A Return to the Smokies
“…as we met Dewey Webb, a mountain friend, he asked ‘Who wouldn’t want to live here?’
And there is no answer. Civilization has provided no peace, no spectacle, no assurance to the human heart which can transcend the simple, every-changing, matchless beauty and peace of the natural world.”-Harvey Broome, Out Under The Sky Of The Great Smokies
When I lived in East Tennessee, I could quickly escape to the Smokies and find relief from the stresses of society. Within 45 minutes, the world of concrete and steel, meetings, voicemails, lunch and learns, Chamber of Horrors events, trade shows, forecasts, private placement memorandums, mind numbing reports and meaningless corporate miscellany were far behind me, as I became lost in the deep, green forests and mountains of Appalachia.
But now that I live in the Lower Mississippi Delta, I can’t just walk out the door and be in the mountains in less than an hour. I have to savor my time there, take my time on the trail and enjoy every second.
My most recent excursion couldn’t have come at a better time. Overwhelmed with work and homesick for the mountains, I was slipping into a dimly illuminated world of anger and rage, and taking my frustrations out on innocent bystanders. The comforts of my simple garden and its wildlife were no longer enough, because this laptop and a telephone were only a few steps away. I was too easily located and sucked back into the vortex of regular life and couldn’t escape.
I’d spent too much time in the absurd, corporatized world and not enough time in the woods.
I find myself in that state at least once every sixty to ninety days, and as I grow older, I find this time frame is shrinking. Hopefully, it will shrink to the point where I can’t stand being in civilization for even one day. I think that’s the natural maturity of the sane mind to maturity and finally blissful death.
As I headed out of Germantown last Friday, I was in such a starved state, hungry for the mountains I so dearly loved and for neglected friends that I sorely missed.
I decided to take what I call the “southern route” out of the delta, driving through Shiloh and onward to Fayetteville, Tennessee to visit a friend I hadn’t seen in several years. From there, I’d push onward through Sewanee, then to Chattanooga and up to Knoxville to rendezvous briefly with another friend and finally my brother-in-law for a Smokies hike.
The route was long but worth the extra time. Interesting little towns and speed traps dotted the countryside, along with farms, historical sites and those all-American burger and ice cream stands where you can still get soft cones dipped in chocolate, an RC Cola, burger and fries for just a few bucks. Not big savings, but the chances are good you’ll get a warm smile from a tanned, southern beauty with soft eyes as she calls you “honey” and pockets your twenty dollar bill.
Shiloh was as it has always been, a beautiful, serene place where nature has responded marvelously and hidden the carnage of men. Feasting my eyes upon the Tennessee River and the thick forests and green fields beyond Pittsburg Landing, it was hard to imagine 23,000 casualties within the same landscape. And unlike most Civil War battlefields, Shiloh has retained its rural character and hasn’t been overrun by development and profiteers. The reason? Shiloh is off the beaten path with no towns or cities adjacent to it.
Let’s hope it stays that way.
Realizing I needed to press on quickly, I took only a short hour or so to visit hallowed places every southern boy worth his weight in cotton knows: The Hornets Nest, Ruggles Battery and Bloody Pond. Stopping at one of the Confederate burial trenches, I found myself alone. As I stood beside the little patch of earth that held the remains of hundreds of men, I realized that I, like most Americans, wasn’t seeing the result of war. I was seeing a nicely kept grave, manicured and quiet, gently concealing the real horror that once existed. Twisted, mangled, butchered bodies, partially decomposed, buried without any recognition of who they were. Gone forever and dumped into a pit to be consumed by worms and microbes.
And for what?
That’s the reality of war, the reality carefully concealed and hidden from our eyes while we watch our so-called leaders prance around like peacocks on parade regaling tales of false glories.
Shiloh means “place of peace.”
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Leaving the park with expired tags, I was careful to avoid the Tennessee State Trooper I saw patrolling the area and made my way back to Highway 64 toward Fayetteville.
Fayetteville has a certain charm about it, nestled in the foothills along the Elk River. It’s a pretty typical southern town with a town square encircled by little locally owned businesses, some old, some new. Locals sit on well worn benches along the walk and under the trees in front of the courthouse. As I got out of my vehicle, I was suspiciously (and for good reason) eyed by a couple of older gents sitting and talking in a spot that I reckoned they met at daily.
I romanticized their life and walked away envious of it.
After crossing the square to the north side, I met my long lost friend Keith. He hustled me over to a brand new coffee shop, Elk River Coffee, where we ordered some grub and headed to Casa Killebrew to catch up. It had been at least five years since I’d seen Keith, and we had plenty to talk about.
Keith is an artist that came from a good family in Memphis, and he attended some outstanding schools. While in Memphis, he had the good fortune to meet his wife Kate, a Fayetteville girl with all-American good looks, southern charm and a good head on her shoulders. After reaching the brilliant decision to leave Memphis and move to Fayetteville, Keith developed a design practice and now does everything from logos and brochures to designing bars and interiors for homes. Yes, bars. And he’s damn good at it, too.
We covered a lot of ground, but the visit was too brief. We exchanged loaned books and music to insure we wouldn’t wait years to reconvene.
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I hadn’t been to the Smokies since the previous fall, and the return trip was past due. Several trips had been planned for March, April and May, but for one reason or another, things just didn’t work out.
But I was now on my way, and the only things that could stop me were mechanical failure or an accident. Not even the rapture could stop me, since I’m told by my Christian friends that I won’t be included in that mass exodus from earth.
Great! The sooner the better as far as I’m concerned.
I spent Friday night in Knoxville, visiting more friends over dinner and cold beverages. A lot of folks would have headed straight into the mountains and hiked in by headlamp, but one of the things I’ve learned in my time on this planet is to take time for friends. Make time for ‘em. The trees and mountains will be there waiting just like they always have, but your friends might not.
Saturday morning arrived soon enough, and the weather was perfect, as I was greeted by sunny skies and temps in the middle seventies. The drive through Townsend was charming as always, and I was surprised by the lack of traffic. Several years ago, this had been a major concern of mine, because of a road building project. The plan was to widen the road to accommodate existing traffic, but my experience suggests road widening is almost always a plan to accommodate future traffic increase. Build the road, then the homes, stores and parking lots. Kiss peace and quiet goodbye and watch another Pigeon Forge metastasize before your eyes.
But what’s saving Townsend is a sewer problem. Last time I checked, businesses are still on septic in Townsend, so it can’t handle large hotels and development. Thank gawd for shit.
Pulling past the Townsend Y, I was immediately enveloped by the mountains and suddenly in another world. The grating sounds of civilization gradually faded, as I was embraced by my mother and found myself in the safety of the real, living world. It’s hard to explain the mental and physical change that occurs at such moments, but for me, those changes are profound. When I’m in civilization, I feel like I’m in a pitched battle, making my way across Duncan Field, headed toward the Hornets Nest and facing an onslaught of cannon and musket fire. Miniballs whizzing above me and all around me, dead and dying men lie all around me, twisted and contorted images of life, some silent, some crying in pain.
Reaching the forest, all becomes quiet and the stress seems to fall away. Like the soldiers from both sides that reached Bloody Pond, it’s as if I’ve finally found a place of peace where nothing can harm me. A welcome respite from the reality of civilization and war.
Despite being the most visited park in the country, a statistic largely the result of its proximity to major population centers in the east, the Smokies don’t have the glamorous image of Glazier or Yosemite. The peaks aren’t as high, the vistas are not as dramatic, and we don’t have grizz or mountain lions (there’s some debate on the lion) roaming the park. There are probably 1,800 to 2,000 mostly docile black bears roaming around, trying to avoid the 10 million or so humans that visit the park, 59 other native mammals, 230 species of birds, 38 reptilian species, 40 different amphibian species, 58 species of fish, 706 species of moths, 1,500 species of vascular plants and 4,000 non-flowering plant species.
Oh, and there are also more native trees than in any other North American national park, perhaps as many as 135. So much for glamor. I’ll take diversity.
And since most of those humans don’t venture a quarter mile from their cars, it’s not too hard to find some solitude in the Smokies, with a few exceptions. In 2005, the Smokies section of the Appalachian Trail, the most used trail, had approximately 29,660 campers or 44% of the Park’s total backcountry camping. And in case you’re interested, the three busiest backcountry campsites for 2005 were: Icewater Spring shelter – 2705 nights, Walnut Bottoms #37 – 2524 nights, and Cosby Knob shelter – 2072 nights.
Those are obviously the places to avoid, but if you compare those totals to other sites in the park, you’ll find it’s easy to have a campsite all to yourself, especially during the work week.
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Meigs Mountain Trail is a quiet, relatively easy hike that begins at the junction with the Jakes Creek Trail, in Elkmont. Beginning elevation is only 2500 feet and my hike would only require a climb of a few hundred feet before I descended back to camp at 2520 feet. A nice, leisurely stroll.
One of the first things I noticed was the incredible mixture of bird songs that filled the air. The unmistakable call of the Red-bellied woodpecker, also a regular yard bird back in the delta, was joined by what was most assuredly the powerful hammering sound of a Pileated woodpecker. I could also hear Black-capped chickadee, a species normally found above 3000 feet in June, Tufted titmouse, Eastern bluebird, Yellow-throated vireo and Red-eyed vireo.
Of the 230 species recorded in the park, 61 are permanent residents.
Meigs Mountain Trail runs along the northern edge of Meigs Mountain, named in honor of Return Jonathan Meigs, a surveyor who was commissioned to retrace the former Hawkins boundary line for an 1802 treaty with the Cherokee. According to Place Names of the Smokies, “his unusual first name came about as a result of the courtship of his father and his mother. His mother was a Quaker who at first refused to marry her suitor. Each time he proposed, she refused. Trying one last time and being refused, he mounted his horse to ride away forever, only to hear to his loved one say, ‘Return, Jonathan, return.’ Thinking that ‘return’ was the most beautiful word he had ever heard, he gave it to his son.”
At one point, several families lived in the area around Meigs Mountain, a small peak in the shadow of Thunderhead Mountain, the highest peak on the western side of the park at just over 5500 feet. The great thickness, variety, and distribution of rocks and quartz in Great Smoky Mountains National Park tell a fascinating story of continental-size plate tectonics spanning more than a billion years of earth history. Of the three basic bedrocks found in the park, the Precambrian basement rock, more than 1 billion years old consists chiefly of schists, gneisses, and some granitic rocks, and the oldest sedimentary rocks were formed during the Proterozoic Era some 800-545 million years. The younger rocks of sedimentary origin formed during the Paleozoic Era, 450 to about 545 million years ago and were formed by intense erosion from ice, wind, and water. As the mountains were worn down, the layers of rock most resistant to erosion were left to form the highest peaks in the Smokies, such as the hard metasandstone on top of Clingmans Dome at 6,643 feet.
But now, the families, like the Cherokee, are gone forever, and the only full time residents are non-human, not counting a few park rangers. A few remnants remain, stone walls for springhouses, and bits and pieces of bed frames and other oddities can be found with a careful eye. Otherwise, nature has a done a wonderful job in reclaiming these former homesteds. Long live weeds and wilderness.
Ferns were numerous throughout the walk, as were various types of fungi living on fallen trees. My campsite was nicely shaded by Betula alleghaniensis (Yellow birch), Acer saccharum (Sugar Maple) and the seemingly omnipresent but threatened Tsuga canadensis (Eastern Hemlock). Walking along the trail to camp, I’m still amazed by the tremendous diversity of life, particularly the flora. The trail is lined with Cornus florida (Flowering Dogwood), Asimina triloba (Paw-paw), Liriodendron tulipifera (Tuliptree or Yellow-Poplar), Aesculus flava (Yellow Buckeye), Rhododendron maximum (Rosebay) and Rhodendron catawbiense (Catawba).
I also saw several of the park’s 461 spider species along the way, including a large wolf spider, possibly Schizocosa saltatrix or Schizocosa ocreata, although I can’t be sure.
Hundreds of lovely streams zigzag throughout the park, and on this trail, I had several easy crossings, including one at picturesque Shields Branch.
But the highlight of the whole trip came just before I reached campsite #20. Hiking alone, I worked my way up a small climb just before reaching camp and just down the trail, about 20 yards, was Ursus americanus. It was a young bear, probably 18 months old or so. We stood there for a few seconds looking at one another, each of us waiting on the other to make a move. While I was thrilled to see the bear, I’m sure the bear was much less than thrilled to see me, because the instant I reached for the camera strapped around my neck, it bolted into the forest like it had been shot out of a cannon.
The incident made me think of a topic posed by the late Randy Morgenson regarding nature photography. Do we have the right to photograph these animals? How do we sense that we have their permission?
I’ve seen bears on several occasions in the Smokies, but the thrill of seeing these magnificent animals never wanes. This, of course, is their home, and we are the intruders. I feel deeply fortunate to have shared even a few seconds of kinship, albeit strained, with Ursus americanus, and hope that I may one day yet again have the great fortune of meeting one upon the trail.
The campsite was broad and flat with plethora of good camp sites in what was formerly an orchard. Water was plentiful, provided by the confluence of several small creeks. Overall, I’d have to say this is one of the nicest sites I’ve stayed at in the Smokies. The canopy of Sugar Maple, Yellow Birch and other deciduous trees is provides a perfect mixture of sun and shade, and fortunately, the bugs were at a minimum for June.
After setting up camp, I decided to hike down the trail a bit, do some exploring and hopefully meet other backpackers I knew were planning to camp at #19, a smaller site just beyond an old cemetery I wanted to visit. My brother-in-law John, my camping companion over the past eight years, was to join me later, so I moved briskly to get to #19 and back in the hope of not making him wait too long.
The trail in-between the two camps was much the same as the trail before #20. There is a pleasant little gap between the sites, where the Meigs Mountain Trail meets the Curry Mountain Trail. I once had a lovely hike on that trail with my equally lovely wife, Allison, that included a romantic romp in the hemlocks. Everyone needs to let themselves go in the wilderness. Take off your clothes. Howl at the moon. Run. Make love. Eat, drink and thank gawd you’ve still got a place you can do such things.
About a mile before this junction, I had the pleasure of meeting another hiker, Nowslimmer. Nowslimmer is a gristled veteran of the trail, and on this day, he sported a magnificent old Jansen external frame pack recently reconstructed after many years of duty. He had a sparkle in his eyes and exuded a warmth that you often find in trail veterans. We talked briefly about the group he was planning to meet at #19 and that I was hopeful to meet.
Backpackers have formed some interesting online communities where trip information is shared. This way, like minded folks interested in exploring the same areas can connect and enjoy the outdoors together. It’s a useful service, because finding a good backpacking partner is often difficult. Most folks aren’t too keen on sleeping on the ground, eating camp food, dealing with bugs, carrying a pack or taking a shit in the woods. But these are only minor inconveniences compared to the rewards.
Nowslimmer shared some interesting insights and information, including the loss of his favorite hiking stick, which I had in fact located in our camp. It broke during a fall as he headed into #20 but had apparently been his faithful companion for several years prior. He requested a photo and an appropriate ceremony if we decided to burn it, and we happily complied.
John was waiting for me at camp, and we spent the next few hours going through the usual topics, discussing camping gear, work, wives, our children, fears of the present and hopes for the future. If you had asked me twenty one years ago when I married his sister which one of her brothers (there are four) or brother-in-laws I would have ended up being the closest to, it probably wouldn’t have been John. John is a former football star, and for most his adult life, a conservative, corporate guy that didn’t suffer from any of my bad habits. He was an All-American, clean cut star that most men would have welcomed into their homes; I was a long haired rebel and a father’s worst nightmare. About the only things we had in common were we were both young salesmen with three kids apiece in the same family. But we both caught the backpacking bug back in the early 90′s and developed a friendship over that common ground. Since then, we’ve become closer, and I’ve developed a profound respect for John and his commitment to his family and to living a decent life. He’s a good man, a great husband, a wonderful father and a good friend to me.
But John, like many forty something urban professionals, is looking for something more. A classic “7 to 7″ man, he’s grown somewhat callous to the corporate world, and I think he’s beginning to see through the ubiquitous sycophantic behavior. He’s got some regrets, but he has an opportunity to live whatever life he chooses to live. He’s healthy, secure financially and smart. Now all he needs is the right opportunity.
We had sun until almost eight o’clock, and enjoyed our dinner around a roaring fire. Prior to dinner, we were joined by two other groups, a father with his two daughters and another couple with two children. Campsite twenty is only a couple of miles from the road, so it’s an easy hike for youngsters and a great opportunity for parents to introduce their children to backpacking and the natural world. Normally, I’d be disappointed at sharing a site with some many folks, but being this close to the road, I would have been surprised if we’d had the place to ourselves. And I was very happy to see these parents backpacking with their kids. It sure beats sitting in front of an idiot box eating Little Debbie’s all night.
John and I talked until about ten and called it a night. The long drive, socializing and hiking over the past two days wore me out, and I knew I’d have no trouble falling asleep.
About 6:30 I was awakened by the pee-ah-wee, pee-err of the Eastern Woo-Pewee and the well known song of the American robin. I unzipped my bag, pulled on my socks and boots, crawled out of the tent and made my way to a distant tree to drain my bladder, careful to not make too much noise and wake the other campers. I can’t think of anything that might destroy a kid’s desire for backpacking more than seeing a strange, middle aged man standing in the bushes holding his cock.
After coffee and a quick breakfast, John and I hit the trail, hiked out, briefly discussed future hiking plans, said our goodbyes and took the memories with us. But make no mistake. Our spirits remain there, in the hemlock forests, along the trail and beside the stream.
We shall return and soon.