Nature - 0; The Big Man - 2
"Life is old there
Older than the trees
Younger than the mountains
Growin like a breeze"
Nature - 0; The Big Man - 2
BJ used to let me tag along on his treks through the Smokies. We would hike from the highest peaks, through the lowest valleys. Even though I battled through pain the week after, I always enjoyed our hikes. We both would become so entrenched in the beauty around us that, for the most part, we would go miles upon miles without speaking. There was no need. You fully realize the un-necessarity of the human thought spoken aloud when you happen upon a doe dipping it's head to the water, getting a drink. I still remember clearly the trip back from Abrams Falls. We were bounding along when I noticed, through the trees, a single deer calmly drinking from the creek. I stopped, walked to the edge of the tree line, and openly stared. The tops of mountains are fantastic, but I don't think a solitary moment in all my journeys has meant as much to me as seeing that doe.
Since our falling out, I have yet to go on an official hike. Two years had passed, and I came to the conclusion that that was far to much time to have forgone a trip to the Smokies. In that early, dewy moment right before dawn on Memorial Day I headed out to visit Charles Bunion.
According to Kevin Adams of Trails.com "Charles Bunion is a classic Smokies hike and can be crowded any time of year except winter." He was somewhat right. I passed many a hiker that day, but it wasn't too overly crowded. I even happened upon a few through hikers.* The biggest problem I had was the [hold on a sec whilst I revert into backwards ass hillbilly mode] group of effin', Yankee ass, day hikers. There was a group of five of them. They typified everything that rednecks of this area bitch about. They were loud, obnoxious, and clearly not aware of other people nor the beautiful landscapes around them. The bulk of the time spent at the Bunion, a craggily rock face to which I decided to make my stopping point, they were bouncing around, being noisy, and, most importantly, pissing me off. Now mind you, we're around 6,000 ft above sea level. The drop off from the Bunion was both swift and fatal. Many a moment passed where I thought about knocking those dumbasses off the side of the mountain. Hell, they were worse than little children. I don't think for one moment that they ever really paid attention to the world around them. These types shouldn't hike. They should run marathons, or some such event. The bountiful lushness of the Smokies is completely lost on these fools.
Enough bitching.
The rest of my travel was nice. I did have to stop a few times because of both a pulled left calf [from my own dumbassness of not taking enough water], and the treacherous incline. I soon realized that on most of my hikes with John, we mainly stuck to somewhat straight trails. Inclines are not really my forte.
Charles Bunion = 8 miles roundtrip; 1,500 feet incline
Then I realized that I do, in fact, live in the shadow of the Great Smoky MOUNTAINS National Park. Mountains mean ascension. Ascension means sore knees, and strained calves for this here big fella.
Upon hobbling into work the Tuesday after Memorial Day I began chatting to one of the other designers on our team, Toddles. He's an avid, way-the-hell-more-advanced hiker than I, and wanted to tag along next trip. We figured out a time that would work best, and he picked out the hike. He chose the lengthy trip to Spence Field via the Anthony Creek trail to Spence Field which starts in the valley right before Cades Cove.
Way before the crack of dawn, with two hefty griddle cakes in my belly, we headed to the mountains. We arrived at one of the many Cades Cove parking areas, and looked around for our trailhead. It was nowhere to be found. Going back to the Guide Book, it mentioned that the trailhead was at the back of the camping area... which was a good mile from where we parked. We decided "screw it," and headed off. The "camping" area is not really for real camping, it's for campers. Those big, typically off white mobile homes. That's not truly camping. Camping is when you're out in the middle of the forest, with only wildlife as your company. Those people in the "campsite" were merely hanging out near the woods.
One of the first things we noticed, upon hitting the trailhead, was that this trail was also a horse riding trail. That meant we had to be on the lookout for stink nuggets, and horse mines. We spent the better part of the trip hollering out "shit!" whenever we came upon a pellet, trail, or pile of scat.
The trip to Spence Field via the Anthony Creek trail was vertical. And I do mean vertical. Some pieces were nothing more than a zig-zag at an incredibly difficult incline. I'm not ashamed to admit that on many an occasion I had to stop in order to recuperate. The whole time I was thinking "what the hell are through hikers thinking? This is nuts!" Then it happened. We cleared the trees, reaching the apex.
Beautiful is a word thrown around a lot. Sure there are interchangeable words like majestic, bountiful, lovely, charming, delightful, appealing, gorgeous, stunning, arresting, beguiling, exquisite, aesthetically pleasing, magnificent, divine. Hell they're all good adjectives, but none are descriptive enough to fully encompass the look, hell the feeling, from being on top of a mountain. It's almost euphoric. I don't know whether it's exertion from the climb or simply the view, but something changes when you've hoofed it all the way to the top. Your body is no longer weary, your mind is completely clear, and everything seems to just click into place.
Upon finding a little alcove made by trees, we sat down, ate some grub, and almost immediately passed out. Upon my waking, Toddles asked the time. I figured, worst case scenario, that I had napped for but a few minutes. Looking at my cell phone I realized it had been over an hour. "Shit." This time there was no horse feces in the vicinity. We decided is was high time to hoist our gear, and shake a leg. We bounded about the top of the mountain, scoping views from all of the open vistas of Spence Field.
Descending a mountain is in the realm of possibility for me. It's not really a problem, unless my boys are dying. Then the yellow flag is let out, caution taken into consideration. The biggest hurdle, when heading southbound, is that the trip will work muscles in your calves that normally do not get tested. Which is usually not that bad, until the rise of the sun the following morn. At that juncture it'll feel like the acupuncturist left a square foot of needles in your calves.
All in all it was a good trip. The later part, right towards the end, we started babbling on about BBQ pizza and beer. It's like we had already imbibed massive quantities of beer, bounding around loosely, screaming about our boys dying, and trying to channel our innermost John Wayne.
Spence Field via the Anthony Creek trail = 11 miles roundtrip; 3,300 feet incline
* Through hikers are people attacking the monumental task that is hiking the entire Appalachian Trail. These people are easily noticeable by their sweat-soaked clothes, rabid look in the eyes, and wavy lines above their head showcasing the long stretches without bathing.**
** While I poke fun at those crazy bastards that attempt to hike the entire AT I still have utmost respect for their shear determination. Hell, I cannot go on a day hike without injuring myself in some form or fashion.
Until next time:
"A vigorous five-mile walk will do more good for an unhappy but otherwise healthy adult than all the medicine and psychology in the world." - Paul Dudley White
Older than the trees
Younger than the mountains
Growin like a breeze"
Nature - 0; The Big Man - 2
BJ used to let me tag along on his treks through the Smokies. We would hike from the highest peaks, through the lowest valleys. Even though I battled through pain the week after, I always enjoyed our hikes. We both would become so entrenched in the beauty around us that, for the most part, we would go miles upon miles without speaking. There was no need. You fully realize the un-necessarity of the human thought spoken aloud when you happen upon a doe dipping it's head to the water, getting a drink. I still remember clearly the trip back from Abrams Falls. We were bounding along when I noticed, through the trees, a single deer calmly drinking from the creek. I stopped, walked to the edge of the tree line, and openly stared. The tops of mountains are fantastic, but I don't think a solitary moment in all my journeys has meant as much to me as seeing that doe.
Since our falling out, I have yet to go on an official hike. Two years had passed, and I came to the conclusion that that was far to much time to have forgone a trip to the Smokies. In that early, dewy moment right before dawn on Memorial Day I headed out to visit Charles Bunion.
According to Kevin Adams of Trails.com "Charles Bunion is a classic Smokies hike and can be crowded any time of year except winter." He was somewhat right. I passed many a hiker that day, but it wasn't too overly crowded. I even happened upon a few through hikers.* The biggest problem I had was the [hold on a sec whilst I revert into backwards ass hillbilly mode] group of effin', Yankee ass, day hikers. There was a group of five of them. They typified everything that rednecks of this area bitch about. They were loud, obnoxious, and clearly not aware of other people nor the beautiful landscapes around them. The bulk of the time spent at the Bunion, a craggily rock face to which I decided to make my stopping point, they were bouncing around, being noisy, and, most importantly, pissing me off. Now mind you, we're around 6,000 ft above sea level. The drop off from the Bunion was both swift and fatal. Many a moment passed where I thought about knocking those dumbasses off the side of the mountain. Hell, they were worse than little children. I don't think for one moment that they ever really paid attention to the world around them. These types shouldn't hike. They should run marathons, or some such event. The bountiful lushness of the Smokies is completely lost on these fools.
Enough bitching.
The rest of my travel was nice. I did have to stop a few times because of both a pulled left calf [from my own dumbassness of not taking enough water], and the treacherous incline. I soon realized that on most of my hikes with John, we mainly stuck to somewhat straight trails. Inclines are not really my forte.
Charles Bunion = 8 miles roundtrip; 1,500 feet incline
Then I realized that I do, in fact, live in the shadow of the Great Smoky MOUNTAINS National Park. Mountains mean ascension. Ascension means sore knees, and strained calves for this here big fella.
Upon hobbling into work the Tuesday after Memorial Day I began chatting to one of the other designers on our team, Toddles. He's an avid, way-the-hell-more-advanced hiker than I, and wanted to tag along next trip. We figured out a time that would work best, and he picked out the hike. He chose the lengthy trip to Spence Field via the Anthony Creek trail to Spence Field which starts in the valley right before Cades Cove.
Way before the crack of dawn, with two hefty griddle cakes in my belly, we headed to the mountains. We arrived at one of the many Cades Cove parking areas, and looked around for our trailhead. It was nowhere to be found. Going back to the Guide Book, it mentioned that the trailhead was at the back of the camping area... which was a good mile from where we parked. We decided "screw it," and headed off. The "camping" area is not really for real camping, it's for campers. Those big, typically off white mobile homes. That's not truly camping. Camping is when you're out in the middle of the forest, with only wildlife as your company. Those people in the "campsite" were merely hanging out near the woods.
One of the first things we noticed, upon hitting the trailhead, was that this trail was also a horse riding trail. That meant we had to be on the lookout for stink nuggets, and horse mines. We spent the better part of the trip hollering out "shit!" whenever we came upon a pellet, trail, or pile of scat.
The trip to Spence Field via the Anthony Creek trail was vertical. And I do mean vertical. Some pieces were nothing more than a zig-zag at an incredibly difficult incline. I'm not ashamed to admit that on many an occasion I had to stop in order to recuperate. The whole time I was thinking "what the hell are through hikers thinking? This is nuts!" Then it happened. We cleared the trees, reaching the apex.
Beautiful is a word thrown around a lot. Sure there are interchangeable words like majestic, bountiful, lovely, charming, delightful, appealing, gorgeous, stunning, arresting, beguiling, exquisite, aesthetically pleasing, magnificent, divine. Hell they're all good adjectives, but none are descriptive enough to fully encompass the look, hell the feeling, from being on top of a mountain. It's almost euphoric. I don't know whether it's exertion from the climb or simply the view, but something changes when you've hoofed it all the way to the top. Your body is no longer weary, your mind is completely clear, and everything seems to just click into place.
Upon finding a little alcove made by trees, we sat down, ate some grub, and almost immediately passed out. Upon my waking, Toddles asked the time. I figured, worst case scenario, that I had napped for but a few minutes. Looking at my cell phone I realized it had been over an hour. "Shit." This time there was no horse feces in the vicinity. We decided is was high time to hoist our gear, and shake a leg. We bounded about the top of the mountain, scoping views from all of the open vistas of Spence Field.
Descending a mountain is in the realm of possibility for me. It's not really a problem, unless my boys are dying. Then the yellow flag is let out, caution taken into consideration. The biggest hurdle, when heading southbound, is that the trip will work muscles in your calves that normally do not get tested. Which is usually not that bad, until the rise of the sun the following morn. At that juncture it'll feel like the acupuncturist left a square foot of needles in your calves.
All in all it was a good trip. The later part, right towards the end, we started babbling on about BBQ pizza and beer. It's like we had already imbibed massive quantities of beer, bounding around loosely, screaming about our boys dying, and trying to channel our innermost John Wayne.
Spence Field via the Anthony Creek trail = 11 miles roundtrip; 3,300 feet incline
* Through hikers are people attacking the monumental task that is hiking the entire Appalachian Trail. These people are easily noticeable by their sweat-soaked clothes, rabid look in the eyes, and wavy lines above their head showcasing the long stretches without bathing.**
** While I poke fun at those crazy bastards that attempt to hike the entire AT I still have utmost respect for their shear determination. Hell, I cannot go on a day hike without injuring myself in some form or fashion.
Until next time:
"A vigorous five-mile walk will do more good for an unhappy but otherwise healthy adult than all the medicine and psychology in the world." - Paul Dudley White
posted by The Big Man | 7/30/2007 03:35:00 PM
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