Chimney Tops Boulder Jumping

             About halfway between Gatlinburg and Newfound Gap is a large picnic area named after a popular trail not too far away. The Chimney Tops picnic area used to be one of the developed campgrounds within the park. Now dotted only with tables and a few bathrooms, it is still a very nice place to come and relax for a few minutes or half the day. A wide creek runs right through the area tumbling over and around large boulders. Some of them are so big it is easy to imagine they were piled there by giants.

            We decided to stop for lunch one day when the kids were still little. While eating, it seems the large rocks kept beckoning to them for it was not long before they asked to go climbing on them. Since the water was low and remained only a trickle in many places, we made their day by saying yes. Of course, the child in me also wanted to join them.

            They were amazed at some of the rocks whose true size probably could not be seen when the water was at normal level. Up, over, and on to the next one they scrambled jumping across when the distance allowed. Slowly, we worked our way downstream. Occasionally they would find one big enough to explore further and find it warranted being climbed again.

            Before long, we had traveled a couple hundred yards down the creek and found ourselves out in the middle of the shallow water. We had to retrace our path upstream to find a place where the rocks once again neared the bank. The kids had no qualm with that if you can imagine. Even then, they did not want to make their way off the rocks.

            Before we left, a picture was taken of them sitting on one of the largest boulders. Through the years, we have intended to make it back here for another lunch and “boulder jumping” excursion. The plan was to get more pictures of them on the same rock to show how much they had grown from prior visits. Unfortunately, time and other things have kept us from doing that. Maybe it will be possible to get them all together again in the future and add the grandkids as well.

Excerpt from Under The Smoke

 

Condemned

            The tent used when the kids were little was a two-room monstrosity. Zipping together a partition could separate the two sides of the tent. This served our purpose for a number of years, but I guess even camping gear has a life expectancy which seems to run out at the most inopportune moments.

            The kids would sleep toward the back of the tent while we would sleep near the front. Over time, a small hole started at the seam near the ground in one of the back corners. Of course, the kids could not leave it alone. One of them would always pick at it a little more as they fought sleep gradually making it bigger.

            Late one night as we slept, the weather made a turn for the worst. Clouds rolled in accompanied by the distant rumble of thunder and lightning flashed on the horizon. The wind rustled leaves as it brushed the treetops. The sounds of the approaching storm stirred us somewhat but did not really concern us. This was not to be the first rain weathered in a tent nor the last, but it would become one of the most memorable.                                      

            The breeze stiffened to gusts of wind. Trees swayed and our tarps snapped sharply above the tent. Drizzle at first, the rain soon poured from the sky in blowing sheets through the campground. Bright flashes danced across the sky illuminating the forest for moments at a time. Thunder echoed endlessly off the mountains.

            During this deluge, it happened. A strong gust grabbed the hole just right and ripped it all the way across the back of the tent. Rain poured in and the wind caused the tent to come alive. The sides and top would blow outwards and then back in. When I awoke, the tent appeared to be coming down on me. A startled cry escaped my lips as I jerked to a sitting position and looked around. It was a terrible way to wake up.

            Hurriedly, I threw shoes on and ventured outside into the lashing storm to see if anything could be done about the tent. In no time, I was drenched and it was not looking good for the tent either. There was no way to fasten any stakes or line to the ripped canvas. My only option was to move the tarp over the tent down to cover more of the exposed rear. To do this, I had to untie the ropes holding it. The wind thoroughly enjoyed itself at this point making it no easy task getting the tarp situated again. The tarp was whipping around like a canvas sail torn from its mast.

            Finally accomplishing what had temporarily seemed impossible, I sloshed back inside. My ex-wife had faired little better than I. The rain had created puddles that joined together to form a small lake within the tent. She now had all the driest blankets, sleeping bags, and pillows piled in the center of the tent. On this pile, we all huddled for the remainder of the mostly sleepless night.

            The next morning dawned with clear skies. Besides the tent, the only evidence of Mother Nature’s fury the night before was small tree limbs littering the campsite and a few things blown off the picnic tables. After a close inspection of the damage, it was decided this tent had made its last trip. We could stand at the front and look straight through out the back. I think it took most of the day for the sun to dry our soaked gear. Fortunately, the rest of the trip was free from rain.

Attempting to find humor in the whole situation, I tore a piece of cardboard from a box for a sign to hang over the front entrance.

It said just one word, “Condemned”.

Nocturnal Aviators

           The campfire had been burning for some time evident by the large mound of glowing embers under the flaming logs. Dinner long over and smores demolished, we sat in chairs around the fire talking and laughing. I do not remember the exact topic of conversation, but with kids it usually jumped around quite often. One of their favorites was trying to come up with scary stories or retell ones they could remember.

            The difference this night would be something seen vaguely in my peripheral vision. It was a sudden and momentary movement just beyond the light cast by the fire. For just a second, something was there and gone. A few minutes later, I saw it again appearing to move in a different direction. I soon began to suspect it was not my imagination. Something alive and elusive was toying with me knowingly or not. Through the laughter and boisterous talk of the kids I picked up another sound seeming to occur immediately after each appearance. It was similar to the noise created by lightly slapping an open hand on a picnic table.

            Interrupting the conversation circling the fire, I asked if anyone else had seen or heard anything. When prompted, I described it in more detail resulting in a reaction not altogether unexpected. Convinced I was making it up in an attempt to get them spooked, the kids did not believe me and returned to their youthful laughter. For the next hour or so, I kept seeing it – almost – and hearing that faint slapping noise. With my flashlight, I looked and looked, straining the beam into the nearby trees where I could have sworn I just saw it.

Remaining elusive, I was about to wonder if indeed I was losing my mind when the faint sound broke through during a momentary break in everyone’s voices. All eyes looked at me and then peered into the darkness. Almost in unison, there was a mad scramble as flashlights were scooped up and beams of light resembling searchlights quickly illuminated the woods around us.

            After much searching of branches and dark recesses of possible thick–leaved havens, lights slowly went off as things returned to normal. Nothing else odd was seen or heard that evening. I believe whatever it had been was scared off by the “Fourth of July” illumination of its dark world. Its night vision was probably screaming in agony.   

            Cup of coffee in hand in the early morning light, I looked through a couple of my field guides in order to explain the previous evening’s visitor. I knew what I had seen was not my imagination running rampant and wanted to prove it as best I could.

The answer discovered was a little known or thought of creature. It did not come to mind because I had never seen one before. In fact, guess I never really saw this one either, just a glimpse of it’s flight.

            I came to the conclusion it was a Southern or Northern flying squirrel. Though both are less than fifteen inches long, the latter is the largest of the two. They do not really fly but can glide nearly 80 feet by using the flap of skin between the fore and hind legs. Alighting lightly, they immediately dart around to the opposite side of the tree in case their landing was followed by a predator. This would explain why we saw nothing, no matter how many times I thought we were shining the light on the correct tree.

The former is more common in the lower 48 states with its range extending from Oklahoma and Texas up to Minnesota and east across the country from Florida to New England. The Northern species is found mostly in Canada but also in the extreme northwestern states, Great Lakes area, New England, and a long finger extending down into the Smokies along the Appalachian Mountains. Both species eat mostly nuts, acorns, seeds, berries, and some insects though they have also been known to eat smaller animals. Their call is faint and quite often mistaken for birds.

Next time darkness creeps upon you and sounds of something lightly slapping trees is heard, do not let fear get the best of you. Remember it is more than likely one of the nocturnal aviators of the wild.

Skunk Hill

             After crossing Abrams Creek near the western end of the Cove, there is a gravel turnoff to the right leading to the parking area for the Abrams Falls trailhead. The slope to the right of the parking area has for several years been referred to affectionately as Skunk Hill. Quite often near dusk, skunks had been seen waddling around on this hill as we drove through the Cove looking for wildlife.

We decided to stop and walk around on the hill looking for possible holes they would use as burrows. Before thinking we were crazy to be looking for the homes of skunks, keep in mind it was mid-afternoon. From everything we had read and heard, skunks were nocturnal. They would definitely not be out with the sun blazing overhead.

            My memory fails me as to why, but my mom elected to stay by the car. So, my dad, sister, and I set off into the calf-high grass armed with cameras and binoculars. It seems we never went anywhere in the mountains without them.

            Near the top of the small hill, we found a hole about a foot in diameter. There could have been more, but this was the first one we came across. At close inspection, this could indeed be the entrance to a burrow. The grass around the hole showed signs of being worn recently and claw marks could be seen around the edges. The difficult part was knowing whether or not the resident was a skunk. We could not be exactly sure.

            Being a young boy, I poked at the opening and threw things in it. My sister was saying I was going to get us all “skunked”. While chastising me for my actions and telling me to “cease and desist”, my dad kept reminding us that skunks did not come out during the day. We had nothing to worry about. Or did we ?

            As we stood there looking around at the scenery, sudden movement in our peripheral vision jerked our attention back to the ground near our feet. We were startled to see a dark nose sniffing around just at the edge of sight in the hole. Moments later, a dark head appeared with eyes black as coal. Temporarily frozen in place, we realized the head was not just dark. It was black and we could see the start of a white stripe behind the ears.

            “SKUNK !!!!!!”

            I am not sure if any of us actually screamed this word, but it was reverberating in my own mind. A brief pause of shock was followed by simultaneous action as we ran and stumbled back down the slope. I remember looking back once and seeing the skunk bounding along behind us. My imagination gave the little mammal the speed of a cheetah just knowing he would be upon us at any moment permeating the air with an awful smell. 

            To my mom standing by the car, it was quite comical. The three of us were running like a mountain lion was after us, but the only thing she saw was a little black mass in the grass. If it was chasing us, it definitely was not gaining ground. It dawned on her what it was and the humor of the situation sank in. We were being run off the hill by a skunk. Bursting into the parking area, she insisted we stop right where we were. She feared we had already been sprayed, but we assured her that was not the case.

            Breathless with hearts racing, we looked back up the hill. The skunk was now wandering aimlessly around. Other things had attracted his attention and we were completely forgotten. From that point on, we never took anything for granted in the wild. Even in the wilderness, there are exceptions to the rule.

Excerpt from Under the Smoke

"Is that the best...."

           The spring of 1999 found us once again camping in the Smokies. This is undoubtedly one of our favorite times to visit the Cove. Everything is bursting forth with renewed life from the smallest plants to the biggest trees. Fawns are often seen romping in the fields. There is a good chance of seeing bear cubs scrounging through an old log lying on the ground while their mother watches protectively nearby. The possibilities are endless of what might be seen around the next turn of the road or cutback of a trail.

            Equally unpredictable in the mountains during the spring is the weather. This time of year does not hold a monopoly on unexpected weather changes, but they can be more varied than during the rest of the year. It can be cold, freezing, comfortably warm, hot, muggy, or stormy all in the space of a few days or even within the same day. Carry an assortment of clothes in order to be prepared for wide temperature changes regardless of what the forecast is. If venturing out on a trail, an absolute necessity is raingear. My kids were about to find out why I always insisted on carrying ponchos when we hit the trails.

            It was a warm, partly cloudy day in April. We parked at the Schoolhouse Gap trailhead on Laurel Creek Road about 4 miles west of the Townsend “Y”. Before setting off, we took a few minutes to check everyone’s water and make sure all had a poncho. Walking sticks in hand, we started up the trail.

            Walking sticks themselves have been discussed at length in articles and forums. Some say they should be used if needed while others say they are useless and only add unnecessary weight. In my opinion, it depends on the route planned. If a trail is known to be undemanding without obstacles, a walking stick is probably unwarranted unless the person needs it as an aid. On the other hand, a steep trail or one with many obstacles might be the perfect example where one might be useful. In this outing, the obstacles were expected to be creeks swollen by recent rains.

            The Schoolhouse Gap trail follows the northwestern leg of a road built in the 1840s intended to connect eastern Tennessee with the Hazel Creek area near what is now Fontana Lake on the North Carolina side of the Smokies. The road extended southeast from Schoolhouse Gap up Bote Mountain across to Spence Field. It was never completed beyond that point.

            The trail follows Spence Branch as it meanders back toward the parking area where it flows into Laurel Creek. About a quarter mile up, the trail easily crosses this little stream. The trail slowly climbs from there another ¾ mile up to Dorsey Gap on Turkeypen Ridge. If continuing along the same trail, it will pass near an area known as Whiteoak Sink, at one time the home of several families..

            At Dorsey Gap, the Turkeypen Ridge trail angles off to the west traversing its namesake before dropping back toward Laurel Creek Road. It was near this junction we first heard the distant rumble of thunder. Turning west down this trail, we hoped the rain would either be brief or pass by altogether. Though the decision had not yet been made on how far we would go along the trails, Mother Nature was about to have a strong influence on the verdict.

            We had traveled about 1 ½ miles further when the sky darkened, sporadic raindrops began to fall and thunder rumbled closer. At this point, the rain actually felt good. It was not coming down hard enough to break out the ponchos yet. With fingers crossed, we continued up the trail as it wound along the top of the ridge. However, this was all about to change. It may not have been his fault at all, but we have continued to blame him ever since. Our son Matthew, about 13 at the time, was about to inexplicably alter the hike.

            Being our family’s biggest comedian, he decided it would be funny to challenge a higher power. Stopping in the middle of the trail and extending his arms, he gazed upward yelling as loud as he could, “Is that the best you can do ?!”

            It is no exaggeration when I say the bottom fell out of the clouds at that moment. No sooner had these words been uttered when a torrent of rain fell upon us. Pulling ponchos out of waist packs, we tried to get them on quickly but it was too late. The sheets of rain falling from above soaked us through.

            Smiling, Matt quietly said, “Did I do that ?”             His question was met by a resounding “Yes” from several of us.

            Thunder crashed around us shaking the ground. Bright bolts of lightning lit up the forest. The rain came down in heavy, blowing sheets causing us to tilt our heads down to keep it from stinging our faces. The trail rapidly became a muddy conduit for all the water running off the slopes. Deciding the top of a ridge was not the best place to be during a thunderstorm, we began retracing our steps back to the cars.

            Just when we thought it could not get heavier, our comedian struck a second time. Looking upwards, Matt once again yells out, “Is THAT the best you can do ?!”

            An absolute inundation of water from the skies now befell us. If there was any dry spot left under the ponchos before, it was definitely gone now. We all looked and felt like drowned rats. Having to lean into the blowing rain, we slipped and splashed our way back down the trail. Funny as it may have seemed at first, the humorous aspect was beginning to fade rapidly. We told him to be careful for one of these lightning strikes might be for him if he dared be so bold again.

            At one point, the kids went ahead of us a little on the trail. They passed out of sight around a bend moments before a bright flash of light and instantaneous crack of thunder shook the ridge. We could not help but laugh when Matt’s voice came back through the woods saying, “That wasn’t me !”

            Finally, the parking area came into sight. The dry haven of the cars would be a welcome respite from the rain. Though soaked to the skin and beyond, at least we could turn the heaters on to shake the chill from the rain. Hoping there might be some dry wood at the campsite, a warm campfire was also in the forefront of everyone’s mind. The rain quickly slackened as our steps drew us near the cars and stopped completely as we stepped off the trail. In a matter of minutes, the clouds parted and the sun shone through warmly. We all looked at Matt and blamed him profusely for getting us drenched.

My youngest son had stayed at camp with his mom. Upon returning, she told us it had not rained at all in the campground. Distant thunder had been heard but that was about it. The sun had been out the whole time. With half-hearted laughs, we told her the thunder had been Matt calling the rain down on us. To this day, our brush with Mother Nature’s attitude has been attributed to him.

Excerpt from Under the Smoke.

The Goose

             My parents began taking me to the Smokies when I was about 3 or 4 years old, so my earliest memories are tucked way back in the dusty archives of my mind. Though I do not recall my exact age at the time, one of these remains vividly clear. It occurred at the Oconaluftee Visitor Center located on the North Carolina side of the park just north of Cherokee on Highway 441.

            Within the visitor center can be found displays on mountain living as well as a gift shop. Outside, short walking trails lead to restored buildings depicting a farm settlement common to the area. This story unfolds here.

            As is common with young children, my sister and I quickly became bored with all the books, maps, and other interesting things adults find intriguing. I believe my own parents found the need to escort us outside long before they were ready. Bounding down the walk, our ears heard the common call for us to wait up.

            The farm buildings ahead beckoned to us as a playground might at home. It was new, captivating and I for one could not wait to climb on that wagon down by the barn. Of course, it was not to be as soon as my little heart wanted. The open windows and doors of the farmhouse proved to be too much to resist. Stopping to look in each and every one, I was chagrined to find them all roped off preventing access and the very thing I wanted to do. This, of course, was to touch all the neat things inside. Instead, I was relegated to exploring it all visually which was as it should be.

            Beyond the house was a corncrib and smokehouse. My parents tried explaining their actual use but we looked upon them as playhouses much grander than the backyard at home. We had a particular affinity with opening and shutting the doors. Finally coaxed against our will to continue, we meandered down toward the barn. Oh yeah, there was that wagon I wanted to climb on so badly but had forgotten about until now.

            It was near the barn where I had my first memorable experience with wildlife. Ok, it was not really wildlife as the term implies, but it was an animal nonetheless. As I approached the wagon with wide-eyed anticipation, my attention was drawn to a ruckus nearby. Squawking among themselves were several geese of varying ages and sizes. Being the inquisitive little boy, I quickly changed directions and approached them. In response, a large one waddled toward me watching every move intently.

            For some reason, it was at this moment I decided to try and emulate my favorite Disney character. I put my hands on my hips, leaned forward, and croaked out my best Donald Duck imitation. It was decent for a boy my age but it has not improved one iota over the years. I am still not sure what was said to that goose, but he liked it not one little bit.

To my heart-stopping surprise, he lowered his head, raised his wings, started squawking and charged me. In utter shock, I just stood there as he ran up to me and started pecking at my shoes as hard as he could. His wings flapped the whole time and his feet moved around like he was dancing.

            Now try to picture this. Here stood a little boy not much taller than the goose itself. This feather ball was either insane or I had really said something to tick him off. After what seemed like an eternity, my parents came to the rescue. Their laughter was disconcerting as they tried to sound stern enough to chase the goose away. I am not sure if his “attack” upset me more or the fact my parents were laughing about the whole thing. This was a very traumatic episode and here they were finding exceeding humor in it.

            Many years have passed since then and now find this experience humorous myself. I have often wondered what I actually said to set the goose off, but it must remain as one of life’s trivial unknown mysteries. However, it did teach me one thing. Real geese do not like Donald Duck at all !

Excerpt from Under the Smoke

Snow on the Mountains

            The peaks and ridges of the Smoky Mountains are a beautiful sight by themselves. Covered in white the view transforms to absolutely breathtaking. I have only seen them blanketed with snow a couple of times. The second was only a light dusting that was gone before afternoon. The first and much more memorable was as a boy at the tail end of a camping trip.

            Most of the time, we made our way to Cades Cove by traveling Highway 441 from Cherokee, NC over the mountains through Newfound Gap to the Sugarlands Visitor Center on the Tennessee side. At this point, we would turn off 441 and follow the Little River Road west toward the Cove. If you remain on 441 continuing north, it goes straight into Gatlinburg.

Snow hardly ever appeared in the Atlanta suburb where we grew up. It seemed to always skip the snow stage going directly to ice. You can imagine then our excitement when the snow started falling. The flakes were big and coming down fast quickly turning the ground white. My father stopped at Sugarlands to inquire about the weather and check road conditions.

            He shared the news with us upon returning to the car. It had been snowing in the upper reaches of the mountains for a long time with no end in sight. The road over Newfound Gap was closed to all traffic unless equipped with snow chains. Travel north of Gatlinburg to Pigeon Forge and beyond was not much better. A decision was soon made to get snow chains and head over the mountains on 441.

            I would like to interject a little information here. It is bad enough having to drive in unexpected snow with or without chains, but we were towing a camper as well. Looking back now, I understand why my parents were so apprehensive about undertaking this trek though my sister and I considered it all a big adventure.  

            Chains were purchased at a gas station on the south edge of Gatlinburg. Turning south, we started off into the heavy snowfall. It was slow going as the road began its climb toward the peaks. Thick forests bordered on each side of the road in this area. Tree limbs hung heavy with snow above the carpeted floor beneath. At a snail’s pace we crept ever so higher up into the mountains.

            Soon, the Little Pigeon River could be seen racing alongside the road. Icicles hung from branches growing low enough to be splashed by water as the river danced along its way. Rocks protruding above the water had been transformed into snow-capped icebergs stranded in the cold, clear current. A thin, fog like vapor hung above the river.

            As the road curved ever higher, the trees thinned out allowing us to see the mountains around us. Thick white flakes continued to fall obscuring all but the nearest peaks. The panoramic scenes reminded us of countless Christmas cards and holiday movies seen through the years. It was hard for us to believe we were not in the far north somewhere for we had never seen snow like this before.

After what seemed like hours, we finally reached the area of the Clingman’s Dome turnoff near Newfound Gap. My dad decided to stop for us to play in the snow. I think it was also a chance for him to relieve his death grip on the steering wheel.

            Surprisingly, there were a fair number of other people making the trek over the mountains and many others were using the crest as a stopover before beginning the descent. We joined other kids sliding around and running through the deep snow. Snowballs seemed to be flying at random claiming anyone as a target who found themselves in their path. Though it was very cold, I do not remember it being much like the small amounts of snow we have had in Atlanta over the years. This snow was drier and clothes were not saturated after playing in it. Much to our chagrin, it was soon time to load back up in the car.

            Taking a deep breath, my dad put the car in drive and slowly eased back out onto the road. He spent the rest of the drive down staring intently forward with a white knuckled grip on the steering wheel. I am most positive this was no adventure for him and can only imagine his nerves being on edge as he quietly looked forward to the road leveling out as it neared Cherokee. He could not even relax enough to enjoy the views we did as mere passengers.

            For me, I can honestly say it was one of the most beautiful trips I have ever taken across the top of the Smokies. The thrill of playing in snow like that has never been equaled and will live long in my memories. The closest it has come was being snowed in at my house northwest of Atlanta several years ago. Even then, it was not the same. On that particular day, it felt as if we were playing on top of the world.

Excerpt from Under the Smoke