Springtime in the Smokies

3/31/17

My life has been chaos for months. It's not that things are going horribly wrong, but that every waking moment is reserved for some semi-stressful task - be it work or kids or commuting, or church, or various social/family obligations that are mildly entertaining, and mostly just exhausting. When everyone else is asleep, I'll drink a beer, read the New Yorker, or zone out on a video game. But there's been this growing anxiety that my life is not in my control and its gradually getting worse - that the things I love are slipping away to be replaced by some poor substitute someone else chose.

And so I found a small window of time on my calendar in early April when I could get away. I didn't have to bring along a kid or worry about some other responsibility. Just free, empty time. Steph knows its vital for me to recharge. To refill / reset my soul, she says, smiling and half joking. But there is some truth to it.

The world was conspiring to ruin the trip in the two days leading up to it. I had a big project at work that was due to be switched on the morning before I left. Thankfully, the inept hospital IT staff forced a delay.

And then, Thursday evening during rush hour, a section of the highway - I-85, the core artery of downtown Atlanta - catches fire.  We can see smoke rising from the back porch, helicopters hovering. On the news - zoomed in bystander footage of roiling red flames and choking black smoke.  Vague flashbacks of 9/11 - destruction porn on repeat - some big chunk of infrastructure going up in flames. And then a crash and a thump and a football field sized square of bridge collapses, punching a huge square hole in the highway. Porter and Jack are transfixed. Steph is calling friends and family incessantly.  The kids won't go to sleep, eyes glazed over with those images of flames and firefighters advancing, jets of water and foam and smoke and steam.

Later, once we get the boys to bed and I'm trying to pack, Porter wanders out. His eyes are troubled. I hug his thin frame through his yellow minions pyjamas. "I can't sleep. I keep thinking over and over about the bridge.  It wont turn off."
"It's ok" I say "It's over. No one got hurt. They'll rebuild" He eventually goes to bed with Steph in our bedroom. But when I finally go in after packing around midnight, he's still awake. I carry him in my arms to his room, and he dutifully plods up the stairs to his bunk.

"I love you"

"Love you too daddy"

The drive is to be expected, eerily empty highways on the stretches leading to the site of the bridge collapse. Police cars sitting guard with blue lights flashing silently before a phalanx of orange barrels. Highway Closed, Exit Here. Like too many disaster movies.

The other roads are double capacity, and it's Friday before Spring Break as well. I creep along, switching through the stations on the radio, blurbs of press conferences with the GDOT and the chief of police in between the DJ's snark. Hours later, once the good music goes to static, and the traffic thins, and the cranes and concrete of I-75 fade in the rear view, I enter Trump Country. Junkyards and confederate flags. A few hours in, just shy of the Tennessee border, I stop in a  McDonalds. Populated by scary meth head rednecks, camo pants and dirty boots and tank tops. Bleached buzzed mullets, waiting for chicken McNuggets. The server is aghast I order a plain iced coffee with a single cream. It's a special order, she repeats "so you don't want the liquid sugar?"

The road narrows to two lanes as I cross into Tennessee. I’m west of the mountains, and I can see them rising in a gentle slope to the east, looking down with young leaves on the tiny towns and villages strung out along the valley. Everything is so green, the fields and young trees. Even the dirt seems saturated and rich.

I see an Amish family on the side of the road near Etowah, the father in his black suit and beard trotting the horse, his wife and daughter walking in blue bonets and dress, his young son skipping, blonde, a hat, smiling.

From the road the land opens up, edged by the graceful mountains to the east and the rolling green hills out the west. It's not tilled yet into crops, just fresh grass, the first greening of the year, and the sky is a pale blue behind clusters of peaceful clouds. I listen through Tame Impala, an album rescued from a time warp, and then Tycho Awake - as the road to the trailhead splits off to follow a wide river, past an old dam, a single foamy cascade down its spillway.

Abrams Creek is a hidden road winding alongside a tributary stream, and I pull into the trailhead campground around 4:00. There's no one there, and the campground is actually closed until May. I pack up my stuff, lock the truck, snap a selfie, and then look around.

This is what I chose. To go off into the woods alone for a few nights. Lug my gear on my back. Brave the elements.

I'm happy to be hiking, but there's a bit of uncertainty, melancholy and reserve.
When you are young and have yet to prove yourself you have nothing to lose, and can approach obstacles head on, with pure passion, energy, and bounce back with the resilience of youth. Once you're older and have succeeded in something a few times, it’s easy to fall back on that success, to coast on confidence or even feel nonchalant, lazy about the challenge. Bored. You step confidently, mentally tally the gear in your head, but then stumble on the first stream crossing and get your socks wet.

Thankfully, it's a mild spring, breezy and comfortable in the 60s, and I have nice wool socks and leather boots. So no harm.

The first campsite is only a mile in, nestled on a peninsula of rotting wood and deadfall.  I set up my tent and gray clouds are blowing through and covering the blue, so I start dinner.

Red beans, rice, chicken, green onions and jalapeños. The chicken is frozen, not vacuum sealed, so it needs to be eaten tonight.

The stove makes quick work reheating everything, and I'm eating by 5:30, a spicy Mexican stew of chicken rice and beans. Satiated, I try my hand at a fire, and get the thing burning off a torch of paper and some kindling, but the branches are too saturated and moss covered and never catch. I don't care enough either, breathing in wood smoke merely to stare into the flames. I read some Thoreau. I'm still undecided if his writing is uplifting and should be followed as inspirational, or is snarky and elitist and will merely leave me embittered about the life I must live.

It's still light out, so I walk up to the ridgeline, just the faintest pink hue of a sunset amidst the overcast. Across the narrow valley, I can see lights of a spectacular mountain cabin coming on, the blinking red dots of a cell tower. I can hear a distant waterfall to the east, purple peaks through the trees, rounded but steep, much higher. There are no stars tonight. I turn and shuffle back down the hill to camp.  There's a beer waiting for me.

Misanthrope - It's a word I've been thinking about lately. Hating people.  Mankind. Disliking others. Not specific individuals. But the entire rotten human race. Even among those you respect and love, seeing the flaws inherent in the human species and landing somewhere between disgust and despair.

4/1/17

Wake at 7:3 after somewhat restless sleep, out of bed by 8. Lowered the bear bag and started boiling water for coffee and oats.

There's something satisfying about breaking down camp - seeing all the sprawled plastic civilization compressed into nested containers, squirreled away into a single lumbering backpack, the campsite how it was before, save some compressed moss and bootprints, still smoldering ash.

Take a selfie when I'm all loaded up and some smiling old timer greets me.

"Morning!"

He has a weathered face and a good cheer, and carries a carved walking stick, a brown snake winding up the shaft to the polished head. Behind him marches a glowering wife. They're bound for some trail I haven't heard of, and I have to dismount, pull forth my topo and find their destination, a trail nearly 2 miles in the other direction. We chat amiably - the highway in Atlanta collapse, bear activity back in Gatlinburg. Then he's off and so am I.

Adams Creek Trail follows its namesake upstream all the way to Cades Cove.  A few miles in the treetops thin, the view down to the water and the surrounding hills unobstructed. Hundreds of trees felled or barely standing by the forest forest last fall. Here and there, solitary charcoal pillars stand starkly. Others are barely touched, just a hint of soot on the northside. The underbrush - rhododendron especially - is taking advantage to fill in the new gaps, along with delicate wildflowers and mosses. The creek roars below, ignorant of the vast swaths of deadfall up the canyon walls. There's the faintest smell of ash in the air.

Later, the rapids of the creek grow louder, and a cascade of 20 feet is designated a tourist destination. There are blubbery rednecks in jean shorts and flip flops. Young lovers who can't keep their hands off each other, duck face selfies in front of the falls. Families of all permutations. I see one with two rambunctious boys and a girl, and I nod to the Dad, who returns a greeting. I wonder if I'll be bringing the whole clan up here one day.

Get to Cades Cove shortly after noon, passing day hikers and undergeared tourists on the return hike from the falls. The clouds blow off and it’s a blue sky over the fields, acres of golden grasses until the high peaks jut out. There's a parking lot and an outhouse. I drop off my pack and take a short walk over to a historic mill and visitor center. Too many people here as well, especially a stuffy gift shop, selling overpriced stuffed animals, t-shirts and posters. I enjoy the solitary walk back to my pack, spotting a turtle emerging from his winter burrow, dirt still caking his shell.  The meandering creek glistens in the noon day sun, and there's just subtle enough breeze to rustle the wildflowers.

I eat up on a hillside, away from the parking lot and the crowds, sharp cheddar and peppered salami on a bagel, out of sight of the civilized, the buzz of grasshoppers drowning out the rumble of the engines and the squeals of unfettered children.

These trips always reiterate the things that I love. Reading, writing, being outside. Hard physical exertion. People - not so much.

Leaving Cades Cove, the Rabbit Creek Trail starts off with a wide stream crossing. Too deep to rock hop, I switch out of my boots into water sandals, and zip off the leggings of my pants. The water is numbing cold, but feels refreshing on my hamburger feet. The trail quickly ascends, the gurgle of water becoming a seasonal creek in the springtime.

I pass another family, young girls crouched and curious in the streambed. The mom assures me I wont see anyone else.

For the most part she is right. The trail is certainly off the beaten path for most visitors. There isn't that singular destination along its stretch, just a grinding slog up hill through the lush springtime forest. The day trippers stay away.

Higher up, the sun is out, and it becomes hot. Striped down to a t-shirt and shorts, sweat drips off my brow, fogging my glasses. I get lost in thought, the minutes ticking by with solemn bootsteps.

I find myself having nagging thoughts of work, or some social obligations or how a conversation should have played. Or worse - what I'm missing out on the internet. I have to catch these thoughts, acknowledge my brain thought them important enough to plague my consciousness with them, then let them go, float up away with the treetops, like a tibetan monk. I think about monks and how they live their lives in a very visible outpouring of faith. Even in death, be it fire or self-starvation or sky burial. I think about my own faith. How much of it is genuine. How much is this encrusted layer of culture and tradition and complacency. Letting my own thoughts settle into a comfortable medium because my active energy and focus has moved on - merely to indoctrinate other kids in the same. I really wonder what the point is, knowing all the stories and the theology without living morally different. I think about moral choices. How few we actually get to make - that our lives are so scripted and tracked that society has done most of the heavy lifting.  I wonder what it would feel like to be faced often with moral choices, how it would be taxing but rewarding to see moral faith paid off.

I think about how I should live.

All the time that I waste browsing the net, playing video games, drinking. Just sitting on my ass. I should be doing what I truly love - reading, writing, being outside. And If can't, at least optimizing my lifestyle for those pursuits.
Around 3:30, I'm tired and a bit hungry, so I sit down in the middle of the trail, which is smooth and soft with leaves and trampled dirt, in a warm slice of sunshine.  I take an apple from my pack and cut it into quarters on the back of my coffee cup lid. I just sit there, savoring the tart crunch of the apple, listening to woodpeckers and bugs and birdsong. I'm at peace for long minutes, my mind empty of worry, obligations, or schedules.

Twenty minutes later, a hiker with poles and a day pack brings me out of my reverie. The sounds of the woods had shifted slightly when he came into view. I stand, move my bag out of the way, and say hello. He does the same, and continues on. But the break is over.

There's a distinct backpackers trudge when weariness sets in, and the skin beneath your hipbelt is tender to the touch, a slouch and shuffle of heavy boots down the trail.

Passing the final crossroads with connecting trails, there's only one way back to the car - continuing along Rabbit Creek Trail. It's overgrown now, avoided by the Cades Cove dayhike loopers. It barely looks as if its been maintained this season, and there are long stretches where the trail doubles as a stream. There's a peacefulness to the happy babbling of the water, glinting in the afternoon sun.

There's another stream crossing, and weary as I am, it feels wonderful to walk through the frigid water, swift and calf deep in places. At last I reach camp. It's smaller and not as nice as the previous camp.

There's no stream, merely a mud and moss choked spring with a clear gurgle of water, barely enough to fill my water bottle. I set up the tent and heat water for dinner - Alpine Pasta with peppered salami and sundried tomatoes. There's tons of deadfall and the wood is drying here, so I think I'll try for a fire.

Belly fully, having completed all the chores of setting up camp, I construct a meticulous A-frame with a bed of tinder. I'm able to get it started without paper, continuously feeding it with dry twigs - squaw wood as my Dad would say.  Later, once I get some of the bigger logs burning, I clean up camp, then watch the stars come out. There's a thumbnail moon, bright white, beyond the pines. The brighter stars fill in the black gaps of the foliage. The fire crackles and whispers, as I sit and write till my hand cramps and the evening chill sets in.

It's been a good day of contemplation and strenuous work. Returning to the real world tomorrow seems much more the challenge. For now though, I'll watch the embers of the day linger and glow.

4/2/17

Another restless night.

Around 11:30 I was awoken to the sound of heavy crunching up the hill, where my campfire and bear bag were hung. There were the sounds of snapping sticks and something big moving through the dense brush. My heart started beating rapidly, but I was unable to move. I kept having the feeling if I could just fall back asleep it would go away. I would try to track the movement of the beast purely through sound, attempting to discern if it was approaching the tent. Had I cleaned up well enough? Could the bear somehow trigger the bearbag system and send my food crashing down? I tried to think about what I could use to scare the thing away if it got closer. My belt buckle on the water bottle? the trowel?  Was it worth peeking my head out of the tent and screaming out in the dark? Was it foolish?
Eventually the noise faded as I guess whatever it was (bear, racoon, wild pig, bigfoot?) moved on to easier prospects. Eventually, I faded back to sleep.

I woke again just before dawn, at six, completely chilled.  I'd used my fleece as a pillow and was wearing only a t-shirt and boxers. My sleeping bag touts twenty degrees, but it felt rather insufficient. I pulled on my fleece and went back to bed.

Finally awoke into the light around 8. Stumbled out of bed to make oatmeal and coffee. I was sore, dehydrated and my face felt like I slept on the ground, which I did. Taking that first sip of dark coffee and watching the sun peak through the trees brought me back to life.

I'm sluggish to break down camp, but I'm on the trail, fueled by coffee by 9:45. I really have no agenda but to saunter back to the trailhead.

Rabbit Creek Trail rises back up the ridgeline from yesterday, and in the morning sun the burned trees are stark against the clear blue sky. In the rivulets with micro-canyons of the pebbled path, funnel web spiders have made their traps, and they shimmer like silver nets, laced in dew. I see bear scat, snails and scare a flock of big turkeys off the path and into the brush. I'm sore and my body is tired, but there’s something pure about this Sunday morning.

A few more miles and there's a final stream crossing before the trailhead and the car. It's swift and deep, with a bit of rapids immediately at the ford. I move upstream and find a spot a bit shallower, wide and clear to the polished stones on the streambed.  Back down to crocs and shorts, shuffling numb feet across the steam, the current pulling my knees, the water glimmering. Then I'm out, navigating the muddy shore, and a dozen yards uphill to the campsite and ranger station. It's about 11:00, when I beep my truck unlocked and shoulder off the pack. Then shuttle over to a picnic table under the shade of a blooming tree to pore over the map and fix a snack.

After a few, a beat-up blue pickup truck putters down the road and parks in the grass.  An old timer with a white beard and collared shirt steps out, sipping a large cup of sweet tea.

He slowly walks around, passes by my table on his route back to the river. "We're gonna have an old fashioned baptism here in about 30 minutes."

I nod and thank him. Folks start showing up. Cars of all sorts. Young men and old folks, a few couples, in slacks and collared shirts. Church clothes. They amble down the road towards the water. One old church lady carries towels. There's even a guy in a wheelchair, pushed by his friends to the edge of the mud. Quite a crowd, twenty to thirty, chatting and smiling and moving leisurely to the water. Some move down onto the banks while others stay on the road. One lady opens up the hymnal and leads them in a single verse - Down by the river. The pastor read from the gospels the story of the first baptism.

Then they slowly step out into the water, still dressed in khakis and shirts, a boy of about 10  between them. The pastor, an old man with thinning  white hair is assisted by a brawny bearded guy.  They gently hold the kid by his back and shoulders.  He exclaims as the frigid water takes his breath away. It's not pain or silliness, but almost an exhortation of awe.

"I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit."

They lean him back, fully submerged.

Then they pull him back up, dripping.  There's applause. I join in, the masses huddled for a collective ritual, a collective amen.  Reborn in the cleansing waters of Adams Creek, in the Great Smoky Mountains.