If you stop near Morton Overlook about a mile below Newfound Gap, across the valley to the north you’ll see Anakeesta Ridge. On the right (east) end you’ll see two peaks. The right peak is Anakeesta Knob at the easternmost end where Anakeesta Ridge converges with the Boulevard near Mount Kephart. The left hump is the place where our morning route along a nameless side ridge reaches the main crest of Anakeesta Ridge. You’ll also see that most of the trees and soil to the left of that peak have been shaved off by a landslide. That scar is one of those dangerous, vertical scars that could be deadly, but a few hundred yards to the left (west) there is a low swag in the ridge. Greg Harrell and I worked our way along the ridgecrest to that swag, had some lunch, and began to wonder… would it be really, really stupid to scramble down one of these rocky scars?
After letting that thought simmer for a while, the answer became obvious to both of us. One of our reasons for coming to Anakeesta had been to see the landslide scars up close. Finding a route down one of them would probably be interesting, maybe educational, and definitely up close. So that’s what we did, and as you can see, we lived to tell the tale.
At the low swag in the ridge where we were having for lunch, the landslide scar looked less treacherous. I’d guess it was at least a 45 but not quite a 60 degree angle; not easy, but far from vertical. In fact, along the western edge of this scar, a small forest of young trees and bushes was growing up. About 25 years worth of leaves had begun to create a layer of soft dirt that actually made walking pretty easy.
So we left the ridgecrest at the swag and angled our way through this young forest, down the slope, and to the bare rock scar. Once we reached the bare rock below the crest, we gingerly worked our way down the scar. In situations like this, I tend to be a bit more cautious than Greg. He says I’m a sissy. I say he’s too stupid to be scared. We’re probably both right. So I crab-walked down the scar on all fours with my butt dragging the ground as an emergency brake. It’s a slow process, but that’s sort of the point. Thus, we both managed to travel down and across several rocky scars with a few, small bumps and bruises but no near-death experiences.
In most places these scars are barren and still crumbly. In other places there are long cracks in the rock that have filled with dirt and have sprouted various species of shrubs. I would guess that 100 years from now, this will be another Smoky Mountain heath bald – one of those smooth-looking evergreen swaths that punctuate high, rocky ridges. It was a perfect laboratory for what we’ve all learned in school – that given enough time, a rocky surface will turn into a forest or field (or, in this case, maybe a heath thicket). If I were a young biologist, I’d study these scars on Anakeesta Ridge to track their progress. I suppose it would be a rather long, drawn-out project that would outlive several generations of researchers, but it would beat sitting in a laboratory watching petri dishes.
So we zigged and zagged our way down the barren slope to lonely outposts of vegetation that would provide a chance to stand up and walk a few yards. There were also a few small ridges that had their sides scoured by the landslide, but their crests were still covered with small trees and shrubs. All in all, the terrain was scrubbed and sterile, with occasional islands of life scattered about. I guess it’s really just a large version of a driveway or sidewalk – mostly clean and well-swept, with the occasional dandelion or tuft of grass poking up through the cracks.
After an hour or two of scrambling and exploring these rocky acres, we entered phase two of the landslide – the debris field. All the stuff that had once been high on the mountain slope now formed a tangled mess below. [To be continued]
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