"Honey, what do you mean you've never had anything fried? How
do you eat?" Ashlee sat there politely puzzled, trying to formulate an acceptable
answer to give the genuinely perplexed waitress from Thelma’s Chicken and Waffle Place in downtown Roanoke.
Tucker and I had determined
it was our duty this week to show Ashlee all the wonders the South has to offer; what better way than to start with an early-morning, gut-busting plate of fried chicken and
waffles? Tucker and I had been planning for Ashlee’s visit
the way we plan for the majority of our trips: Wait until the last minute then
get in the truck and start driving, the details will work themselves out. So
after a quick trip to Roanoke’s Go Outside Festival, we hit the road and headed
down to good ol’ North Carolina. The beginning of our Blue Ridge adventure
brought us to the Linville Gorge. The Linville gorge has been called the Grand Canyon of the east; with one quick look down into the gorge from the ridge above, you can clearly see why.
We arrived at the Conley Cove Trail right at dark and began
the arduous task of sorting through our gear and packing packs. This was when
we discovered the first forgotten bit of gear: Tuckers headlamp was nowhere to
be found. To say that it was dark by this time would be an understatement. It
was pitch black as we started down the trail with Tucker trying to find his
footing amongst the loose rock and jutting roots that pave the Conley Cove Trail all the way down to the river. With me lighting the trail ahead of us, Tucker in the middle hiking like a drunken baby taking his first steps, and
Ashlee bringing up the rear, we descended through the old growth forest with
only a few hilarious missteps. Our campsite for the night is one that I have
been using in the gorge for years. We were perched on the edge of a bluff sixty
feet above the river surrounded by gigantic pine and hemlock trees that easily
cleared one hundred feet. Once we reached camp, we fell into that comfortable
pace of setting up camp and gathering firewood. All of us have a background
working with kids in the wilderness who generally need to be instructed how to
do just about everything. Multiple times. One of my simple pleasures in life is
when you get the chance to fall into that comfortable silence that can only
come with experienced trip leaders who know what needs to be done without
having to say it. Listening to the wind whip through the pines and the river
flowing below we started assembling our pile of firewood.
It was at this time
that our backwoods trio gained two more members. Within five minutes of us
getting into camp my headlamp caught the shiny reflection of two yellow eyes
that were bobbing down the trail towards us. The eyes belonged to a handsome
blue tick coonhound that must have let his nose distract him from the hunt as
he decided to check us out. Following close behind him was a skinny as a
rail walker hound sporting a fancy GPS tracking collar common on hunting hounds.
We checked their collars and saw that they belonged to a man just up the valley
that we figured had to be looking for his hounds. We named our new four legged
friends Bobby and Steve and went back to our tasks as the tired dogs curled up
near our fire. The five of us enjoyed our fire and settled into the comfort of
a brisk night in the mountains. We joked and laughed and told stories of past
wilderness trips while sipping some of the finest moonshine made in the South.
Throughout our trip a common theme arose of enjoying life’s simple pleasures.
Fresh batteries in a headlamp. Piping hot coffee in a squishy bowl. Good
friends, food, fire and smooth whiskey. What more could we ask for?
The next morning was a picture perfect fall day in
Appalachia. The brisk wind blew around fallen maple and oak leaves as the sun
made way over the east ridge of the gorge. We hastily guzzled down a pot of
instant coffee passing the bowl full of caffeine goodness to one another until
only the dregs remained and it was time to explore. We made our way south down
the Linville Gorge Trail on the hunt for my favorite jumping rock on the river.
The trail winds up and down the hollers gradually constricting until it is
barely the size of a game trail fit for goats and deer. We found the jumping
spot and wasted no time getting down to our skivvies and scrambling up the
backside of the house-sized boulder. People come to the jump rock for the
swimming but stay for the view. From the top of the boulder the eastern ridge
of the gorge rises out from the trees proudly displaying Carolina Wall.
Carolina Wall is a massive expanse of the mountain that looks like it was
completely sheered off sending the massive boulders we now played on down into
the river valley.
Jumping into frigid rivers is without a doubt one of the
more shocking to the senses type of simple pleasures. We enjoyed our day on the river, filling our
time with exploring, bouldering and bushwhacking.
The next day we left the gorge and headed west towards
Asheville and Pisgah national forest. The plan was to meet our friend Brock by
the fish hatchery to camp for the night. As most plans tend to go, ours was
momentarily side tracked, as we had to drive in and out of the forest to get
enough cell reception to call Brock. By sheer luck we passed a car on the way
back into the woods that slowed down as we approached it. As we rolled down the
window there was our buddy who had his own adventure on dark dirt roads trying
to find the fish hatchery. We made our way to our campsite for the night and
settled in. Good friends, food, fire and smooth whiskey. What more did we need?
Our next day was planned to take us to Black Balsam Knob, a giant mountain bald
that offers 360-degree views of Pisgah. We pulled onto the famous Blue Ridge
parkway and were stunned by the fall foliage that blanketed the old mountains
that the parkway is perched on the crest of.
On the way to Black Balsam, fate had another idea for us as
we passed a road sign stating Great Smoky national park was only 56 miles down
the road. How could we resist? Blaring bluegrass and singing along at the top
of our lungs we made our way into the park and up to Clingman’s Dome.
Clingman's Dome is the highest point
of elevation on the Appalachian Trail and is known for its extreme weather
patterns year round. We got the chance to experience the Smoky's weather as we
got out of the truck and were immediately hit with a cutting cold wind. This
was no longer chaco weather, though Tucker kept his on, adding a pair of socks underneath to keep warm. A sloppy assault of sleet peppered us as we made
the way up the trail to the observation tower. We passed winded tourists taking
smoke breaks as they labored up the paved path. The observation tower offered
views of about fifty feet as the mountains and trees began getting covered in
the blowing ice.
We retreated down the trail, grabbed our
packs and took a side trail of the Appalachian Trail to the Mt. Collier Trail Shelter. Most shelters on the A.T. are
three sided and offer the most basic of amenities, such as a privy and water
source nearby. We hit the jackpot as far as trail shelters go because this one
not only had a sound roof to keep the elements at bay, but it also had a tarp
that stretched across the front to trap in the warmth. Two other backpackers
were already there and, bless their hearts, they even had the shelter’s
fireplace roaring. We warmed our frozen fingers by the fire then began cooking
our dinner of slightly cooked bacon and beans and rice.
When we
awoke, the other hikers had gone but the cold certainly had not. The trees
glistened as the sun shone off every icicle. We skipped our morning coffee with
the promise of a warm truck and nearby Gatlinburg, a tourist trap of a
town that had to have that liquid gold known as coffee. But we weren't out of
the woods yet. As we reached the end of the trail and saw Tucker's truck we
could hear snow plows in the distance scraping at the road. There was only one
set of tire tracks heading up the mountain and we thought that was curious, but
didn't give it a second thought as we cranked the heat in the Four-Runner. We
slowly skidded down the mountain's frozen road and made it to the bottom without
vehicular destruction. We thought we were in the clear until we saw it: The
park service had closed the gate to the top of the mountain the night before
forbidding tourists and their clicking cameras from driving up. Luckily for
us, they didn't lock it. We left the park and drove along the Tennessee-North
Carolina line before heading into Gatlinburg. After only a few nights in the
backcountry, coming into Gatlinburg was like getting slapped in the face with
an ugly flashing neon sign. After we filled up on grub and coffee we sped back
out of society and made our way north to Virginia.
We took the interstate up into Virginia, leaving the Smokies
behind and setting our sights on the rolling hills and mountains of Shenandoah National Park. After some time, we found ourselves again on the Blue Ridge Parkway. We must have stopped at nearly every scenic view pull out along the
road, never getting tired of that view. The sun was setting to the west sending
its last stretches of light towards us in the mountains and coating the valley
below us in that shimmering late evening glow. We were even fortunate enough to see a black
bear mama and her cub scamper across the road.
Tonight would be Ashlee’s last
with us so we wanted to make the most of it. We made camp and started our campfire
quickly, eager to get our only responsibilities out of the way so as to enjoy
each other’s company for the last time in the woods. We sipped whiskey and took
turns making Ashlee suffer from the uncontrollable squirrel-like squeaks she calls
laughing. When the whiskey was gone and the fire was dying, down we laid out our
sleeping bags and gazed up at the stars before drifting off to sleep.
Our final morning, we reluctantly
packed up Tucker’s truck and began heading north to Washington D.C., where
Ashlee would be staying with some friends before flying home to Oregon. But the
wilderness still had another surprise waiting for us: as we were leaving the
park, we noticed a few tourist’s cars were pulled over on the side of the road.
We all had spent a summer in Wyoming where it is extremely common to see the
tourists all parked haphazardly all over the road trying to snap pictures on
their iPads of the bison and other wildlife that call the Tetons home. So when
we initially saw the cars, we brushed it off. Silly tourists. But as we neared
them, Ashlee spotted something up in a tree. There, looking back at us, was a
young black bear hanging out shooting curious looks at the people down below.
He hung out for a little while before scurrying down the tree, sending the more
faint of heart tourists sprinting back to their metal safety boxes. We all had
a smile on our face leaving the park that day. Another simple pleasure
realized.
We got Ashlee to her friend’s condo in D.C. safely after a
short drive from Shenandoah. Tucker and I stood out a little bit from the
locals. We were dirty, bearded, and smelling like a smoldering campfire. Ashlee, on the other hand, performed nothing short of magic in the backseat unbeknownst
to Tucker and I. She emerged from the truck looking like a proper civilized lady in
new clothes. Scratching our heads at this feat we walked her into the condo and
said our goodbyes.
The amount of people and traffic in northern Virginia was
another shock to the senses. All those poor souls inching along in traffic,
locked into the trap of a suburban consumer driven existence. Did they even
know what wonders and beauty were available to them only a few miles away? Did
they even care? Hell if we knew. Tucker cranked the bluegrass and we did what
we do best: Drove as fast as we could out of society back home to the mountains.
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