There were two prevalent themes on this beautiful, clear-blue skies hike. The first theme was that I became turned around several times over the course of the weekend. Not lost per se… (I don’t believe I have ever been lost), just turned around. It reminds me of something that was once said by Daniel Boone. He claimed to have never been lost, only to have been “a few weeks off course.” So, in the tradition of Sheltowee (which is a Shawnee word meaning Big Turtle, and given to Daniel Boone by Chief Blackfish), I believe that I was just a bit off course.
The second theme of the weekend was that Greg, Daniel, and I became de facto ambassadors of the STA. Being Labor Day weekend we encountered many opportunities to plug our hiking organization, and I think we did a pretty good job. You could have even said that I sounded extroverted at times.
Friday night, I left work promptly at 5pm. I had already donned my hiking clothes, and all of my gear sat neatly in the trunk. I was to meet Greg and Daniel at our termination point, which was Clear Creek Camp, near Cave Run Lake. Since we were shuttling ourselves, my car was to be left in the Red River Gorge at our starting point. I still had a few errands to run before I could drive to Clear Creek. The first and most important task was to buy a 1-Day permit for the Gorge at the Shell Station in Slade. The lady behind the counter assured me confidently that I would need the permit “just for parking” even though we technically would not be camping inside the Gorge. I then drove through the Nada Tunnel (that’s pronounced “Nay-Duh” in case you weren’t sure), crossed the steel bridge below Raven’s Rock, and then finally scouted out the backpackers parking lot at the ST trailhead to make sure that I could find it easily in the morning.
By the time I had finished all of my mission goals, dusk was already approaching quickly under the shadows of the ubiquitous sandstone monoliths. I drove up 77 to Mariba, and then west on 460. I left both my windows down to let in the cool night air. At work I had printed out directions from Google Maps, and followed each turn as indicated. So why did I end up at Cave Run Lake and not Clear Creek Campground?
Well, I’ll be the first to admit; I wasn’t paying attention to the mileage on my directions. The second reason (and slightly more important) was that there was no clear signage to Clear Creek Campground. Imagine the irony.
So I was tootling along eastbound on Hwy 60 and wasn’t really sure why. I found some hopping little local barbecue joint on the side of the road (that looked really good by the way) and sat for a few minutes to compare Google’s directions to my Sheltowee maps.
Getting “Lost” (I’m going to use the word lost from here on out for brevity’s sake, even though I take umbrage at its implications) can in fact be a blessing. I take pride in the few times that I do get lost, because occasionally something interesting will come about as a result (i.e. finding the good smelling barbecue joint). I think I might have to give this place a visit when we’re in Morehead…
By the time I found my way to Friday night camp, the sun was completely below the horizon, and it was utterly, hopelessly, dark. At this point I was a little concerned. The dim headlights of my 1990 Toyota Tercel were not very illuminating, and my Verizon cell-service dropped away in the dense forest. I drove through the campground several times and did not see anything resembling the Nash’s truck.
So, I drove down Clear Creek Rd towards Zilpo to see if perhaps there was another campground. As I ventured deeper into the Pioneer Weapons Area, I realized that I needed to turn back. I was starting to get really concerned that I would be able to meet the Nash’s at our rendezvous (or that I was going to at least spend all night looking for them)
As fate would have it (and I’m a firm believer in Divine Providence), immediately upon my return to the Campground, Greg and Daniel pulled in right before me. They too had just arrived. This was my first incident of being “lost” on this trip. But as you can see, being lost actually became a blessing in the end. We made camp, paid the permit fees, had a roaring campfire, and enjoyed a fine evening out in the woods. The next morning, we left the Nash’s truck at the north Trailhead, and then the three of us crammed into my tiny Tercel to head to our starting point. On our way there, I missed the turn onto 77 (my second time getting lost).
If you look up the Sheltowee Trace on Wikipedia, the first picture that you will see featured is the iconic swinging bridge that crosses the Red River in the Gorge. We began our journey in the nearby backpackers’ lot about .1 miles down river from the bridge.
As we pulled into the lot, we counted about eight young hipsters, wearing corduroy, flannel, and huge external frame backpacks that could have rivaled Patsy from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. They must have been carrying vintage typewriters, and several kegs of craft beer in their packs (I smugly say this as I sit here typing while drinking a West Six brew).
They were indecisive and making a lot of noise trying to figure out where they were going. The Nash’s and I quickly crawled out of the Tercel and put on our hiking regalia. Greg mentioned that we ought to take the obligatory “insurance photo” that Steve normally takes on the regularly scheduled hikes.
In a strange moment of extroverted-ness, I loudly greeted said hipsters in a friendly and gregarious manner (completely out of character for me) and asked them to take our picture. They were happy to oblige.
We exchanged information on our respective trips’ destinations, and then we plugged the STA for a few minutes. In good young whipper-snapper form, they pulled out their i-phones from their cavernous packs to Google (that’s Google in verb form) the Sheltowee Trace Association.
I was proud. I felt like we had done our good deed for the day.
The weather was phenomenal; a ten percent chance for rain, moderate temperatures, and infinitely clear blue skies.
We skirted up and down, around rock-shelters and bluff-lines of all shapes and sizes; crossed several ridges and slowly climbed our way up to the “horseshoe;” a huge geologic feature of precipitous cliff-lines. Across the expansive valley we watched tiny people climb the near vertical face of Indian Staircase from a beautiful overlook.
In an attempt to make casual conversation with the many Gorge visitors sitting atop the overlook, I met an annoying lady who refused to shut-up once I initiated conversation with her. She had to explain to us in great detail, in a very authoritative manner about how to get to the different places in the Gorge (which I’m well familiar with).
Greg fell into the same trap when he arrived, and tried to explain to her our membership with the STA. I will admit that she took a very good picture of the three of us. However, I implored Daniel to double-time it so we could lose her. We were polite ambassadors, nonetheless.
After passing the beautiful Indian Arch on our descent into the valley, I asked the Nash’s to take a side-trip up to Indian Staircase. The “staircase” is basically a near vertical face of sandstone that has foot and handholds dug into its surface.
After climbing 300-500 feet on a side trail to reach the staircase, I believe we could have been visiting Half-Dome in Yosemite Valley, considering how crowded it was.
A long time ago a popular guidebook about the Red River Gorge (sitting on bookshelves in the homes of virtually every hiker in Kentucky and Ohio) stated that the “staircase” had been made by the Adena Indians who inhabited the area approximately 2000-3000 years ago.
It was a great story with fascinating elements and historical intrigue.
Me being an anthropologist by training I naturally wanted to learn more about this feature, so I contacted a well-known Kentucky archaeologist who teaches at EKU. She referred me to the Forest Service archaeologist, who blandly regurgitated a stock answer about the staircase.
“No, in fact, it had not been created by the Adena,” he said. The steps in the rock had actually been cut by niter miners in the last two centuries looking for potassium nitrate.
Honestly, the story is no less interesting, or entertaining, but the staircase is certainly enjoyable to climb.
Greg stayed below the start of the Staircase while Daniel and I climbed up. We made it past the scariest part (about halfway through) and sat just under the last lip at the top
I’m actually terrified of heights, but I mentally muscled my way through the climb. I just focused on my hands and feet and ignored the sheer drops to the side. One time I remember actually walking down the face, but this time we both elected to scoot down on our butts.
Sometime before noon we passed Bison Way on our way to Corner Ridge. This is actually one of my favorite places in the gorge. Right before the Sheltowee begins to climb up an old service Rd, it touches a small swimming hole on Glady Creek. This is one of my go-to camping spots, and I have spent many days and nights hanging out here with friends.
On our way there we encountered some trail-Goddesses breaking camp. If the crowds in the RRG get you down, at least there seem to be a lot of cute girls out on the trails. We had to stop and chat for a minute.
At the Glady Creek swimming hole, we ran into a horseback rider and a bunch of hikers, to whom we also preached the gospel of the Barbour. On the climb out to Corner Ridge, I encountered an old man on horseback who wanted to know if I’d seen any “bars.”
That evening around the 16th mile we found our camping spot. It was a lonely piece of Forest Service land surrounded by private property. The campsite was wet and murky, but it gave us fantastic camouflage from the road. We stealth-camped there for the night just to avoid any property boundary disputes with the curious locals.
Sunday began with a road walk. I hate road walking personally. It’s always hot. There is no shade, and the hard concrete kills my ankles and knees. After about four to five miles we finally headed north into the woods again.
I have to say, the forest section between 1274 and Clear Creek Picnic Area is FANTASTIC!!!! I was not prepared for the grand vistas, challenging trails, and occasionally dangerous traverses that hug the sides of the hills.
This section is more mountainous than anything we have done year-to-date, and its sheer beauty, and nimble ridge paths reminded me of why I wanted to walk the Sheltowee in the first place: to find Kentucky’s hidden gems in the remote backcountry.
Of course, it was in this section that I would tragically get lost two more times. Once on the rather boring Ratliff Rd (hey, but I found water!), and the second time right after Furnace arch.
On the former, I’m not sure how we missed the turn. It was well-marked on the side of the road, albeit in a patch of bright sunlight. I was about a mile ahead of the Nash’s on the trail. My head was down and I was trucking in the zone while concentrating on my sore feet.
With every step the sharp gravel stabbed into the soles. I began to notice that the sun was in the incorrect position. It was directly to my right indicating that I had been walking east for a long time. I passed some scary looking shanties and decided to stop for a rest.
I pulled out my maps, and sure enough, I had walked ½ mile in the wrong direction. Not wishing to dally any longer, I sped back to the turn as fast as I could. On my way there I ran into the Nash’s.
They had missed the turn as well (which I was slightly thankful I wasn’t the only one). Just a short 200 feet in the reverse and we found the trail again. This was our second case of Divine Providence (meeting the Nash’s so serendipitously).
The latter was completely my mistake. As I forged ahead alone, I marked the trail with several arrows at unclear junctures before making my way to Furnace Arch. I stopped for a few minutes to take some pictures and then plodded on.
After a while the trail climbed back on top of the ridge. At the end of that ridge going northbound it LOOKED like the trail turned sharply to the right back down into a drainage. The blaze HOWEVER was slightly hidden to the LEFT on the other side of the ridge. Naturally, I was on autopilot and followed the seemingly clear footpath.
It wasn’t until I crossed up and down two ridges, across ½ mile of terrain, and noticed stupidly “Hey where did all the blazes go?” did I stop and realize my error. I double-timed it back to the ridge to amazingly find the Nash’s about to make the same mistake.
Divine Providence is all that I have to say.
I was out of breath, cursing, and half-crazy by the time I ran into them. Fortunately, this was the final mistake I would make for the remainder of the trip.
Despite my travails this was an AMAZING section of the Sheltowee. Some of the vistas were incredible.
As we ended the trip by descending a bunch of sharp switchbacks to the picnic area, we donned our ambassador hats again as we encountered a fit backpacker and his little girl. He was fascinated by our mention of the STA, and he promised he would look us up online when he got home.
At the bottom of the mountain, we sat in the grass next to the Nash’s truck, drank some well-deserved Ale-8s and Mountain Dews, and then visited the nearby Iron Furnace which resembled some sort of hidden Mayan Ziggurat.
But my story doesn’t end there. I still had some ambassador-ing to do. On my traditional post-trip dinner of pizza and beer, my bartender told me he had hiked 17 days on the trail with his wife. Of course I invited him to come join the fun.
Sans the road walk (which really wasn’t that bad), this was a most excellent adventure. I can’t wait to do it again!