satisfied with life’s simple, wholesome pleasures, like the fellowship of friends, the innocence of children, the words of your favorite poet, the purity of an azure sky, the song of crickets in the evening or wrens at sunrise, layers of blue ridges piling up to the horizon, or green ridges turning honey-gold from the light of the setting sun. Thankfully, these are things that require an investment of time and attention, but money can’t buy. They are gifts that are simple and free… and abundant, if we’ll but shift our gaze from the dozens of daily tasks rudely demanding our obedience, and focus instead on the thousands of humble, simple gifts, asking in a barely audible whisper for just a moment of our time.

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Fine November Day (in December) Part 1 of 4

 

Sometimes November just hangs around for two or three extra weeks, all the way up to Christmas, giving us a few, delicious weeks of sharp, blue skies and mild temps for cutting one more rick of firewood, raking the last of the leaves, or taking a glorious stroll in the mountains. While cutting wood and raking leaves are pleasant enough activities, they are both “work” by any reasonable definition, so I opted for the mountains, which can be work, but only in the very best sense of the word. And besides, I’d been acting like a well-adjusted grown-up for several weeks in a row, and I’d had just about all I could stand.

One benefit of a November hike – especially if it happens in mid-December – is the deep, deep blue sky. I imagine folks who live in the Rockies are used to those blue skies that are so crisp they look like they could shatter because there’s not much humidity to muddy up the atmosphere and the views, but here in the East we have to wait for fall and winter for our sky to change from white to blue.

An added benefit of a cold weather hike is that if you can spend the day on a south-facing slope, you can add 10 or even 20 degrees to the temperature… as long as you stay in the sunshine. For example, much of Alum Cave trail is on the south-facing slope of Mount LeConte, but there’s also a lot of deep shade. So you can stroll pleasantly along in the warmth of the sun on an ice-free trail, only to walk into the shade of a spruce grove and find yourself slipping and sliding on an icy patch 10 or 20 or 100 feet long. If you do this enough, you get used to it and take it for granted. But then the day comes when a friend of yours is looking at the pictures of your December LeConte hike, and they innocently ask why you are wearing spikes on your boots but only a T shirt with no jacket. The incongruity of spikes and a T shirt has never occurred to you, but it really is an odd combination that makes sense only to those who hike on south-facing slopes in the late fall. (Of course, you’ll explain to your friend that the top of LeConte is cold and windy and your jacket is in your day pack. You’ll definitely need it when you get to the top.)

So as our schedules opened up in mid-December, Greg Harrell and I decided to do an off-trail trip up Styx Branch on the south-facing slope of Mount LeConte. We love the name Styx because it gives the impression of a dangerous, deadly, one-way journey filled with dragons, demons, fire, weeping, and gnashing of teeth. To make things even better, the general area where Styx Branch flows is called Huggins Hell. Names like that are like a flashing neon sign begging us to visit.

For purposes of full disclosure, I might as well admit up front that the names Styx and Hell are creative hyperbole generated by an over-active imagination, or something like that. The story goes that a guy named Huggins got lost in the thick rhododendron hell in this Styx Branch watershed. One version of the story says he emerged three days later, exhausted and near-death. The other version says he never emerged and was never found. I just can’t bring myself to believe any of it. The only person who could truly get lost up there is a delicate city-slicker who has no idea what he’s doing. If Huggins was a local resident who got lost, all he needed to do was find a ravine with some trickling water, and follow it down to the main river, which led to the homes and farms of Sugarlands and eventually to Gatlinburg. The whole process of getting from the rhododendron-infested slopes of LeConte to Sugarlands would take 3 or 4 hours. I suppose Huggins could have slipped on a rock and broken his leg or neck, in which case he died not because he was lost but because he was clumsy, or just plain unlucky. [To be continued]

Rediscovering Drinkwater Pool

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

Sources

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

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

Topography Above Ramsey Cascades

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

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

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

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

Making Sense of Terminology

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

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

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

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

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

Broome continues,

  

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

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

 

 

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

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

Now, Out Under the Sky....

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

Location of Drinkwater Pool

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

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

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

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

Drinkwater Pool: Top of the Third Cascade

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

Frosty Woods

 

The bears in our Smoky Mountains don’t actually hibernate, but they do sleep deeply. For the biologists and wildlife experts, there is a difference between the two, but for the rest of us hibernation and deep sleep are pretty much the same thing. The bears hunker down and become inactive because it’s just too stinkin’ cold to be out and about.

I know how they feel.

In my younger years I’d stay active during the winter. Looking back on it now, I can’t recall why. I’m not sure I ever really enjoyed the winter weather. In fact, there’s a significant chance that I went outside solely to prove that I wasn’t a sissy; in other words, peer pressure, pure and simple, even if that peer pressure sprang from my own psyche rather than from my peers. I apparently had something to prove, even if I was the only one who cared.

Now that I am rapidly approaching senior citizen status, December is the month in which I gradually shut down. Early December is usually fine hiking weather, but by January I will have begun my hibernation, which for me involves: reading some of those classics I should have read back in high school and college, watching Seinfeld re-runs, and tying flies for next year’s fishing season. If I get desperate I’ll watch some old Alfred Hitchcock movies and maybe the Godfather trilogy. I’m just trying to run out the clock until March.

And yet, I can’t fully resist the call of the mountains in mid-winter. In the spring, I’ll be drawn to south-facing slopes like Fort Harry or Styx Branch on LeConte for their warmth, but in the winter I’ll go to a north-facing slope like the Rainbow Falls trail or the north side of Greenbrier Pinnacle for the ice and snow. I’ll only do it once or twice because it’s hard, just plain hard. The cold is not just uncomfortable; it’s bone-chilling, snot-freezing, lung-stinging, toe-numbing, finger-stiffening, muscle-cramping cold. Sometimes even life-threatening.

A quick summer hike is no big deal. You throw a water bottle and some snacks in your pack and you go. If you later find that you’ve forgotten something, you make do with what you have. It’s not like your gonna die. In winter, on the other hand, you think long and hard about your equipment. You make a list, check it twice, and pack accordingly. Then you take everything out of your pack and double check your list and your equipment. Then you put it all back in your pack with a small sense of apprehension that you might be forgetting something important – because everything is important in the winter.

The mountains in winter remind me, in an odd sort of way, of the desert in summer. The weather is not fit for man nor beast. It’s quiet and still and lifeless. We humans can take it only in small doses because it seems to stretch out forever with no end in sight. And yet, it’s beautiful in a stark, almost oppressive, way. If nothing else, winter gives you a deeper appreciation for the other three seasons the way the desert forces you to appreciate cities and air-conditioning, and maybe even people.

And so we go to the winter mountains for their stark beauty with just a hint of danger. In June, as I walk out the door with my day pack hanging on my shoulder, Phyllis says, “Have fun!” and I say “I will!” In January, she says in a more solemn tone, “Be careful.” And I promise her, “I will.” Then she looks at me, seriously, and I add, “I promise.”

So I spend the day with the ice and snow… and the quiet. The soft, deep, serene silence. These gray & white woods are so quiet that I feel lonely, even awkward, like I don’t know how to act or what to pay attention to because there are no noises to grab my attention. Nothing to distract me except my own thoughts. This must be what a sensory-deprivation experiment is like… or a monastery.

 

And then it starts to snow… silently. It’s only three o’clock, but the sun is low and these lovely woods are getting dark and deep, and this day hike that had been a chore now becomes a holy moment. I stand still and watch the woods fill up with snow, and for the first time today, I am not tired, and I am not wishing I was at home in front of the fireplace. I don’t want to leave because I have finally, finally, become comfortable in these frosty woods – lovely, dark and deep. But I have miles to go and promises to keep.