As a hiker, I have peed in a lot of awesome places; on the Wonderland Trail circling Mt. Rainier, the South Kaibab Trail in the Grand Canyon, the lighthouse trail at Point Reyes, the Kentucky/Virginia state line at Cumberland Gap, Mt. Le Conte, the Green Mountains, Devil’s Cave in the Big South Fork, the nature trail at Alcatraz, all along the Sheltowee Trace, and countless others. A crude statement? (yes); nonetheless a true statement about the reality of being on the trail? (most definitely!).
The point that I am trying to make is that doing ordinary everyday tasks become extraordinary when they are done in extraordinary places. A hot meal, most likely bland and rehydrated, eaten on the peak of a mountain, becomes an exquisite feast. At that moment you become the master of that domain. It’s all yours. It belongs to you, and no one else. This isn’t just about territorial pissings (please forgive my bawdy parlance). This is about having the freedom to just exist as a human being in nature.
And yes, 100 points go to you for noticing my Nirvana reference.
This weekend, my friend Daniel and I wrapped up our centennial challenge miles. The challenge posed by the staff of the Big South Fork was to hike, bike, kayak, canoe, or ride 100 miles within 2016. We finished with some time to spare.
I stopped by the visitor center this morning with the intention of doing some light bragging to the on-duty park guide. Of course (as expected) they weren’t impressed. When I finished my 100 miles earlier in the year, I came up with the overly ambitious idea that I would rack up more centennial miles than any participant far and wide. As I boldly stated my exploits of a meager 150 miles, the ranger behind the desk confidently smashed my dreams by reporting that another hiker had already passed 260 and was working on more. I knew better than to believe that I was a leading contender in the mileage race, but I am still proud of my accomplishments this year, and there is plenty of 2016 left!
Daniel made the perfect plan. We camped Friday night at Bandy Creek. The wind was blustery and cold. Our campsite had been picked clean of any firewood in the surrounding area, but unbeknownst to our campground predecessors; our particular site was directly across Duncan Hollow Rd from the Sheltowee Trace trailhead. A short 500 ft walk on the trace, and we found firewood a plenty.
I took an old paper pamphlet from my car and cut it into strips; then balled it up into a loose but aerated sphere. It made excellent kindling, and soon a fire was raging within the circular steel pit.
Saturday morning, we hung outside the visitor center waiting for it to open. Daniel was hoping to find a bandana in the gift shop; he had left his at home.
We were both cold; the newly arrived fall has brought a brisk chill to the morning air. A park service maintenance man lazily walked around the parking area. We asked him what time it opened and he grunted, “8:30.” Of course you should never rely on park maintenance for information or advice (they didn’t open until 9).
We started out on the West Bandy Creek trail. This was a 1.7-mile spur leading to the Laurel Fork trail. From there we headed up to the Needle Arch loop and then passed on to a connector trail that harrowingly hugged the side of a precipitous hill. I casually commented to Daniel that one false step and it was a long way to the bottom. I tripped on a root.
Down on one of our many creek crossings, we met an awkward cowboy on a horse named Larry. He asked us if we were headed to Charit Creek Lodge, and wanted us to pass a message on to Greg that “he missed him.” He asked us if we’d “seen any bars.”
At some point past Jake’s Place we passed a nice-looking couple before making the loop around to Twin Arches. At the north arch we ran into a gaggle of late-middle-aged tourists. They were posing and mucking around with the filters on their phones; trying to get the right angles and somehow lose thirty or more pounds through the magic of technology. Being the good adventure hiker, I warmly offered to take their picture together. They were nice enough to return the favor.
On a small side journey to look for the second arch, I led us in the wrong direction to the parking area. I realized the mistake and we turned around. On the way back we ran into the nice-looking couple again. The man was astonished to see us and asked us how we had gotten there. They had taken the other side of the Twin Arches loop and couldn’t figure out where we had come from. I savored the bewildered look on his face and slyly continued to play dumb. Daniel and I had a laugh once we were out of earshot. My grandfather was supposedly a prankster. I suppose some things are hereditary.
Down at Charit Creek Lodge we were greeted by one of the stewards and the dog named Booger. She was a cute petite blond girl, who appeared no more than a day over 18. I’m not sure what the liquor laws are in Tennessee, but when I asked to purchase a beer, she went and got it for me. In Kentucky, you have to be 20 and a day to sell alcohol. Perhaps she was older than I thought. No big deal I suppose. It looked like they were short-staffed and were preparing for an incoming hoard of rowdy horseback riders.
We sat on the porch in rocking chairs sipping our beverages. The steward told us that she was from southern Tennessee near the Alabama border, and that she would be staying through the winter. She loved the Big South Fork but had never been to many of the sites in the area. Daniel and I gave her a list of places to visit. I told her that Larry the Cowboy had sent a message to Greg. I said that Larry missed Greg and slyly added that “he loved him.” She replied in a disturbingly deadpan manner that they had buried Greg under the porch. Greg must have been the boss.
Onward, we went. We took the arduous 600 ft climb up the Sheltowee to the top of the plateau. On the way up, there is an enormous fallen tree that has been decaying for probably over half a century. I was told by a botanist that it was the remains of an American chestnut. True American chestnuts were all killed during a devastating blight. Their sad carcasses can sometimes be found all throughout North America. I am happy to say that I have never heard a tree (such as this one) fall in the forest. Yes, I’m sure it makes a sound.
That evening we made it back to the Laurel Creek trail. We had almost made a full circle. We found a nice flat spot to pitch our tarps. Neither of us brought tents or hammocks this time, just a simple tarp that is strung between two trees to shield us from precipitation in the night. Daniel found a massive pine tree standing near the center of our camp. I sarcastically thanked him when he pointed out that it was dead. Thankfully, the wind did not blow.
We threw a bear-line in a tree near the creek. It was a beautiful hang; exactly textbook; more than 10 feet off the ground and more than 4 feet away from the trunk of the tree. I took the slack-end of the parachute cord and danced “Ring-Around-the-Rosies” as I wrapped it around a nearby tree. When you are that far out in the woods, there is no one around to see you make a fool of yourself. Like I mentioned before, at the moment I owned this place.
Daniel built a magnificent campfire. In the chill air we laid out our sleeping pads and bags, while we force fed ourselves some backpacking cuisine. We both looked at our over-packed inventory of food and tried to polish off as much as we could to lighten our load for the next day’s travel. The moment was beautiful. In our lazy decadence, we both quietly fell asleep beside the campfire. Occasionally in the night a large annoying spider-cricket would try to jump on my face. I would curse then angrily smack it off me. We both awoke this cold morning, next to the still smoldering coals of our fire from the previous night.
I have to give Daniel a lot of credit. He’s a good listener. On the trail, I turn into a non-stop talker. I suppose I am so quiet most of the time that I have to make up for it somehow. I talked a lot about my divorce this year, and how it has impacted my life. I talked about missing my my wife, having to move forward, and my hopes and fears for the future. I talked about all of the bad things that have happened, and despite all of that, how God has made many miracles happen for me this year. I talked about all of the new friends I have made, and all of the doors that have opened for me. Personal tragedy seems to affect people in one of two ways. You are either repelled from God like a thunderbolt, or you become magnetically drawn to Him. I suppose it all depends on your worldview.
Our hike this morning was short and sweet. We climbed out of the drainage back to our cars. Daniel gave me an Ale-8 before we made our way to the visitor center (which was open this time). We stayed for a bit to chat with the on duty rangers and then moved on to the East Rim Overlook.
The overlook itself is an amazing view, but we were really there to see Devil’s Cave. Devil’s cave is a favorite local hangout place. It’s reached via a small deer trail that runs off the edge of the parking area. We descended down a rope hung on a rock face and climbed down into the drainage. I was sad to see that some chucklehead had spray painted the phrase “Prom?” in huge blue letters on the outside of the cave. Nothing says potential prom date like a huge gaping hole in the ground. I hope she said no. The cave nonetheless was nothing short of spectacular.
I have been there a few times before. The first time was with my work partner Will Phillips. As a backcountry technician for the Park Service, I had actually cataloged this as an archeological site. Way back into the cave about three hundred feet, there used to be a moonshiner’s furnace. I madly cursed today when I found it had been destroyed. Probably by the same moron (or his ilk) who wrote “Prom?” on the outside of the feature. It’s an interesting place and reminds me of some of the beautiful photos you can see from the American Southwest in Backpacker magazine.
Speaking of human impact on the great outdoors, it has become fashionable for modern explorers to build rock cairns everywhere they go. I find this mildly annoying. Likewise, just like the “builders,” there are now “destroyers” who follow behind the “builders” and dismantle this “rock art.” I have seen people participating in both activities. While I am neither a builder nor a destroyer, I feel that a word of caution is necessary for both parties. There are actually some well-known pre-historic cairns that have existed in the American mid-west for hundreds, if not thousands of years. They were built by Native Americans preceding the introduction of westerners. Please leave them alone. Don’t build around them and certainly don’t destroy them.
After our brief visit to the cave, we drove to Mellow Mushroom in Somerset, where Daniel and I celebrated my ritual victory dance of beer and pizza.
This was another amazing trip, and I can’t wait to go again! I LOVE HIKING!!!!!