tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9904497209076061032024-03-19T12:21:53.902-04:00Wilder RamblingStephen Wilderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10386881094326662968noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-990449720907606103.post-5383509240712237192019-12-04T15:00:00.000-05:002019-12-04T16:45:17.008-05:00Altamont<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;">
</span>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #073763;">I wrote this personal account in
2017. As we approach the fiftieth anniversary of Altamont on
December 6, 2019 I wanted to re-publish the story. I haven't changed it,
but did add a section at the end about my good friend Alfred.
</span></div>
<br />
<span style="color: #004586;">Everybody knows
about Woodstock. Three days of Peace, Love, and Music that was the
joyous climax to the 'sixties. Not as many know about the Altamont
Free Festival in California, Woodstock's evil twin, that came to
represent the death of the 'sixties. You can guess which one I went
to, this is my story. </span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></b>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span dir="ltr"><span class="_3l3x">Disclaimer: the photos are unattributed shots I found online. I didn't have a camera.</span></span></span></b><br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;">I couldn't figure
out how it all turned out so bad. This was supposed to be Woodstock
West! It was supposed to be a bit of Heaven here on Earth, and it
turned into Hell. And stayed that way for an uncomfortably long
time.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;">It all sounded so
good when I first heard about it. The time was about the first of
December,1969. I was living on the streets in San Francisco, and the
word went out through Haight Ashbury and all the hippie community
that there was going to be a free concert that would rival Woodstock,
which had happened 3 ½ months earlier. Put on in Golden Gate Park
by The Rolling Stones and featuring The Grateful Dead, Santana,
Jefferson Airplane, Crosby Stills Nash & Young. That sounded like
the place to be! </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;">But before I tell
the story I need to tell how I came to be there and what my situation
was. I ran away from home in Asheville, NC on Labor Day weekend of
'69, when I was 17 years old. Long story. I was a geeky, awkward,
bullied teenager. Didn't fit in anywhere. But I had discovered
flower children and the hippies from TV and magazines and record
albums, and realized that I was supposed to be one. But believe it
or not the '60s didn't happen in Asheville until the'70s. Since I
couldn't find any hippies to join I decided I'd have to go out to
California where the flower children were. So instead of starting my
senior year of high school I loaded up my old Corvair and headed for
the West Coast. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;">After abandoning
the car in the Mojave Desert I began a six month career of
hitchhiking and riding freight trains up and down the Coast. I was
broke most of the time except for the month I spent picking apples
in Washington State. When I wasn't on the road I lived on the
streets of various cities, especially San Francisco. It was a wild
time! Although the hippie movement hadn't even started back home in
Asheville, on the West Coast it was getting kind of burned out and
ragged. Haight Ashbury, the home of the flower children, was being
taken over by junkies and speed freaks. It had become a dangerous
area, especially after dark. Some of the old timers were left, but
many had fled to small villages along the coast away from the city. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;">So it wasn't the
Utopia I had imagined, and I had some growing up to do. (I remember
overhearing someone say about me: “He ain't ready for this world
yet!”) But by the time I heard about the concert I had survived
for 3 months, and although I had just turned 18 I felt like I had
aged at least 3 years.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;">The idea for a
free concert originated with The Grateful Dead, who had been doing
concerts in the Park for years. They suggested the idea to The
Rolling Stones, who eventually took over the planning and direction
of the event. The preparations, and the eventual concert, turned
into total chaos. Of course I didn't know all the details at the
time, just rumors on the street and confusing announcements on the
radio. The concert was supposed to be in Golden Gate Park, a
beautiful location. But the permits were refused, so it couldn't
happen there. Then we heard it was going to be at the Sears Point
Raceway north of town. The stage and facilities were all being set
up. Then that fell through. It was two days before the event and
they didn't have a location. There was gloom and despair, nobody
thought it could be pulled back together that quickly.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;">But the next day
when I was in a Volkswagen with some hippies who had given me a ride
it was announced on the radio that the concert was being moved to the
Altamont Speedway and was still going to happen the next day.
Alrighty then! It was on, and I was excited! </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;"> I wanted to get
on the road right away, so I headed over to Alfred's to pick up my
backpack. Alfred was one of the most unique characters I ever met,
and will require a story of his own. For now I'll just say that he
had an art gallery / apartment where he sometimes let homeless
hippies crash for a few days. He had become a trusted friend, which
was rare as gold for me at that time. I got my stuff and told Alfred
about the concert. He just shook his head and said to be careful. I
glanced at a map long enough to figure out what highway went in the
right direction and got going.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;">I walked 2 or 3
miles to the nearest freeway ramp. When I arrived in the
mid-afternoon there were already about 20 people lined up trying to
catch a ride. The law in California was kind of crazy. It was
illegal to walk on the freeway itself, you had to stay at the bottom
of the ramp. Hitchhiking was illegal. If you stuck out your thumb
you'd get arrested. But if you stood there with your hands at your
side and looked hopeful the cops would (usually) leave you alone. So
I stood there smiling at the cars as they went by. Some people were
getting rides but more were coming to take their place. After about
3 hours I was getting discouraged, but a VW van stopped, the side
door opened, I hopped in, and we took off. On my way!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;">The first thing I
saw was an old hippie sitting cross-legged in the floor rolling a
joint. He looked up and said: “This is some Vietnamese Black, I
think you'll like it.” I had only smoked a couple of times but had
acquired a taste for it. After this one was passed around the van a
few times I was on my way indeed! The 3 or 4 people in the van were
friendly. The were going to Altamont to work in the medical tent
during the concert. So all I had to do was sit back and enjoy the 50
mile ride!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;">It was well after
dark when we got to the gate at the Altamont Speedway. The crowd
wasn't supposed to get in until the next morning, but since the guys
had come to work they were let through. I just kept my mouth shut
and rode in with them. After they got parked they wished me well and
I was on my own again.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;">I started out
just wandering around the site. It was pretty desolate. The concert
wasn't going to be in the Speedway itself but in a huge bowl-shaped
area next to it. Short, withered grass, and no trees. There were a
few other people who had gotten in early but I mostly had the place
to myself. The only lights were where a crew was working to set up
the stage. They had taken it down that morning at the previous
location, hauled it over to the new site, and were working through
the night trying to put everything together. Stage, sound system,
scaffolding towers for speakers and lights. Situated at the bottom
of the bowl, the stage was only 39 inches high. I guess that's all
they had time to throw together, but it would cause huge problems the
next day. But it looked good enough at the time. I walked down to
watch the crew for awhile. I remember leaning with my elbows on the
stage thinking: “All I have to do is stay right here and this will
be my spot for the concert!” But a still, small voice in my head
said: “It my get a little hectic down here. Maybe I should get
back a little farther.” For once I listened to that voice, and it
was one of the best decisions I ever made! I picked a spot near one
of the light towers that seemed a safe distance away and rolled out
my sleeping bag. Alfred, who didn't usually feed his hippie guests,
had given me a pack of precooked hot dogs. I ate a couple of those,
which tasted wonderful, and lay down to try and get some sleep. I
was thankful for my sleeping bag, it got down into the upper 30s that
night! I woke up a couple of times, watched the stage crew, munched
on a hot dog, and slept some more.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;">The next morning
the flood gates opened and a stream of people started coming down the
hill into the bowl. The stream became a river, and the bowl began to
fill. I never saw so many people! The peace rally I marched in the
month before had about 100,000, but it wasn't like this! By the time
it was done the crowd at Altamont was estimated to be 300,000. I
couldn't count, but there seemed to be plenty! </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;"> They would find a
spot, spread out a blanket to sit on, and get out their picnic
supplies. Food, wine, drugs... For those who didn't have enough
drugs there were dealers wandering through the crowd hawking their
wares like peanut vendors: “Pot! LSD! Speed!” Some carried
signs with what they were selling. Not a cop in sight. I didn't
need to buy anything. There were plenty of joints and jugs of wine
being passed around. I watched one guy sitting near me with a bag of
pot and a pack of papers. He'd roll a joint, light it & take a
big hit, then hand it off to a neighbor. Then do another one! So I
got as high as I'd ever been just from taking a puff or a drink of
what was passed to me. I was too naive to realize it at the time,
but I was lucky I didn't get dosed. A lot of the wine, or orange
juice, or whatever being passed around was spiked with LSD. That was
bad enough, but some of the acid being sold and used was bad quality,
or mixed with methamphetamine, which is a bad combination. Even
veteran acid-heads were having bad trips, and the medical tents were
getting busy.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;">I realize that
all the drug use, including mine, is a controversial subject. But
this was the hippie culture during the 'sixties, and it was just part
of the way things were. Some people took LSD and became enlightened.
Some took heroin and became addicted. Too many died. So I'm not
trying to glorify what was going on, or my part in it. Just honest
history.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;">Around noon the
first band came on. I got distracted somehow and didn't catch their
name. They started out a little ragged, and I wasn't paying much
attention. But they got better and I started listening. I didn't
recognize them so I asked a guy next to me. “Oh, that's Santana.”
It was the first time I had heard the name, but I didn't forget! So
far I, and the crowd around me, were having a good time. But that
was about to change.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;">About a half hour
into Santana's set they had to stop the music because of a fight in
front of the stage. It was to be the first of many. I couldn't see
clearly from my location, but some of the poor event planning was
having it's effect. For stage security the Stones had hired the
Hell's Angels. For $500 worth of beer! What could possibly go
wrong? Fueled by bad drugs and alcohol some of the crowd were
getting out of control. Pushing to the front & creating a
disturbance or getting on the stage. The Angels responded as you
would expect, punching, beating people with pool cues, and their
trademark move – throwing people to the ground and stomping them.
I first realized what was going on when I heard a thunderous roar.
There was a solid line of Hell's Angels riding their Harleys down
through the tight packed crowd to the front of the stage. People had
to scramble out of the way or get run down. I was really glad I
hadn't kept my spot at the stage, but the mood of the concert was
ruined. This whole thing was supposed to be about peace, love, and
harmony, but instead was becoming about anger, violence, and fear.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;">The Jefferson
Airplane came on, but the fights were getting worse. The stage
announcer tried to calm things down, Grace Slick of the Airplane kept
trying to sooth the crowd, but things were out of control.
Especially the Hell's Angels. One of them punched Marty Balin, the
lead singer of Jefferson Airplane, in the face and knocked him out.
Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young tried to play, but their hearts
weren't in it. It was like playing background music for a riot!
When The Grateful Dead arrived for their set and saw how bad things
were they got back in their helicopter and left. I don't blame them!
I would have left too if I'd had a way. The concert location was in
the middle of nowhere, and the highway was closed for miles, choked
with abandoned cars. I was there for the duration, and had to ride
it out the best I could.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;">One thing I
couldn't ride out was the need to visit a porta john. The only ones
I saw were on the top of the hill on the far side of the crowd. It
was a major ordeal to get through that many people. I finally got
there, but the ordeal had just begun. Because of the poor planning
and last minute site change all facilities were either in short
supply or missing altogether. There were only a couple of medical
tents and a handful of personnel. Between the bad drugs and the
beatings they were overwhelmed. (I feel sorry for those guys that
had brought me there who came to work in a medical tent!) There was
no food and no water. And there were only 100 porta johns for
300,000 people. That works out to 3000 people per john! The lines
were longer than I could wait. When I got to the front it was
frantic with people pushing and crowding, including me! The john I
made it into already had 2 or 3 guys inside, and no room to close the
door. I won't describe how it looked or smelled. It didn't matter,
I did what I had to do and got the heck out of there! Back across
the sea of people, and somehow found my place, with my pack and
sleeping bag still there. Whew!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;">The Rolling
Stones didn't come on stage until after dark. I think it was
supposed to look more dramatic on the film that was being made.
(Later released as the movie Gimme Shelter)</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;"> During the day I had
been far enough back in the crowd to be reasonably safe. I could see
the crowd swirling around in front of the stage when fights broke
out, but it didn't reach back to where I was. So I was unprepared
for what happened next. When the Stones came on everybody stood up
and crowded towards the stage. I had no choice then, it was either
move with the crowd or be trampled where I sat. It didn't stop until
everyone was pressed so tightly together there was no more room.
Bodies were pushed against me on all sides, and it wasn't a friendly
feeling! It was too dark to see, but I could tell the fights were
still going on. Those swirls in the crowd I had seen earlier were
somehow being transmitted through the tightly packed mass of bodies.
We would get shoved back or pulled to the side, and all I could do
was move with it and try to keep on my feet. It felt like falling in
that surging mass could be fatal!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;">I was scared.
The day had long since stopped being fun, now it was terrifying! It
felt evil. I don't know how much of that was my imagination, but
part of the image and songs of the Rolling Stones was summoning and
glorifying the dark spirits. The “bad boys” of rock doing things
for shock value, like the song “Sympathy for the Devil”. Except
this time the evil came when summoned and they had no idea how to
make it go away. There are scenes in Gimme Shelter where Mick Jagger
looks as scared as I was!. </span>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;">While they were
playing a young black man named Meridith Hunter, the same age as me,
got involved in the fighting. He pulled out a gun. Instantly a
Hell's Angel pulled a knife and stabbed him 5 times. Then he got
stomped. He died soon after. It was all caught on film and is in
the movie. Of course I didn't know it at the time, but learned about
it later. Like the guy that had drowned that afternoon. I just knew
bad things were happening, and I wanted it all to stop. It went on
and on, but finally it was over. The Stones made a mad dash for
their helicopter and got the Hell out of there. The crowd started to
spread apart, and I could move again. I felt like I had survived a
battle, exhausted and glad to be alive!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;">I don't remember
if I was able to grab my stuff and hang onto it during the crush
(unlikely), or if I went back and found it in the dark (also
unlikely!). But somehow I ended up having it. Next I had to decide
what to do. As much as I wanted to leave, I knew better than to get
into a mob of messed up people in a miles long traffic jam. So I
just wandered around through the garbage waiting for things to calm
down and the crowd to leave. Finally I found a spot that was fairly
clear and quiet, and spread out my sleeping bag. I lay down, ate the
last of my hot dogs, and fell into a fitful sleep. A lot of people
had the same idea, there were bodies scattered all around. Once
again I was luckier than I knew. During the night a drug crazed man
stole a car and went speeding through the fields. He hit a group
sitting by a campfire, killing two and injuring two more. He faded
into the crowd and was never identified. So altogether four people
died, and many injured. I feel that I was protected, and am thankful
for it!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;">The next morning
it had calmed down.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;"> The other overnighters were finding their way
out, and as I mingled in with them I had no trouble finding a ride
back to San Francisco. The trip was pretty subdued, I think everyone
was out of the partying mood. When they dropped me of I was in an
unfamiliar neighborhood. A commercial area with concrete buildings
and warehouses, deserted on a Sunday morning. It was a long walk
back into downtown, and I felt very spaced out and alone. It was a
lot like the lyrics to the Kris Kristofferson song:</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;">Then
I headed back for home and somewhere far away a lonely bell was
ringin'<br />And it echoed through the canyons like the disappearing
dreams of yesterday<br />On the Sunday morning sidewalks, wishin' Lord,
that I was stoned<br />'Cause there's something in a Sunday, makes a
body feel alone<br />And there's nothin' short of dyin', half as
lonesome as the sound<br />On the sleepin' city side walks, Sunday
mornin' comin' down </span>
</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;">So
that's my story and my experience. I know it had a big effect on me,
and I think it did on the culture as well. The death of innocence,
and a hard dose of reality. But we seem to be on this earth to
experience good and evil, and I had a role to play as a witness. It
was almost 50 years ago, and I've seen a lot since then, both good
and bad. But I haven't forgotten.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;">There
is plenty of information about Altamont for anyone interested. To
start with watch the 15 minute video at this link: <span style="color: #351c75;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yQzNtYsf5D4">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yQzNtYsf5D4</a></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #004586;"><b> </b></span><span style="color: #004586;">It contains video from the movie Gimme Shelter, and the story told in captions is fairly accurate. </span><br />
<span style="color: #004586;">I was surprised to discover a book about Altamont that just came out last year. <b>Altamont: The Rolling Stones, the Hell's Angels, and the Inside Story of Rock's Darkest Day</b> by Joel Selvin. </span><br />
<span style="color: #004586;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Altamont-Rolling-Stones-Angels-Darkest/dp/0062444255" target="_blank">https://www.amazon.com/Altamont-Rolling-Stones-Angels-Darkest/dp/0062444255</a></span><br />
<span style="color: #004586;">(Of course I bought a copy!) Very well researched and written, it is the definitive work on the event. It brought back memories and I learned much that I hadn't known for all these years. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="color: #004586;">
</span></span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="color: #0b5394;">As I am sharing this story again I want
to add a new section about my friend Alfred.</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #004586;"> </span><br />
<h1 class="a-size-large a-spacing-none" id="title">
<span class="a-size-large" id="productTitle"><br /></span></h1>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #004586;"> </span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;"> </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;"> </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;"> </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #004586;"> </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #073763;">I was living on the streets of San
Francisco. Wandering through Haight-Ashbury one afternoon I met a
man walking a beautiful German Shepherd dog. I stopped to pet the
dog and ended up talking to the man, whose name was Alfred. We had a
good conversation, he was one of the more interesting people I ever
met. And he seemed trustworthy enough that I accepted his invitation
to go and see his art gallery, the kind of thing experience had
taught me to be wary of! But he never gave me reason to regret my
trust.</span></div>
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #073763;">The art gallery was a storefront shop
filled with an odd mixture of stuff. Artwork, some in process. A few
antiques, and a selection of dusty thrift store treasures. Quirky,
but I'm sure there was a reason for all of it. Alfred was also
writing a book, but the only detail he would give was that it was
about God and sex.</span></div>
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #073763;">Behind the gallery was an apartment
where Alfred and his dog lived. The living room had a couple of
couches and a cot or two that he said were for homeless hippies to
have a place to sleep for a few days. (Only a few days because he
was always meeting new kids who needed help.) A black man in his mid
thirties, Alfred was no hippie. But he seemed fascinated by them,
enjoyed their company, and liked helping them out. I never did see
any ulterior motive, after staying a few days 2 or3 different times
and stopping by for visits all I ever saw was a very interesting and
decent man.
</span></div>
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #073763;">After I first posted the Altamont story
I managed to find him online and sent him the link to my account that
featured him. These are two gracious, but not surprising, responses.
</span></div>
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #073763;">“Steve, your story is a heart-felt
odyssey of truth: mankind always has and will forever do so, struggle
between two forces on Earth, one highly visible, the other not so
much. We search for a nearness to frame, wealth and lust on the one
hand and on the other we search for pure, true, unselfish love, not
of this world. You have grown wiser in your old age. Thank you for
mentioning my name in life's narrow pathway to Goodness. Pray for me,
as I will for you. Your God-given brother, Alfred.”</span></div>
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #073763;">“Stephen, keep writing. I'll be 85
in November (2017). So far I've never been sick and never had a
headache in my life. I still don't partake of whiskey, smoke, or go
near drugs. I guess I'll just explode one day and will be gone. A
nice way to go! Hang on to your faith in God. If not search it out
and find it. Alfred”</span></div>
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #073763;">He has some paintings on eBay. I love
the title of this one:</span></div>
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW56ym4PAUw8obFFJR7ukVjKASbaxxApeVsMAFa4WpHyN8vzxq2_WDe9kWmsEsj2FnlmV6_sa0j9yBdOhjVZQPE0fJ86ZCZ6M_V_bNZaTraWbzFgYj1Vemr0B152OLd6dlUPqaskEzszaD/s1600/Art1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="164" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW56ym4PAUw8obFFJR7ukVjKASbaxxApeVsMAFa4WpHyN8vzxq2_WDe9kWmsEsj2FnlmV6_sa0j9yBdOhjVZQPE0fJ86ZCZ6M_V_bNZaTraWbzFgYj1Vemr0B152OLd6dlUPqaskEzszaD/s1600/Art1.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #073763;">And he did write his book:</span></div>
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="color: #073763;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="color: #073763;">“My novel, The Shroud of Turin, a
Novel - signed by me as A.J. V. Hurston - received 5 stars on eBay,
when they used the star-rating system. It s now also on Amazon, under
my full name, Alfred John Vincent Hurston.”</span></b></div>
</div>
Stephen Wilderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10386881094326662968noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-990449720907606103.post-10211571261501570062018-08-22T15:08:00.001-04:002018-08-23T18:25:27.818-04:00Building a house<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: small;">I spent over 30 years of my life as a carpenter.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> <span style="color: #0b5394;">Or maybe I should say I worked in residential construction, because carpenters do a lot more than saw wood and hammer nails. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">I didn't have any formal training, I just started out as a helper and learned on the job. I did my first work helping my Father, who was a master carpenter among many other trades. He instilled in me the importance of doing a good job, which I did my best to live up to. Getting started I worked on several jobs, learning a little from each one, and starting to collect a few tools. Then about 1980 I got a job with a contractor named J.R. Sorrells, and stayed with him for 18 years. He's a good builder, and I learned a lot from him. We built houses and additions, did remodeling and repair, just whatever came along. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">As the years went by I got better at my job. I got interested in figuring out the puzzles you sometimes run into doing construction. Tricky rafter cutting, staircase design, trying to make sense of the crazy things you find in blueprints or odd requests from a homeowner. Sometimes I'd be found in a quiet corner with a pocket calculator and a puzzled look on my face. Junior, the other full-time member of our crew, gave me the nickname Quagmire! But I was surprised one day in 1990 when J.R. handed me a set of blueprints. He said: "Steve, this is the next house we have to build. Would you take these prints home and take a look at them? The roof system is complicated, but nothing I can't figure out. Except there's a section of the main roof that doesn't have anything holding it up on the front side! The rafters come down just above a two story high entryway, and the plans don't show any kind of support."</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">That night I spread out the blueprints and started studying. About an hour later I had a headache and put them away. This was the fanciest house and most complicated roof I'd ever worked on. I was having trouble visualizing how all those sections of roof would be framed up and tied together. I liked puzzles, but this was crazy! By the end of the second night I had a general idea of how the parts fit, and where the problem area was. I think it was after the 4th night that I had a vague idea of hidden beams and posts that might hold it all up. I showed my idea to </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">J.R., who responded with our unofficial company motto: "Damifino!" "I think we'll just have to start framing and hope we can work out the details when we get there. And we'll run that idea past the building inspector to make sure he'll approve it." So we started building the house like we knew what we were doing. And we eventually did make it work, but it wasn't easy.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHYHjA3Gk6ETaUXiz9SoYYtRepxLzD6G9RQ3Skfg1iMYz-T5cknbjxZJ9DWp7x7zqHe2gl1aTcj9j_8V0ai6KZW9bK2g3DhDwRQ440-mdraPhhXWK0IzSaGb9_AZjpXD06YzhXApNejt34/s1600/01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="567" data-original-width="860" height="420" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHYHjA3Gk6ETaUXiz9SoYYtRepxLzD6G9RQ3Skfg1iMYz-T5cknbjxZJ9DWp7x7zqHe2gl1aTcj9j_8V0ai6KZW9bK2g3DhDwRQ440-mdraPhhXWK0IzSaGb9_AZjpXD06YzhXApNejt34/s640/01.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b>The crew</b></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">J.R. Sorrells (facing camera) talking to Billy (yes he really is that tall). Eddie in red shirt. Junior is sitting off to the side studying the blueprints. There was a lot of that going on! The corner of my old Dodge work van. This was bigger than our usual crew. On a lot of more "normal" jobs it was just J.R., Junior, and me. We made a good team.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b> </b></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">The next series of pictures are "before and after" shots taken from different angles. They show a little of what we were dealing with, this was not a simple job!</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">I apologize for photo quality. They are scanned from old 4x6 prints that are faded and kind of splotchy looking. But they give you a general idea.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgapfSfEM_ZqfFMaZ-wHz6s60SNTlbK4O-X95znD3PS5ZfrPPwRgHNpmxM3OlDQiPAWGw_eF9wVGiWtN7nJszI8vC9NATeudm7w2sehBjS7VJneu3AN0INw-B8YskAmvnaH3b4uM6foEo5W/s1600/05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="555" data-original-width="860" height="412" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgapfSfEM_ZqfFMaZ-wHz6s60SNTlbK4O-X95znD3PS5ZfrPPwRgHNpmxM3OlDQiPAWGw_eF9wVGiWtN7nJszI8vC9NATeudm7w2sehBjS7VJneu3AN0INw-B8YskAmvnaH3b4uM6foEo5W/s640/05.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">For those of you who have done carpentry here's a riddle:</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Billy and I were doing rafter layout and cutting. Complicated enough on this house! But this one section was a special challenge. </span></span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbeJ-G2Wp5wv87FaxYUwk6qDOFES9LO2Tjuxg5rOi7rXg-ydSJa6b5GvJfqQK6ml2pZTg-SP9iRWVCvDE5Pl2YNVWrRoUa_Uf1Nmcl4sH9KjwEE7eZtrmdm99_wY5RyXbrsUMpTd_-lJ_8/s1600/06a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="143" data-original-width="211" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbeJ-G2Wp5wv87FaxYUwk6qDOFES9LO2Tjuxg5rOi7rXg-ydSJa6b5GvJfqQK6ml2pZTg-SP9iRWVCvDE5Pl2YNVWrRoUa_Uf1Nmcl4sH9KjwEE7eZtrmdm99_wY5RyXbrsUMpTd_-lJ_8/s400/06a.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> Where two sections of roof intersect they form what's called a hip. There were several on this house. You have to put in a section of ridge at an angle from the outside corner of the walls up to the main ridge at the top of the roof. Then the hip rafters are fit up to that, each one a different length. The top end of the rafter is cut at an angle to match the pitch (steepness) of the roof. That angle cut has to be made with a bevel to fit the ridge board, so it's a compound angle. If both roofs are the same pitch then the bevel is 45 degrees. Not easy, but standard stuff. But at this one spot the roofs were different pitches, so the bevel cuts were different. One side needed to be 35 degrees, so you set your skill-saw to 35 degrees and cut the proper angle. But the rafters on the other side needed to be a 55 degree bevel, which is a problem because a skill-saw doesn't tilt past 45 degrees. None of us had ever had to do that before. This is the point where a lot of crews would rig something up that looked like crap and try to cover it up before anybody saw it. But we didn't work that way. A real Quagmire moment! It took some ciphering, but I did find a method to cut a greater-than-45 degree bevel on an angle across a 2x10. No attachments or jig required. Non standard saw usage and not OSHA approved but it works! If anybody knows this or has an idea give me a message or a Facebook comment on the link to this post.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">We did a bigger than normal percentage of the work on this house ourselves rather than sub it out. We did the layout, dug and poured the footings. Did the framing and roofing (Not an easy house to put shingles on!). Hung and finished the drywall. Installed doors and windows, and all interior and exterior trim. Did all interior and exterior painting. I'm sure there's more I'm forgetting. And J.R., besides working every day, had to keep everything organized, figure and order materials, supervise us and coordinate with subcontractors, do the payroll, work with the home owners, and more. Becoming a carpenter involves learning how to do a lot of different things, but I liked working that way.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Here are some pictures of the interior. The owners hired an interior decorator, so we're not responsible for colors or decor! </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b>Living Room</b></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhanFNyJr9amPiYK7Hn4Efn4V4AjvxNYL3JQLgOBfrsnHXTYre9RdoXOF3DsK7_pJTjxAxmJUEMZgwraNEFoEoRJpV7tkcL75c97QDhExtx1Al7oJMyuXN5hEKgzv7n5hReNPPAOsbxbFlT/s1600/11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="568" data-original-width="860" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhanFNyJr9amPiYK7Hn4Efn4V4AjvxNYL3JQLgOBfrsnHXTYre9RdoXOF3DsK7_pJTjxAxmJUEMZgwraNEFoEoRJpV7tkcL75c97QDhExtx1Al7oJMyuXN5hEKgzv7n5hReNPPAOsbxbFlT/s640/11.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b>Living Room </b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">I noticed the bottom of the curtains being piled up on the floor, but when I mentioned to the wife that they were a little long she said: "Oh no, those are puddles!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Dining Room</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b>Breakfast nook</b></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw08mTEsioLLhYA7pxkzGEAKTG7CqEJ-U8sVeudkiNdUeb22B9lMcnaICLefY_0XP-xM-nw80VLFlFtNi6R6aL4mKEfNTBTGcFxyvWYkPkZ_mEJU1VWBzU05wY9Fo5pNtNKWahPBn3EeFB/s1600/14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="562" data-original-width="860" height="418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw08mTEsioLLhYA7pxkzGEAKTG7CqEJ-U8sVeudkiNdUeb22B9lMcnaICLefY_0XP-xM-nw80VLFlFtNi6R6aL4mKEfNTBTGcFxyvWYkPkZ_mEJU1VWBzU05wY9Fo5pNtNKWahPBn3EeFB/s640/14.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b> Staircase</b></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivGjK2IXoyQnIX6y7MhlREhMekzFtp_fDFSoJ2-Ke9P6FuUl0tS6CpRLURdgSHd-r53OJw2NSx1n1yITSKqMaVKSMo8eu_QpYJ98F41kPCBKsXBPNV8GhsE3eD5c3f-H7mqo0LGylJ6Doo/s1600/17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="860" height="420" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivGjK2IXoyQnIX6y7MhlREhMekzFtp_fDFSoJ2-Ke9P6FuUl0tS6CpRLURdgSHd-r53OJw2NSx1n1yITSKqMaVKSMo8eu_QpYJ98F41kPCBKsXBPNV8GhsE3eD5c3f-H7mqo0LGylJ6Doo/s640/17.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b>Staircase</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">I did the stair framing, Billy did the trim work, and Junior did most of the painting. I painted enough of the pickets to see how much fun it was painting right up to that stained wood without touching it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b> </b></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b>Kitchen</b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQwvxVCgQiKSfrh0-NhjuCw3_GigDxNDwe4_CnXzdZvy5bBs5df6is5XeHwAIxI5nD7dligotTWLnmbObdVm0ri6mZBQs1sdAMPk0q25DXlwPyTcUVPAx_CVyIaC2i2GzxipfbgfD1Soaa/s1600/16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="582" data-original-width="860" height="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQwvxVCgQiKSfrh0-NhjuCw3_GigDxNDwe4_CnXzdZvy5bBs5df6is5XeHwAIxI5nD7dligotTWLnmbObdVm0ri6mZBQs1sdAMPk0q25DXlwPyTcUVPAx_CVyIaC2i2GzxipfbgfD1Soaa/s640/16.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><b> Master bedroom ceiling</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">Yes those layers were fun to frame, hang & finish drywall, and paint. J.R. was the chief drywall finisher, he spent a lot of time on his stilts!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><b>Master Bath</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">This last picture was taken from the roof, but was the basic view from the decks and windows on the back of the house. That highest peak on the right is Mt Pisgah. And yes that is the top of our Porta Jon in the center foreground. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">I guess that's about it. Just looking back at what I used to do, and what a good team can accomplish working together.<br /><b></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span>Stephen Wilderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10386881094326662968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-990449720907606103.post-80111643723769458972016-08-23T18:24:00.001-04:002016-08-23T18:24:35.784-04:00Thunderstorm<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><span style="color: #0b5394;">View from the top of Little Pisgah Mountain, looking at Chimney Rock cliffs at far left.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #0b5394;">Photo by Spencer Clary</span></b></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">I spent many days hiking on Little Pisgah Mountain, and had some great experiences, but one particular day has stayed in my memory for 40 years as an especially amazing time. It was a beautiful clear summer day in about 1975<b>.</b></span><b><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></b><span style="color: #0b5394;">I was with my good friend and hiking buddy Michael. (I recently got in touch with him to fact-check this story, and of all the adventures we shared it still stands out to him too!)</span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">We parked on the lower part of the mountain and spent most of the day exploring and just soaking in the beauty. We rambled the pastures, visited my favorite cliff overlooking the Garren Creek valley, and explored some new areas and routes where we hadn't been before. Found a tree or two that needed climbing. Just enjoying the time! By early afternoon we made our way to the top of the mountain.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">At that time it was still unspoiled. If you go now there are houses scattered around, a road to the top, and an ugly steel tower right on top of the mountain. It makes me sick. But this was before all that, and it was just a grass bald on top of a mountain 4450 feet tall. Beautiful views of Shumont Mountain and Hickory Nut Gorge. I loved that place!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">The top of Little Pisgah Mountain. </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #0b5394;">Photo by Spencer Clary</span></b></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">While we were enjoying the view we heard a jeep grinding its way up the mountain. It pulled up to where we were and a couple of rednecks climbed out. One of them said: "Look what we killed on the way up here!" He reached into the back of the jeep and pulled out the longest rattlesnake I ever saw. He was holding the head about even with the top of his head, and the tail touched the ground. Close to six feet long! Michael says he remembers looking at the tail and seeing 10 or 11 buttons. The guys were obviously impressed with what they'd done, while Michael and I were just wishing they had let it live. But we didn't say anything. They were after all rednecks, and armed, and maybe a little drunk. They didn't stay long, and we were glad to see them go.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">That kind of messed with our peaceful mood, so we walked a little way back down the mountain and found a few more trees to climb. That was fun! There was this one tree... We climbed up 25 or 30 feet and found a couple of comfortable branches to sit on. After 10 minutes we were ready to climb down. But when we looked the next branch below us was a loooong way down, and neither of us could remember how we got up the spot where we were! We kept being polite and saying: "Go ahead, you first". Finally one of us got up the nerve to try a sketchy move, and we both made it down.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">It was getting later in the afternoon, but we decided to go back up to the top for a while before we left. I'm glad we did because we got to see something amazing. There was a thunderstorm coming up the Gorge at Chimney Rock. (At the far left end of the top photo.) What made it unique was that the whole storm was trapped down inside the gorge. The top of the thunderheads were even with the top of the cliffs. Above and all around was sunshine and clear blue sky. But down in that gorge was a monster! It was jet black, and lightning was zapping through it from one side to the other. The most concentrated storm I ever saw. We could hear thunder echoing off the cliffs, and we knew the people in that gorge were getting bombed!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">We sat there watching, and we had a ringside seat. We were in sunshine with a perfect view. There was a breeze coming off the storm with a fine mist in it, just right to be refreshing. But there was one nagging worry. That monster was moving up the gorge towards us. And we were on the very top of a bald mountain, with our heads the highest point east of Asheville. I remember some discussion like: "How close are we going to let that thing get, and how fast can you run?" I admit I was getting edgy. We knew it was crazy to be where we were, but this was a once in a lifetime experience, and we didn't want to miss it. I just didn't want it to be a <b>last</b> in a lifetime experience! We were lucky though, just when I was ready to bolt (Like lightning!) the storm got to where highway 64 splits off and heads up towards Edneyville. It turned away, and went up that valley. (You can see the valley angling from left to right in the center of the top photo.) </span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">It faded out of sight and the show was over. But what a show it had been! In our recent discussion Michael and I agreed it was one of the most spectacular things we ever experienced. Exhilarated and exhausted we made our way back down the mountain. It was a good day to be alive! </span></div>
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Stephen Wilderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10386881094326662968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-990449720907606103.post-10330746290932514222016-02-25T16:57:00.000-05:002019-11-29T15:56:22.181-05:00Cold front<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span id="goog_692322155"><span style="color: #0b5394;">One beautiful afternoon back in the mid '70s a good friend and I went hiking on Shumont Mountain. It was winter, but the temperature was in the low 50s, and the sunshine felt warm to us in our lightweight jackets. We made our first stop at Eagle Rock (You have to!) but then continued up the mountain. Going up the old jeep road we took the right hand fork that goes around the Northwest side of the mountain to the Western end. There is a little rabbit trail there that goes down to the top of a big sloping cliff. (It's the one you can catch a glimpse of as you're driving up Shumont Rd.)</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Fk2RiM4yWKUOZM0kime-H5Z6Crr-67-Afu48ct7iMsApgs6NRJQw0vctYcqeKWzEDPgR6WruZNy0ey1H3Q4wIegiEn0Q8U9SrhZZT1_dVUoo3d-cqbyfBMWJ_BicKa06_91QuO6amfXr/s1600/Shumont+1+edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="504" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Fk2RiM4yWKUOZM0kime-H5Z6Crr-67-Afu48ct7iMsApgs6NRJQw0vctYcqeKWzEDPgR6WruZNy0ey1H3Q4wIegiEn0Q8U9SrhZZT1_dVUoo3d-cqbyfBMWJ_BicKa06_91QuO6amfXr/s640/Shumont+1+edit.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span id="goog_692322155"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> That is a beautiful spot! You have views of Little Pisgah & Bearwallow Mountains and all the upper Hickory Nut Gorge. It was always quiet and peaceful, I don't think I ever met another hiker there. </span></span><br />
<span id="goog_692322155"><span style="color: #0b5394;">We spent a long time just hanging out, and of course exploring a little bit. Then in the late afternoon it was time to head back down. The sun was getting low and it was starting to feel colder.</span></span><br />
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<span id="goog_692322155"><span style="color: #0b5394;">When we got back to the Eagle Rock area the sun was setting, so we had to go back up on the rock to watch, even though it was getting cold really fast and we were dressed for warmer temperatures. Eagle Rock faces the wrong way for a great sunset view, but we could see it through the trees, and the sky was lit up beautifully. But as the sun went down so did the temperature. Probably the fastest drop I ever experienced! A major cold front was moving in, and wasn't wasting any time. From where it had been around 50 degrees it went down through the 40s, the 30s, and on down into the 20s. And of course the wind started blowing across that exposed rock. Some other hikers came up to watch the sunset, and they were wearing parkas with the hoods up, gloves, the whole bit, and they looked cold! They were looking at us like we were crazy for being there dressed the way we were, and we were trying to pretend we weren't freezing. Of course we were, but we were in the midst of a spectacular event and couldn't leave.</span></span><br />
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<span id="goog_692322155"><span style="color: #0b5394;">I wish I'd had a thermometer with me, I guarantee you could have seen it dropping. But what we did see was even more amazing. There were potholes in the rock that had water in them from the last rain. And that water started to freeze. I've never seen anything like it! You could see the white ice crystals form around the outside rim of the water and then start creeping in towards the center. We could actually see it moving as we watched in amazement. "Are you seeing what I'm seeing?" It looked like time-lapse photography. </span></span><br />
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<span id="goog_692322155"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Finally as the sunset was fading we surrendered to the cold and did a fast hike back down to my van. It sure felt good when it warmed up enough for the heater to kick in! When we got back down the mountain and to my parents house in Fairview, a thousand feet lower, the thermometer was on 15 degrees. That was one serious cold front! </span></span><br />
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<br />Stephen Wilderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10386881094326662968noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-990449720907606103.post-49152111039759176462016-01-22T17:16:00.001-05:002016-01-24T15:39:12.118-05:00Little Snowball Mountain - an unintended adventure<span style="color: #073763;">I don't remember the date of this hike, but I think it was back in the late '70s before I got very smart about being prepared for hiking, and before I learned some of my limitations. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #073763;">I didn't have a camera for the trip, but two blogger friends have graciously allowed me to use their photos. Jeff Clark of<span style="color: purple;"> <a href="http://internetbrothers.org/" target="_blank">Meanderthals</a> </span>and Dana Koogler the <span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="color: purple;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><a href="http://cumberlandgal.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Cumberland Gal</a></span></span>. </span> Thank you! Plus I've used a couple of my pics taken at other times.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #073763;">I had been exploring the Craggy Gardens area for some time, and had found the trail that starts on the road to the Craggy Picnic Area (Now also an access point for the MST), climbs across Snowball Mountain, and goes on to Hawkbill Rock. I could see on my topo map that the trail continued to Little Snowball Mountain, where a fire tower was located, so I was interested in that.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #073763;"> <b>Trail to Little Snowball</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763;">I had been to Hawkbill Rock a couple of times, and that's all I had in mind for this particular day. It was already mid afternoon on a cold winter day, and I didn't have much time. But Hawkbill is a beautiful spot with a fine view, and was worth the trip. The trail is moderately steep as it goes over Snowball, down the back side, and up the ridge to Hawkbill. It's a clear trail, but lots of roots & rocks, so you have to watch your step. </span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">There's a good description of the whole trail on Meanderthals Hiking Blog here: </span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;"><span style="color: purple;"><a href="http://internetbrothers.org/2011/09/14/snowball-trail-at-craggy-gardens-blue-ridge-parkway/" target="_blank">Snowball Trail at Craggy Gardens</a></span> </span><br />
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<span style="color: #073763;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5f29hWKolRxuRZIUYe4UJaxuq1oxVnYqKW3lFifLfZGlOmNiLLvhemugYJ_ISF_quaigSnIm7yn5vIVKNwvRg_uz1tGIu5CHoD676_cmdffLGV4BEwd3E0BgIFAHDeTI0FPa0S7TNsMs0/s1600/snowball_shadows-1080x810.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5f29hWKolRxuRZIUYe4UJaxuq1oxVnYqKW3lFifLfZGlOmNiLLvhemugYJ_ISF_quaigSnIm7yn5vIVKNwvRg_uz1tGIu5CHoD676_cmdffLGV4BEwd3E0BgIFAHDeTI0FPa0S7TNsMs0/s640/snowball_shadows-1080x810.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763;"><b> View from Hawkbill Rock. Photo by Jeff Clark</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763;"><b> Another view from Hawkbill Rock. Photo by Jeff Clark</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763;"><b> </b>But this particular day I wasn't satisfied. I wanted to explore more of the trail beyond Hawkbill "just to see what it's like". I wouldn't go far, it was too late in the day. But once I got started I couldn't stop! "Just a little farther to see what's over the next hill" "I've got time, that next part looks interesting." The whole trail out to the fire tower is 4 miles, and Hawkbill Rock, where I meant to turn around, was less than half the way there. But I somehow reached a point where "just a little farther" turned into "it would be a shame to come this far and not go on to the tower". Never mind that the sun was going down and it was getting colder. Never mind that I wasn't carrying any gear at all besides the canteen on my belt. "I must be nearly there, get moving and I'll get there soon." Except it was farther than I thought, and there were more hills to go over. The trail turned into a four wheel drive road with confusing intersections. I kept telling myself how stupid I was being but I only walked faster. Sometimes I just won't listen to common sense! Finally I made it up to the tower.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763;"><b>The fire tower that used to be on Little Snowball Mountain,</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763;"><b>now refurbished and situated at the Big Ivy Historical Park.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763;"><b>Photo by Dana Koogler </b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763;">When I got there the sun was already down. I climbed the tower, and since it was unlocked I went in. The view was great, and the sky was covered by a gorgeous sunset.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #073763;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqiuCbKDa8ugGZ6Nt2a5SCMk9I4jNwj70aTQC1HNTHmBmoSvqiI0ANrUorqgufPDKC7Vul2hsP6Dob2xd1ZRtYlf253fSSgFU1QRbUkAgEMJTn4yWldjm7cZzuM8jJTwigZrqzrLaqWnup/s1600/Sunset.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="510" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqiuCbKDa8ugGZ6Nt2a5SCMk9I4jNwj70aTQC1HNTHmBmoSvqiI0ANrUorqgufPDKC7Vul2hsP6Dob2xd1ZRtYlf253fSSgFU1QRbUkAgEMJTn4yWldjm7cZzuM8jJTwigZrqzrLaqWnup/s640/Sunset.jpg" width="640" /></a> </span>
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<span style="color: #073763;"><b>The kind of sunset I saw from the fire tower</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763;">I spent about 5 minutes catching my breath, looking around inside the tower, and admiring the sunset. But my enjoyment was marred by the growing feeling that I could be in some real trouble here. I was 4 strenuous miles from my van, and I had maybe 20 minutes of twilight to get there. The math just wasn't working, and I decided it was time to get moving! I went back down the steps and hit the trail at my best speed. I had gotten myself into some fine messes before, but this one was serious! I was hiking alone, and no one knew where I was. Of course this was years before the days of cell phones or GPS. I wasn't carrying a pack, and had no flashlight, headlamp, food, extra clothing, fire starting materials, or any of the whole list of things I was starting to wish I had. I was wearing jeans & a flannel shirt with cotton long johns. My coat was pretty warm but had a nylon shell which was not breathable. I had on a knit "toboggan" hat and had a pair of gloves in my back pocket. I had a half full quart canteen on my belt, and that was the extent of my resources. The temperature, which had been around 40 degrees, started dropping through the 30s and the wind came up. I won't say I was worried, but was getting concerned, and definitely motivated to get out of there!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763;">One thing I should emphasize is that the trail is never flat, but goes up and down hill relentlessly. Meanderthals calls it a roller coaster, and that's a good description. He cites the total elevation gain for the round trip as 2300 feet, so I had my work cut out for me. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763;">I was pushing myself as hard as I could go, but daylight was fading faster than the miles. When I finally got back to Hawkbill Rock it was pretty dark to be scrambling down those rocks, but I had no choice, so I did. It was encouraging to be back in familiar territory, but I knew how far there was ahead of me, and didn't know how I was going to make it.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763;"> <b>Looking from Hawkbill Rock at the ridge going up the backside of Snowball Mountain.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763;"><b>The trail follows the ridge-top and turns left across the top of Snowball. </b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763;"><b>Photo by Jeff Clark</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763;"> As I was climbing the ridge up Snowball Mountain I was getting tired from how hard I'd been pushing. I tried stopping to rest for a minute, but realized I couldn't. In spite of the decreasing temperature and increasing wind I was sweating from exertion. If I stopped moving that cold wind cut me like a knife, and I had to keep moving to keep from freezing. There is a reason they call cotton "dead men's clothes"! Finally near the top of Snowball I found a spot to rest. There was a big log lying next to the trail. I lay on the ground behind it so that it sheltered me from the wind. I knew I couldn't spare the time, but was I exhausted, and it felt so good to be out of that wind. After about 5 minutes I remember feeling like "this isn't so bad, I could stay here and..." That gave me a cold chill that had nothing to do with the weather. I recognized that as the kind of thoughts a person has just before the final mistake that leads to their death in the mountains. That got me back on my feet and stumbling up the trail!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763;">Stumbling was the operative word. It was almost completely dark, and it was hard to follow the trail. By the time I started down Snowball I couldn't see all those roots & rocks, and was having trouble walking. In spite of my desire to hurry I had to slow down and feel my way along. I was very aware that at this point a broken ankle could prove fatal! </span><span style="color: #073763;"><span style="color: #073763;">About that time I reached for the gloves in my back pocket, and they were gone. Probably fell out when I was lying behind that log. </span> Of course by then I was cussing myself out for ever getting in such a situation. It felt like it would never end. "I hope you enjoyed that sunset, it may be the last one you ever see!" </span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763;">But as you may have guessed I did survive. I came staggering out of the woods to where my van was parked in pitch black darkness. I was so glad to get in it out of the wind, and when the heater kicked in it felt like heaven!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763;">As a postscript to this story, the next morning when I was driving to work I came to a place where I could see that whole range of mountains where I had been. They all were covered with ice!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrVBDi4K7pQbrbTxCnKv4470I-BTmDYw-VsTjH7pMFDQ8Aq-u0WivLBBR4eNhbrknXE77sEn567Ynt1GIFHcUeaMXulFGgKMo-8KAFPll7e1qVVG-WAMiMIyU0TlauNoshXDtePMn_cha8/s1600/Craggy2a.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrVBDi4K7pQbrbTxCnKv4470I-BTmDYw-VsTjH7pMFDQ8Aq-u0WivLBBR4eNhbrknXE77sEn567Ynt1GIFHcUeaMXulFGgKMo-8KAFPll7e1qVVG-WAMiMIyU0TlauNoshXDtePMn_cha8/s640/Craggy2a.jpg" width="640" /></a> </span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763;"><b> Rime ice on the Craggys</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763;">And it wasn't fluffy rime ice like in this picture. The sun was shining, and that ice had a cold hard glitter. There had been a real ice storm up there during the night. There is no question in my mind that if I hadn't made it off those mountains I would have died.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763;">I think that marked a turning point in my style of hiking. I can't say I never did anything stupid again, but I was more careful. I started carrying a pack with emergency supplies. I recognized my mortality, and let it guide my decisions a little better. Altogether it was an experience I'm glad I had, and very thankful to never have had again! </span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span>Stephen Wilderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10386881094326662968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-990449720907606103.post-25745967144139978202015-04-27T16:14:00.001-04:002015-10-12T13:58:18.918-04:00Little Pisgah - Part 3: Peak Experience<span style="color: #0b5394;">This is part 3 in my series of stories about rambling on Little Pisgah Mountain.</span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;">Part 1 is at: <a href="http://sakikahn.blogspot.com/2015/04/little-pisgah-part-1-beginnings.html">http://sakikahn.blogspot.com/2015/04/little-pisgah-part-1-beginnings.html</a></span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;">Part 2 is at: <a href="http://sakikahn.blogspot.com/2015/04/little-pisgah-part-2-shortcuts.html" target="_blank">http://sakikahn.blogspot.com/2015/04/little-pisgah-part-2-shortcuts.html </a></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"> <b>Rime ice on the lower slope of Little Pisgah. You can see the top of the mountain, with its hated tower, peeking out from behind the ridge.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">I think it was 1975. My parents had driven their camper to Mexico for the Winter, and I was staying in their house on Garren Creek. I had a a second dog named Pearl to keep Fonzie company, and we had spent many days together exploring and enjoying Little Pisgah. It still hadn't been developed much, and there was no tower on top. It was a hiker's Paradise!</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">On this Saturday morning it was cold and damp, with clouds hanging down over the mountain, and I was staying inside. Later in the day I went outside and realized that things had changed! The wind had come up, the sky was bright blue, and the top of the ridge was covered in rime ice. It took me about two seconds to get motivated. I had to get up on the mountain to see that rime ice, and I knew that as bright as the sun was shining it would melt soon. Time to get moving! I ran inside and threw on my cold weather hiking clothes & boots.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">When I came back out the dogs were excited and frisking around, they knew we were going somewhere. We were soon down the driveway and hit that ridge hard. I took every shortcut I knew, (not the near disastrous ones from my last story!) and made the best speed I could. I wasn't going to miss this chance if I could help it! When I topped the 1000 foot ridge the ice I had seen from the house was already gone. Now I really had to pour it on. I had one more good shortcut left, a steep ridge-line that cut off a big loop of the logging road. It was too overgrown to use in Summer but was clear enough in Winter. Where it came out into the open I could look across at Craggy and Mitchel, and they had ice on them. That encouraged me, and I made a push for the top. To my relief as I got closer I came into the rime ice - I was going to make it in time! When I got to the top I glanced at my watch. I had made the 1800 foot climb in exactly one hour, a personal record. Later when I told my Mother this story she believed it all except the time. She had hiked that mountain, and didn't think I could do it that fast!</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">I didn't waste much time looking at my watch, there was too much else to see. There was several inches of snow on the ground. Every twig of every tree and shrub was thickly coated in rime ice, which to me is one of the most beautiful things in the world. The sky was deep cobalt blue and the intense sunlight made all the snow and ice sparkle like diamonds, It looked magical!</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">And then there was the wind... Coming up the mountain I had been sheltered from it, but no more. It was blowing out of the Southeast, which is unusual to start with. And this was the strongest steady wind I have experienced to this day. A monster cold front must have been coming through, and the wind was roaring!. I was standing on the highest point around and was exposed to the full blast. I couldn't stand straight up, but had to lean forward and brace myself to keep from being knocked over! I was being shaken and buffeted, and looking around in amazement at the sparkling wonderland and the gorgeous view. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">Then I took a good look at the horizon. Always, even on the clearest days, when you look towards the horizon the view fades into the haze at some point, however far away. Not this time! The wind had blown all the haze away, and the line of the horizon was razor sharp. For the only time in my life I was looking at the true horizon, and I could clearly see the curve. I can testify - the earth is round, and I saw it!</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">I stood there entranced for a long time, but the wind was cutting through my clothes, and it was cold! I had to get back into the relative shelter of the North side of the mountain. I was too pumped up to go home yet, and ended up exploring over to Blue Rock Knob, where I hadn't been before. I had to slip past a couple of houses once I got there, but found a rock outcrop with a view back down the Garren Creek valley from its head. I could see where it cut between Little Pisgah and Garren Mountain, and it looked more like a canyon than a valley. One more beautiful vista to cap the day! From there I went back over to Little Pisgah and down to the house. I think I was floating all the way home!</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">For your sake I wish I'd had a camera to capture images of what I saw, I know my words can't do it justice. But I don't think pictures could even come close to capturing the experience. As for myself, I treasure the memory of the most memorable day I ever spent in the mountains. </span><br />
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<br />Stephen Wilderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10386881094326662968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-990449720907606103.post-34860577158090344002015-04-24T17:58:00.001-04:002015-04-24T17:58:42.274-04:00Little Pisgah - Part 2: Shortcuts<span style="color: #38761d;">This is the second part of my stories about rambling on Little Pisgah Mountain. If you haven't read the first part it is at: <a href="http://sakikahn.blogspot.com/2015/04/little-pisgah-part-1-beginnings.html">http://sakikahn.blogspot.com/2015/04/little-pisgah-part-1-beginnings.html</a></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;">(Disclaimer: these memories, and some of the photos, are over 40 years old and may be a little fuzzy. I've done my best to be accurate with locations and measurements, but I may not be reliable.) </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJD5cWXxDV0grCRH_aK1o3kwQVbUL-SSgo6GF5Qmi89ZnKhnY4cm1dSt6HLCeCi34nLPjT4NVVWdkq7k4BPk5OQTveuoAlOLokM452d8lFJg6hQ8TbSZeu8-8dc8BIZklSBpnlGhoYbZDl/s1600/LP1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJD5cWXxDV0grCRH_aK1o3kwQVbUL-SSgo6GF5Qmi89ZnKhnY4cm1dSt6HLCeCi34nLPjT4NVVWdkq7k4BPk5OQTveuoAlOLokM452d8lFJg6hQ8TbSZeu8-8dc8BIZklSBpnlGhoYbZDl/s1600/LP1.jpg" height="434" width="640" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="color: #38761d;">The lower 1000 feet or so of Little Pisgah seen from Sugar Hollow Rd.</span></b></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;">I started out my exploring by driving to Little Pisgah Road on Hickory Nut Gap and going up from there. But I couldn't escape the fact that I lived at the base of the mountain. Every time I looked out the living room window or from the front deck there it was! Or at least I was looking at the first 1000 feet of it, and knew there was 800 feet more behind that. It was beautiful ridge, so steep it looked like a wall. I loved watching it in the Spring when the green would climb a little higher each day, and in the Fall when the colors would descend.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><b>Our house and the Wall</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><b> </b><b>From the yard and the deck</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><b> </b><b>Panorama stitched from the above pics.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;">It was taunting me to climb it, and it had to be done. So one Saturday my trusty trail dog Fonzie and I walked down the driveway and across the road. On the other side we went up a driveway past a couple of houses, stopping to introduce myself and get permission. Soon after the second house we came across an old logging road, just what I'd been hoping to find. It zig-zagged around to where the terrain wasn't so severe and then started winding up the mountain, probably following the same route used now by some of the roads that have been built from the Fairview Point housing development. It was a pretty path, and wasn't as hard as I'd feared.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;">I finally topped out that first ridge, and came out on a small level area. I was exploring around it and discovered a rock outcrop that had a gorgeous view looking down the Garren Creek Valley and out to the mountains beyond Asheville to the North-west. It was beautiful and secluded, and I claimed it for my own. I'll call it my sittin' spot, and I never passed by without stopping to enjoy the view and peace. (There's a house sitting there now, which makes me want to cry and curse.)</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;">From there the logging road ran fairly level around the side of the mountain through a beautiful grove of hemlocks and came out into the pastures I was already familiar with. I went farther up, and noticed a logging road heading back down the mountain. Being in full explorer mode I followed it down to see where it came out. I ended up coming back down to Garren Creek Road again, about a half mile up from my house. I could have gone home then, but I wasn't ready to quit so I turned around and went back up the mountain, explored some more, and finally came back down the way I'd gone up to start with. A long day, with a combined elevation gain of over 2500 feet. I was so tired when I got home I just collapsed, but was very satisfied with what I'd accomplished.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;">After that I hiked up that ridge often exploring the mountain all the way to the top. I was always on the lookout for shortcuts, and found a few places I could bushwhack, usually following ridge-lines. But I wasn't satisfied, I wanted a more direct route from the house to my sittin' spot that bypassed the long and winding logging road.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifXMswBl-kEyLc9rrF3PlsCjKUy-AL7JtEmKlEmIC53QxGQTWzbh2tLJ-_wvZmoOVq5ibu9S2qNAkVZjmco0xDSXUp-gbYPwGC3NdSLvCfZvwFhMbGtK1Y08T5gdq5OLk_qIZjhn-BTlAX/s1600/LP+topo+1+edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifXMswBl-kEyLc9rrF3PlsCjKUy-AL7JtEmKlEmIC53QxGQTWzbh2tLJ-_wvZmoOVq5ibu9S2qNAkVZjmco0xDSXUp-gbYPwGC3NdSLvCfZvwFhMbGtK1Y08T5gdq5OLk_qIZjhn-BTlAX/s1600/LP+topo+1+edit.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><b>The maze of ravines and ridges going up Little Pisgah.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><b>My parent's property outlined in red with a red dot where the house was.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><b>A little blue X at my sittin' spot.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;">So one day as I was headed home I thought I'd give it a try. Near my spot was a large ravine that headed down the mountain in the right direction. I figured I couldn't get lost, all I had to do was follow it. Easier said than done! It wasn't too bad at first, but got really steep and rugged. I should have turned around then, but never claimed to have good sense. I hated to back away from a challenge!</span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;">That sucker was steep! Scaling it out on the map it looks like an 800 foot descent in about 0.3 mile. That's quick! The sides were nearly vertical, too steep to climb out, so I had to stay in the bottom, which was covered with rocks. All kinds of rocks that had fallen down the sides and collected there. All shapes and sizes, and loosely piled so that when you stepped on one it would roll or slide or a combination of both. And just to keep it interesting the rocks were covered with a foot of dry leaves, so I couldn't see where I was putting my feet! Every step was an ordeal. Stick my foot down in the leaves, trying not to think about snakes. Put my weight down on the rocks and try to stay balanced as they rolled and shifted. Try not to break an ankle, and try not to think what would happen if I did. Then repeat. And again. This was the least fun and most dangerous place I'd ever got myself into, and I was making the usual promises: "God, if you'll get me out of here I'll never try this again, and I'll be more careful, and..." I don't know how long I was in Hell's ravine, but I finally stumbled out the bottom and could walk back home, exhausted and my nerves shattered. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;">I spent more time studying the ridge from our deck, especially one ridge that looked like the most direct route. (</span><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="color: #38761d;">No more shortcut ravines for me!) It was narrow and steep, but looked doable.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAuk3wbXDs6H8-AzsLifeTX1PrnkP3gwjMcpNXYmu7uAFfOt6EeJUzg4PiHVaiUmzzrSqUwu3HhkiMEbGFYHPh0OfGAb9wDeFK2ZKX0UV2089YZutpfkxDDDumUKl4W4Y4GvVlvhpQoX_n/s1600/GP+pano+cr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAuk3wbXDs6H8-AzsLifeTX1PrnkP3gwjMcpNXYmu7uAFfOt6EeJUzg4PiHVaiUmzzrSqUwu3HhkiMEbGFYHPh0OfGAb9wDeFK2ZKX0UV2089YZutpfkxDDDumUKl4W4Y4GvVlvhpQoX_n/s1600/GP+pano+cr.jpg" height="244" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="color: #38761d;"> <b>Red arrows pointing to the ridge,</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><b>Purple arrows pointing down towards the ravine.</b></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="color: #38761d;">I studied where the bottom of the ridge would intersect my logging road, and the next Saturday morning Fonzie and I set out. It was pretty easy to find, and we headed </span></span><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="color: #38761d;">up. It started out steep and overgrown, and it got worse. Underbrush and briars gave way to laurel thickets and briars. Soon the only way to continue was to get down and crawl. Those who have spent any time in a laurel hell will know what I mean! This was becoming less fun than I'd hoped, but I was too stubborn to turn around. Before too long the monotony was broken by a 10 foot rock-face blocking the way. It wasn't too hard to scramble up, and I was back on my hands and knees crawling again. Then I came to a 15 foot rock. It was a little harder to climb, and I didn't think I'd like to try going back down it. So I continued my crawl until I met a 20 foot cliff. I was beginning to see a pattern here! I managed to climb it - barely. The footholds were small and far between, and I was trying to steady myself holding onto laurel branches the size of my little finger. I knew there was no way I was going back down this one, I was committed to going ahead. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="color: #38761d;">The ridge was a true knife-edge. Very narrow on top, and the sides too steep to climb down. Not that I wanted to; on my left was the ravine from Hell, I wasn't going back in there! When I looked off on the right there was a ravine that looked even worse, with jagged boulders that looked like teeth. My path was set, so I crawled on up to see what was next. I didn't have to go far. A 35 foot cliff that looked unclimbable! I wasn't happy about it, but knew I had to try. I should probably explain my situation a little clearer. I was hiking from my parents house, but they were out of town for the Winter. No one knew I was hiking, or where. This was years before the first cellphone, and I carried no gear besides a canteen. I was on a rugged and remote part of the mountain where no sane person would ever go. If I got hurt and couldn't get out I could die there, and the body never be found. I was very aware of all that as I looked at that cliff!</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="color: #38761d;">I finally picked a spot at the left hand end and started climbing. The farther up I went the harder it got. I wasn't sure about this at all. With my head just coming up to the top </span></span><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="color: #38761d;">I got stuck. I was teetering on the verge of falling and couldn't find the next step. I couldn't get down, and was afraid to move up. The tiny laurel branch I was hanging on to was about to pull out of the two inches of dirt it was growing in. Meanwhile Fonzie, who of course had run to the top like a mountain goat, came over and started sniffing the top of my head and trying to lick my face! I told him that wasn't helpful, but maybe it was so ridiculous it gave me one last bit of strength to grab another handhold and pull myself over the top. That was too close, and I knew that if I came to a worse spot I'd be trapped.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="color: #38761d;">But in the meantime I stood on top of the cliff to catch my breath. It was high enough to see out from, and the view was breathtaking! I wish I'd had a camera, I can't find words to describe it. And the next thing I saw was almost beyond believing. In the center of the cliff, right at the edge, was an old-growth Hemlock tree, about 40 inch diameter. I don't know what freak accident had shaped it, but from the edge of the cliff it stuck out horizontally for about 4 feet, then turned and grew straight up for maybe 60 feet. It was a perfectly shaped tree, one of the most beautiful I ever saw, and was suspended in mid air. I didn't care how much trouble I was in, I had to investigate this! I could easily step out on the horizontal section of the trunk and get hold of the vertical part. I looked up and saw that the limbs were sturdy and evenly spaced - perfect for climbing. Did I mention how much I enjoyed climbing trees? I know how crazy it was, but I had to. I knew I'd never be back there again, and couldn't pass up the chance. It was easy to climb, just like going up a ladder. I could have gone to the top, but about 25 feet up I made the mistake of looking down and realized I was 60 feet above the jagged rocks at the bottom of the cliff. My stupidity does have some limits, and I regretfully climbed down.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="color: #38761d;">I hated to leave that spot, one of the most awesome I've ever seen, but I didn't know what I might face next and needed to get on with it. So it was back to crawling again. All the way up that ridge (about 800 feet elevation gain) was either crawling through laurel or rock climbing! The rest of the way was steep and rugged, but there were no more major obstacles. Finally it started rounding off and opening up, and I could walk upright again. I came out into the open next to my sittin' spot, right where I meant to. I was tired, scratched and dirty, but still buzzing from the adrenaline I'd been burning.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="color: #38761d;">40 years later I have to say that was the most difficult, dangerous, and rewarding hike I ever took. I wouldn't take a million dollars for the experience, but never had any desire to try it again!</span></span></span></span></div>
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Stephen Wilderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10386881094326662968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-990449720907606103.post-22276781753902480932015-04-14T18:06:00.000-04:002015-10-12T14:00:34.437-04:00Little Pisgah - Part 1: Beginnings<span style="color: #38761d;">I fell in love with Little Pisgah Mountain in 1971 when I was 20 years old. It was love at first sight, but that day was years in the making.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEt5HWRfh-OYz-ISp7VHI3b4fMM-Gcm5upCFKfuFKBMiNEtg5l0L3ckamYb7HIQpxtg9VPPN9OAe8IbrFtw_3QYXyQiEaFhxikigZrZ4KWEv5DzEA0hZJJXvH_dSmtUGYK-JxoNUTcFnTK/s1600/LP2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="438" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEt5HWRfh-OYz-ISp7VHI3b4fMM-Gcm5upCFKfuFKBMiNEtg5l0L3ckamYb7HIQpxtg9VPPN9OAe8IbrFtw_3QYXyQiEaFhxikigZrZ4KWEv5DzEA0hZJJXvH_dSmtUGYK-JxoNUTcFnTK/s1600/LP2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="color: #38761d;"> Lower slopes of Little Pisgah seen from Fairview</span></b></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><b>Almost half of the mountain is hidden behind the ridge you can see.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;">Some time around 1960 my parents began a search for land out in the country with plenty of woods and a spot to build a house. After several years they found a place they liked, 11 acres of wooded land on Garren Creek Rd in Fairview, and as I later learned, just across the road from the base of Little Pisgah Mountain. Steep as a horse's face, and beautiful. It fronted on Garren Creek, which at that point is cascades, pools, and a 10 foot waterfall. The land went up the side of the mountain from there, with a couple of good sized ravines cutting into the mountainside. These contained babbling branches flowing with sweet tasting ice cold water. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;">After they bought the property we continued to live in Asheville for a several more years. They looked at house plans, and when they couldn't find what they wanted my Dad sat down and drew a set himself. That was my Dad, if something needed to be done he just did it. He was a radar technician in WWII, and after the war he did radio and TV repair. He was a master carpenter and woodworker. He was foreman of the finishing department for a local furniture factory, and did furniture refinishing in his basement workshop, specializing in rebuilding antique pianos and pump organs. If the plumbing leaked he replaced it. He did electrical wiring. If the car broke down he took it apart and fixed it. The list goes on, and every job he tackled was done as a craftsman. He was an amazing man!</span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="color: #38761d;">During those years we'd go out to Garren Creek on weekends to explore the woods and picnic by the creek. My Mother hunted out the wildflowers and my Dad spotted birds. (They both loved nature, and I grew up hiking and exploring with them and my sister.) On hot summer evenings we'd go out there and eat watermelon with our feet in the creek to cool off. It was already starting to feel like home!</span> </span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;">In 1970 Dad started building the new house.It was located on a ridge in the center of their property where it would always remain private, and with a spectacular sunset view back down the Garren Creek valley. He did almost all the work, with my inexpert help doing framing and some of the other two-person jobs. It was my first attempt at real carpentry, and the quality of work my Dad taught me became my guide for a 30+ year career as a carpenter.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;">As soon as the house was finished we moved in. I was just finishing high school and living with my parents. (When I was 17 I had run away to California to join the hippies and missed a year of school. But that's a whole 'nuther story!)</span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;">We hadn't lived there long when my parents decided it was time we went up on Little Pisgah Mountain. The base of it was just across the road from us, and we had a beautiful view</span><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="color: #38761d;"> of the lower hal</span><span style="color: #38761d;">f</span> from our deck. We were looking at a 1000 foot wall of beautiful woods, and it was another 1000 feet from there to the top. (4450 feet) But so far we hadn't been on it at all. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;">My parents picked a Saturday morning for the hike. (I have to confess that I had been out too late the night before, had a headache, and tried to weasel out on hiking. My Mother finally shamed me into going.) We drove highway 74 to the top of Hickory Nut Gap and parked at the turnoff of Little Pisgah Road. Now a decent gravel road, it was then just a rutted, rocky, and narrow 4 wheel drive track up the mountain. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;">It was a beautiful hike! The road is steady uphill, but not steep. The terrain and woods were gorgeous. At that time it was undeveloped, with no houses, no ugly towers on top, no recent logging. Just some cows grazing in the pastures, with maybe a couple of grouchy bulls. The whole mountain was like a giant park! </span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;">As we went up we passed a couple of smaller logging roads turning off to either side. But eventually there was a well worn road turning left, and the main road going on in in a more Eastern direction. I don't remember the discussion, but we continued for a while on the right fork. I do remember finding an old grave off the side of the road. It had an obvious headstone, but we couldn't find any markings on the rough rock. An interesting story there I'll bet!</span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;">About that point we turned back to investigate that other fork in the road. Maybe because it went more towards the Fairview side of the mountain, nearer where we lived. For whatever reason, it was a good choice. It didn't take us to the top of the mountain, but lead to a huge area of pastures on the North-west side. The lower part was fairly level, with a small stream flowing out of one side. (That later became a favorite campsite.) From there the fields swept up the side of the mountain, with ever-widening views. There were sweeping vistas to the South and West, and it was an altogether beautiful place. We thoroughly enjoyed our hike, and I was hooked. (I forgot all about that headache!)</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsvojrSshQ8t5YyVdbz-0rgqoQCzPE8EwYI4M2NCHJ0IuC8DPEoDwLfoStLEs3Uoal4yNgmGpVdjuGuw3UMudqTE1lgBoEaIGhSTGLVh5hMxr20RkDXB69WwV3o_2cxdZxynsRsIecYlPo/s1600/Bearwallow+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsvojrSshQ8t5YyVdbz-0rgqoQCzPE8EwYI4M2NCHJ0IuC8DPEoDwLfoStLEs3Uoal4yNgmGpVdjuGuw3UMudqTE1lgBoEaIGhSTGLVh5hMxr20RkDXB69WwV3o_2cxdZxynsRsIecYlPo/s1600/Bearwallow+1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="color: #38761d;">Bearwallow Mt and beyond from the Little Pisgah pastures</span></b></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;">Before long I went back on my own to explore. I discovered if I very carefully took ridiculous chances, I could navigate my little Fiat sports car up Little Pisgah Road. Straddling ditches and squeezing around rocks, it's a wonder I didn't tear the bottom out from under that car. But it was fun! I was still hanging around those lower pastures, and hadn't yet been to the top of the mountain. It was soon time for that to change!</span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;">One Saturday night I camped with a couple of friends at that pretty spot beside the stream. The next morning after breakfast Jerry said he knew the way from there to the top, and we should go. Good idea! We walked up through the meadows, and continued up around the North side of the mountain. From there we had a magnificent view of Mt Mitchel and the ranges of mountains around it. From there we followed more old Jeep roads til at last we came out at the top. At 4450 feet it's the highest point East of Asheville. Bald at the top, it is a spectacular viewpoint. Or at least Jerry said it was. That morning it was socked-in with low hanging clouds, and we couldn't see a thing! We sat on a rock for an hour or so, but it never cleared up and we finally had to leave. You can be sure that it wasn't long before I went back, and I wasn't disappointed. Looking down into Hickory Nut Gorge, across beautiful Shumont Mountain, and as far to the East as the atmosphere will allow. I spent some wonderful days up there!</span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;">Here's a map showing the area I've been talking about:</span><br />
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<b><span style="color: #38761d;"> The blue line is the hike I took with my parents,</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #38761d;">the purple is the route from the lower pastures to the top.</span></b></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><b>The white areas are the pastures.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;">Disclaimer: I'm showing a map for informational purposes only. The whole area is private property, and I can't recommend trespassing.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;">(Here's where I wish I had some good photos taken from the top. Maybe I can get some later and add them. In the meantime here's one more on the way up.)</span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;">If you've made it this far with me, thank you! Stay tuned for part 2 where the death defying adventures begin!</span><br />
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<br />Stephen Wilderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10386881094326662968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-990449720907606103.post-23906193199681661702014-12-02T19:32:00.000-05:002014-12-02T19:34:08.502-05:00Fonzie<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">I love the ridge that runs from Shumont Mt out to Rumbling
Bald. It is one of the most seriously rugged places in these
mountains! </span></span>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">I remember
the scouting trip I took to investigate the first section of it, back
in the early '70s. I was with a couple of friends at Eagle Rock, and
we decided to explore a bit. We climbed the old logging road going
up Shumont to where it forks in three directions. My friends decided
to hang out in that area, but I wanted to explore a little farther.
I took the left fork, thinking it had to be the one going out that
ridge. It is, in fact it follows the top of the ridge all the way to
Rumbling Bald and on down to Lake Lure.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">On this day
I had just started out the ridge and was in the area marked by an
arrow in my photo. Just above that big cliff.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">I was
accompanied by my trusty trail dog Fonzie. </span></span>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZLPhIldE7_V0I9gwzDRw17MKnp5oeJcI_s9RvBcxZwbDYOygIMhKS5Ujj_j4G17xhVdOV4WfcfflIYjkS1EVGlmEi-o9qfgf5HPJmTwq_14L8ucElX0rMCLqdO4pKMs7OweWNLXKulK70/s1600/Fonzie1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZLPhIldE7_V0I9gwzDRw17MKnp5oeJcI_s9RvBcxZwbDYOygIMhKS5Ujj_j4G17xhVdOV4WfcfflIYjkS1EVGlmEi-o9qfgf5HPJmTwq_14L8ucElX0rMCLqdO4pKMs7OweWNLXKulK70/s1600/Fonzie1.jpg" height="400" width="363" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">He had been
with me over miles of trails, and through places so rough I wasn't
sure I could get out alive. He was a great companion, but had one
bad habit. If he caught a whiff of where some animal had been he
would take off running as fast as he could to investigate. That's
what he proceeded to do here, running off the side of the ridge right
towards where I knew that cliff was! I tried to call him back, but
once he got on a run there was no stopping him til he was done with
his investigation. I was used to the behavior, and he always came
back, but this time the location was making me nervous!</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">So I
waited, and called, and clapped, and whistled. No Fonzie. I tried
finding a way down to the cliff, but it was too steep and dangerous,
and I gave up. Waited some more, trying not to worry. He would be
back any time now... I'm not sure how long it was, probably close to
half an hour. Way too long!</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Finally he
came running back up the hill to me. I never saw him in such a
state! He was panting as hard as I had ever seen. His muzzle was
covered in froth. I grabbed him in a big hug, and he was trembling
all over. He acted like he had been through the ordeal of a
lifetime! And this was the same dog who would frolic all over Eagle
Rock with no fear. Who later went through the Bonas Defeat Gorge
like it was a walk in the park!</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">All I can
do is guess what happened. I think he pulled a “Bonas” and ran
off the top of the cliff. Fell and / or slid no telling how far
down. And then took a half hour to fight his way back up somehow. I
wish I knew the details, but I do know how scared he was, and how
happy he was to see me again. And I was glad to see him too!</span></span></div>
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</span>Stephen Wilderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10386881094326662968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-990449720907606103.post-89095945139811625312014-10-25T15:43:00.000-04:002016-01-17T16:40:48.562-05:00Autumn in Panthertown<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="color: #073763;">Saturday, Oct. 25, 2014 </span></div>
<span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #073763;">Today reminds me of an Autumn Saturday almost 20 years ago. October 23, 1993.</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;">I had just started exploring Panthertown Valley that Summer, and was excited about seeing it in the Fall. It was a morning much like today - chilly with clear blue sky, the peak of leaf season.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #073763;">I had my pack and camera gear loaded in the Bronco early and was ready to head out.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #073763;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinV1714SLRRoTlpmgPNYbxAlRdyWO-CG_CLOv3MF-f6RVuipppe7WwOVdmW280R7Uh5zRS7Ide73tOtQqmXj1lprkjCdJGjJlNIgFOEx6j-0T-7w1ExRAkPZZyGwouKppqjH7QZKatDA3W/s1600/Bronco2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinV1714SLRRoTlpmgPNYbxAlRdyWO-CG_CLOv3MF-f6RVuipppe7WwOVdmW280R7Uh5zRS7Ide73tOtQqmXj1lprkjCdJGjJlNIgFOEx6j-0T-7w1ExRAkPZZyGwouKppqjH7QZKatDA3W/s1600/Bronco2.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763;">The only thing holding me back was that I hadn't been able to get my Mother on the phone. She was 80 years old and living alone since my Dad died several years before. I talked to her often in the morning just to check in and chat, and this particular day I wanted to tell her about my Panthertown plans. She had always loved to hike, and enjoyed hearing my (somewhat censored) trip reports and seeing the photos I took. I once took a picture of a flower on Big Green Mountain so I could get her to ID it for me, she knew all the wildflowers "Oh, that's a yellow fringed orchid!" (As I was just now scanning the print I saw where she had written the name on the back.)</span><br />
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<span style="color: #073763;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAogB49ZX5vVEVrYZNay70Mp-T9IdJGLU-vExUABPbmcv6-ZPkyVFhb4VV2qcSjnJ1PWoxlohGmzEiy_kiO5DH9ML8K05JGSBT-pFy90XLiYSbcytbpWcjTumA3PMxZkYhiGnkDuoDyzse/s1600/Yellow+Fringed+Orchid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAogB49ZX5vVEVrYZNay70Mp-T9IdJGLU-vExUABPbmcv6-ZPkyVFhb4VV2qcSjnJ1PWoxlohGmzEiy_kiO5DH9ML8K05JGSBT-pFy90XLiYSbcytbpWcjTumA3PMxZkYhiGnkDuoDyzse/s1600/Yellow+Fringed+Orchid.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtpZBjHmK3CMH_iZQmtX6OfwKp8e2dOGOaoHd5tgRCFRTO9XFk_u-npclaq6_evN1IwJReEyjR-qoadYkY5-WNE06mxiU9ROCr6yeSAcS3r2JQF1hOUK5cVkBv9dFbrlDSIizvQZjU9IgD/s1600/Orchid1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="107" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtpZBjHmK3CMH_iZQmtX6OfwKp8e2dOGOaoHd5tgRCFRTO9XFk_u-npclaq6_evN1IwJReEyjR-qoadYkY5-WNE06mxiU9ROCr6yeSAcS3r2JQF1hOUK5cVkBv9dFbrlDSIizvQZjU9IgD/s1600/Orchid1.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<span style="color: #073763;">The first half hour or so that she didn't answer I wasn't worried, I thought she might be in the shower. But after nearly an hour I was getting concerned. She had been having problems with unstable blood pressure - she took medication because it was high, but a couple of times when she got up in the morning it was so low she nearly passed out and had to go to the ER. Just the previous morning I had taken time off work to go with her to her doctor, who adjusted her meds.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #073763;">We went out for lunch afterwards, and when I took her home she told me "You're a good son Stephen, I love you." </span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #073763;">She lived about 20 minutes away, but not far off my route to Panthertown, so I decided to stop and check on her. When I got to her apartment she didn't answer the door, but I had a key and went in. She was lying in the floor between her bedroom and the kitchen. There was a half-full glass of water on the kitchen counter, I'm guessing she woke up feeling bad and went to the kitchen for water and maybe some medicine.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #073763;">She never made it back to bed. Her body was already starting to cool when I found her. She probably went quickly, without much suffering, which was merciful to her but one hell of a shock to me! Maybe the worst I ever had.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #073763;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf5lXk8OrnTGoxZSfrFZ1JUiHR4SXLAF6gNpJ95IfGkeAlEUtJzpZMfPtx7WSz0M9cqc-MSiIOxn_ZTm1eqffIllQR06CwnZuz_IOZC2pkjrZOUvY_jFfbSDUgIH21Vkqbpf1MQPwLE0DY/s1600/Helen+and+Vernon+edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf5lXk8OrnTGoxZSfrFZ1JUiHR4SXLAF6gNpJ95IfGkeAlEUtJzpZMfPtx7WSz0M9cqc-MSiIOxn_ZTm1eqffIllQR06CwnZuz_IOZC2pkjrZOUvY_jFfbSDUgIH21Vkqbpf1MQPwLE0DY/s1600/Helen+and+Vernon+edit.jpg" width="313" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763;"><b> Vernon and Helen Wilder</b></span></div>
<span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #073763;">I was freaked out, but had to start the series of phone calls. 911 to send paramedics to confirm what I already knew. My sister in New Orleans - that broke my heart! I called a good friend to come over and be with me. (Thank God for friends!) The funeral home to send out a hearse. My pastor, who also came and was a big support. Other relatives and friends. Started making arrangements, it went on and on. A long and trying day. Every once in a while I would look outside and see how beautiful it was and think: "I'm supposed to be on top of Little Green Mountain right now!"</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #073763;">That evening I was driving to the airport to pick up my sister, and looked at my pack and camera case still in the back of the Bronco. Life has a way of changing your plans, doesn't it? I didn't get to see Panthertown in Autumn until the following year, but it was beautiful. I did miss showing the pictures to my Mother!</span><br />
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<span style="color: #073763;"> </span>Stephen Wilderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10386881094326662968noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-990449720907606103.post-6579805783409835512014-08-12T10:05:00.001-04:002016-10-18T16:54:44.792-04:00The Overlook(ed) Trail<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFYJnhwoylynpVzssb3XDSYp7DP3B_jRXNLBIwnKd34rj0dq5tDTOBCixz0_HRlV4dXcszam_mXENJXWLveksZnKxLzouEz14IK26bWawKUtnNr-XE05LCnd4v8ZZwN34kYJwMCGrerWJJ/s1600/Carlton+looking+at+BlackRock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFYJnhwoylynpVzssb3XDSYp7DP3B_jRXNLBIwnKd34rj0dq5tDTOBCixz0_HRlV4dXcszam_mXENJXWLveksZnKxLzouEz14IK26bWawKUtnNr-XE05LCnd4v8ZZwN34kYJwMCGrerWJJ/s1600/Carlton+looking+at+BlackRock.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="font-size: large;">Carlton McNeill standing on Little Green looking at the cliffs on Blackrock Mountain.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;">One winter day (around 1994) I was rambling around Panthertown and ran into Carlton. That wasn't unusual, it seemed <span style="font-size: small;">to</span> happen on almost half the trips I made. I wouldn't try to find him, but would wonder where we'd meet! (</span><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="color: #38761d;">If I was parked at Cold Mtn Gap </span>I did sometimes stop at his house to visit him before I left in the evening.)</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;">On this occasion he was excited about a new trail he had "clipped out" and wanted me to try. It made a connection from Blackrock Mountain down across the top of the cliffs and on into the valley. (Now known as the Overlook Trail.) This was exciting for me - a brand new trail, and I'd be one of the first people to use it! (That little bit of pride will come back to haunt me later!)</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;">So he told me how to find the old logging road </span><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="color: #38761d;">that goes up Blackrock </span>Mountain from the Salt Rock Gap parking area. I hadn't been up that way before, but had been admiring the Blackrock cliffs and wondering how to get on them.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1dcEs6viauhHoYKgFG_1_kljDfCaWoahY7RebkCbObN_rYgOCm4HtPiiuwmpu4nZeMR6RBjyxJ1JM0SOSVvdECK05KjoaY-GioXW6SJcy_lTOJ89KME3w39op1rEddFQkczwjeovPPJJc/s1600/BlackRock+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1dcEs6viauhHoYKgFG_1_kljDfCaWoahY7RebkCbObN_rYgOCm4HtPiiuwmpu4nZeMR6RBjyxJ1JM0SOSVvdECK05KjoaY-GioXW6SJcy_lTOJ89KME3w39op1rEddFQkczwjeovPPJJc/s1600/BlackRock+1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjArXL7ZOOdva6aKJ0YDC15eED0HFQXDcKCKr2ZRrTk5IwP9RuEj4lOgRjHbVek2tGdVTYF991ljzoTpcS54B3eMLsp6QgsrWrmmuj9172qhDNo-sAx9qzy_TmuucTk1NrwCbQ2MumOl9PU/s1600/BlackRock+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjArXL7ZOOdva6aKJ0YDC15eED0HFQXDcKCKr2ZRrTk5IwP9RuEj4lOgRjHbVek2tGdVTYF991ljzoTpcS54B3eMLsp6QgsrWrmmuj9172qhDNo-sAx9qzy_TmuucTk1NrwCbQ2MumOl9PU/s1600/BlackRock+2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="font-size: large;">Cliffs on Blackrock Mountain</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;">I didn't wait long to come back and try it, maybe a week or two. I found the old roadbed and headed up the mountain. It was a steady climb, but I soon reached the top of Blackrock Mountain. Or actually close to the top. If you look at a map or if you've been there you'll see that the roadbed runs around the back (North) side of the mountain just below the top. Here was where I realized that Carlton's simple directions weren't quite complete. There was an area of woods between the roadbed and the top of the mountain with no visible trail going through them. Being winter it was pretty open between the trees, and I wandered around for a while with no luck. This was typical Carlton McNeill - his directions made something sound easy to find (It was for him!) but it was often a challenge to spot his little trails. He never used any markers or blazes, I think he figured if you were going to be hiking in that valley in the first place you should be able to find a simple trail!</span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;">I was nearly stumped.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3JAP6_ajWjU-lZPhyphenhyphen9r8AXv7EsgrGFFxvJFEbs8h9w8HNdybohHP377ORSQ29gN6QCgEhS1xyF-MwVHQdNmLCJdJ2NoLMn-TYv2_X0BKGHav4pZgdOhyphenhyphenTiFjGt1Qfb1fCZD1gs7Xnxllt/s1600/Stump.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3JAP6_ajWjU-lZPhyphenhyphen9r8AXv7EsgrGFFxvJFEbs8h9w8HNdybohHP377ORSQ29gN6QCgEhS1xyF-MwVHQdNmLCJdJ2NoLMn-TYv2_X0BKGHav4pZgdOhyphenhyphenTiFjGt1Qfb1fCZD1gs7Xnxllt/s1600/Stump.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sorry, I couldn't resist.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;">I revised my strategy a bit. At the top of the ridge was a solid wall of rhododendron, and I knew the cliffs were somewhere on the other side of them. I started at one end and walked along it trying to find a passage through . About halfway across I found an opening just big enough to squeeze through. I stepped in, and the passage continued. I soon realized I was on a faint narrow trail. I'd found it! </span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;">I followed it out and before long came to a great overlook on top of the cliffs. It gives you a whole new perspective on familiar landmarks. Really an awe inspiring spot!</span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="font-size: large;">Looking down on Little Green Mountain from Blackrock Overlook.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="font-size: large;">Good view of Cold Mountain, and the power-line.</span></span></div>
<span style="color: #38761d;"><br />After I had enjoyed the view for a while I followed the trail on down the mountain til it came out on the Powerline Trail in the valley. I don't remember exactly where I went from there, but just had a leisurely ramble around the valley. I'd already accomplished my goal for the day! </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;">I do know that in mid afternoon I paid a visit to Frolictown Falls. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="font-size: large;">Frolictown Falls</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="font-size: small;">Afterwards I found a comfortable rock along the Deep Gap Trail and sat down to rest and eat some trail mix. I hadn't been there long when two men came walking down the trail. </span>A distinguished looking gentleman and a college age guy pushing a bicycle-wheel measuring device. The older man introduced himself as Allen de Hart.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;">I was amazed! Allen de Hart was a legend in the hiking world, and has authored some of the best trail guides available anywhere. He is the man most responsible for the creation of the Mountain to Sea Trail. I had, and still have, a lot of respect for him. </span> </div>
<span style="color: #38761d;"><a href="http://blueridgecountry.com/newsstand/country-roads/allen-de-hart%3A-a-mountain-wonder-walks-on/" target="_blank">http://blueridgecountry.com/newsstand/country-roads/allen-de-hart%3A-a-mountain-wonder-walks-on/</a> </span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;">He explained he was mapping the trails of Panthertown for the next edition of his book, North Carolina Hiking Trails. In a one day visit he was covering all the main trails in the valley. He said he was about 18 miles into a 25 mile day. He appeared fresh and energetic, but his wheel-man looked kind of shell shocked!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d;">During our conversation I asked him if he knew Carlton McNeill - wrong question! Allen was not a fan. He started talking about how the Forest Service was unhappy with Carlton for his unauthorized trail building. He complained that some of Carlton's trails went through ecologically fragile areas, that they weren't graded for drainage, and some were too steep to hold up under heavy usage. All this was true of course, but wasn't the whole story. Without Carlton McNeill's trails many of the best places in Panthertown would be inaccessible. Just mentally erase all the winding footpaths, leaving only the old roadbeds, and you'll have some idea. When I started hiking Panthertown in 1993 there was no evidence of Forest Service trail maintenance at all. It was a couple of years before I saw any signs of their work, with some drainage issues being addressed. I never saw a Forest Service employee or one of their trucks, ever. </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;">But miles of the best trails exist today because of Carlton's years of hard work.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;">I didn't go into all that with Mr de Hart. His tone and manner of speaking clearly established him as The Expert Authority on hiking trails, and I wasn't in the mood to argue. But when he mentioned that he had been on Blackrock Mountain that morning I had to ask: "did you see the trail that goes from the top down across the cliffs?" "No, I didn't see any other trail." At this point I felt that little rush of pride again - I had found a trail that The Expert had missed! So I proceeded to explain: "Well, I wouldn't have seen it either if I hadn't known where to look, but it definitely is there because that's how I came into the valley, and..."</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"><b>"I TOLD YOU! I WAS THERE, AND THERE IS NO TRAIL!!!"</b></span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;">OK then. The Authority had spoken, and there was no room for debate. I'd like to have a picture of the expression on my face, I bet my jaw was hanging open for a minute. But I shut it and swallowed the first 2 or 3 responses that came to mind. I finally just wished him and his wheel-man a good journey, and they went off down the trail, leaving me sitting on my rock shaking my head and laughing. I had been put in my place for sure!</span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;">A few months later I found the new edition of Allen de Hart's book in a store. I looked and found the new chapter about Panthertown Valley. He gave a description and history of the area, along with good maps and directions for the "authorized" trail system. There was also a paragraph about the damage done by "unauthorized trail building" </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;">But no mention of the Overlook Trail!</span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;">I'm thankful that the Forest Service is more active now, and I especially appreciate the work done by <a href="https://www.facebook.com/panthertown?ref=br_tf" target="_blank">Friends of Panthertown</a>! If I was able I'd probably be working with those guys. </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"><br /></span><span style="color: #38761d;">Looking now at Burt Kornegay's
map it looks like the connection with the Overlook Trail may be farther
up the Blackrock Mountain Trail than I went. I'm guessing it's marked
now and is a well worn path; that day it was a 2 foot wide opening in
the Rhodo, with no wear showing on the ground. Not intuitively obvious
to the most casual observer! I may have missed the proper trail connection, and it would have been amazing if Allen de Hart had actually spotted a trail. What was really amazing was his inability to even entertain the idea that he had overlooked a trail!</span><br />
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Stephen Wilderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10386881094326662968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-990449720907606103.post-20412601626235205472014-07-25T12:06:00.000-04:002014-07-25T12:06:27.120-04:00Skating Panthertown<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;">It was a clear cold winter day, and I couldn't think of a better way to spend it than to hike Panthertown Valley. No particular agenda that I can remember, just a ramble. It was the usual drive from Fairview until I started up Breedlove Rd, then I started seeing some patches of snow along the sides of the road. Funny, it hadn't snowed anywhere else...</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;">I stopped and locked-in the front hubs on my old Bronco, just in case. I was glad I did, because by the time I started climbing the grade up to the gap the road was covered in white. Shifted into 4 wheel drive. It was kind of weird - although the snow didn't look packed down it was really slick! I was glad to be in that Bronco, it was made for times like this. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <span style="font-size: large;">My faithful 1976 Ford Bronco in the driveway of my house in Fairview. Most of my trips to Panthertown were made in it.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;">I made it over the gap and to the Salt Rock trailhead, where the ground was covered in white. I stepped out and almost fell down. That may have looked like snow, but it was something else!</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;">The best I could tell there had been a sleet storm. A bad one because it was a couple of inches thick. Then it froze. Solid. My tire tracks were 1/4" deep, but my vibram lug boot soles left no track at all. And got almost no traction at all. The ice had a slightly granular surface, but it was definitely ice! </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;">It reminded me of a conversation at work one day as we attempted to do carpentry work on an ice covered concrete slab. We talked about the different kinds of ice - clear ice, white ice, black ice, and the dreaded bust ice. That's what this was!</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;">I calmly and rationally decided that only a fool would attempt</span></span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;"> to hike</span></span> in the wilderness alone when he could barely stand up on level ground. So I got my gear out of the truck and started down the road. I couldn't believe how slick it was! I couldn't walk normally because it felt like if I picked up my foot to take a step I would fall for sure. So I scooted one foot across the ice and then the other, kind of like slow motion skating. Even that was treacherous! As I started down the hill I was looking for any hump or dip in the surface that I could use for traction. The top of the sleet had smoothed out really nice before it froze, footholds were scarce! I would have paid good money for crampons at that point.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <span style="font-size: large;">Big Green from Salt Rock</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;">You'll notice I didn't try going out on the rock. That looked like a slippery slope!</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;">Also notice how clearly you can see the line of the roadbed cutting across in front of Big Green. Snow or white ice really show up roads and trails!</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;">I slowly shuffle-skated down the mountain. I don't think I lifted either foot off the ground the whole trip - I never felt stable enough! </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: large;">Me inventing the selfie while getting an image of the cliffs on Blackrock Mt.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;">I finally made it down to the crossroads. I decided to just take a general tour of the flat parts of the Valley and not attempt the cliffs or Devil's Elbow. I do have a very little bit of good sense!</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;">First I went down the Panthertown Valley trail as far as the sandbar pool / shelter.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;">It was really pretty there, and I hung around for a while. I'm sure I took a break in the shelter to get off the ice!</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;">I turned around there and went back up to the Mac's Gap trail. (I hear the groans from the "Loop Only" faction, hush up!) I went out to the turnoff for Granny Burrell Falls. I had to have one waterfall!</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;">It was a mite skittish going out far enough to get this shot! I had been holding on to Rhodo branches coming down the trail.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;">I went back out Mac's Gap and Panthertown Valley to the Deep Gap trail. I went a little way out to the area where there are large campsites on both sides of the trail. Here I met the only other people crazy enough to be out on such a day. 3 or 4 people were either setting up camp or just hanging around the campsite. We talked for a while, and I decided to turn around and head back out. </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;">I wanted to get into the Great Wall area, but didn't want to try fording Panthertown Creek.</span></span> </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;">I hadn't covered a lot of mileage, but my nerves were shot! I was having to focus so hard on not falling it was exhausting. I really didn't want to get injured and have to crawl back out of there! </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;">So I slid my way up that long hill and back to the truck. I have to admit I was glad to get back out unbroken! I was a little concerned about driving back over the gap on Breedlove Road, but it went fine. I stopped at the top of the gap and put the Bronco in 4 wheel low range and just let it crawl down the mountain. Never had any problem at all, and 2 miles later was on dry road for the rest of the drive home.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;">That was a completely unique experience for me. Just one more way for things to be beautiful and terrifying at the same time. Panthertown is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're going to get! </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: large;">My trail-route drawn in blue.</span></span></div>
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Stephen Wilderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10386881094326662968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-990449720907606103.post-89320729541966435762014-06-26T13:42:00.000-04:002014-06-26T14:51:07.302-04:00Big Green Mountain<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Great Wall of Big Green Mountain</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-size: small;">My first trip to Panthertown Valley </span>was just a random exploration. I had no specific destination because I didn't know how to get anywhere! (If you haven't read that story and are interested it's at:</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://sakikahn.blogspot.com/2014/06/panthertown-rambling-begins.html" target="_blank">http://sakikahn.blogspot.com/2014/06/panthertown-rambling-begins.html</a> <span style="color: #274e13;">)</span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;">But on that first trip I met Carlton McNeill, and he started the process of orienting me. He took my topo map and sketched in a few trails. He showed me the route over Big Green Mountain, so for my next visit that was my goal.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;">I came into the Valley by the western entrance, stopping of course at Salt Rock to admire one of the best views in all of Panthertown. I headed on down the hill, watching the right side of the road for the shortcut trail Carlton told me about. After a couple of false starts I found it & followed it down to the Deep Gap Trail. A left turn onto the Granny Burrrell Falls Trail soon led to the crossing of Panthertown Creek and the Great Wall Trail.<br />(I'm getting these trail names from the current "official" Panthertown Valley map, at that time none of the trails</span> <span style="color: #274e13;">were named or marked. Here's a link to the PDF map:</span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><a href="http://panthertown.files.wordpress.com/2012/05/panthertownlatest_june22_0911x17_usemap.pdf" target="_blank">http://panthertown.files.wordpress.com/2012/05/panthertownlatest_june22_0911x17_usemap.pdf</a> )</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;">I took off my boots, waded across the creek and headed out the Great Wall Trail. Stopped to look around the big campsite with the A-frame shelter, and a little farther down found the little spur trail that goes to the base of The Wall. I don't think I ever passed by without taking the time to walk that short trail. I loved the way it wound through the ferns, and of course the base of the Great Wall is amazing!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;"> <span style="font-size: large;">Fern Trail</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-size: large;"> The Great Wall</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">After some rambling around the boulder strewn base of the cliff I went back to the main trail and went on my way. Next I came to the big ravine where the trail turns left & starts up the mountain. Right at that point I stepped in a patch of mud. Not big or deep, just a little spot of sticky black mud. When I lifted my foot there was a loud "slurping" sound and the sole of my right hiking boot peeled almost completely off! Turns out it was only sewed in place around the toe, and the rest was just glued on. The soaking those boots got on my previous trip had evidently softened the glue, and now 3/4 of the sole was flapping in the breeze. Surprise!</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">My first thought was that not only did this bring to a halt what had so far been a really enjoyable hike, it was going to be interesting getting back out the way I had come. I may cussed a little (bad habit!). I sat down to asses the situation, and rummaged around in my day-pack. Luckily I had a piece of nylon cord that was just what I needed. I was able to wind and twist and tie it around my boot til the sole felt fairly secure. I tried walking around a little bit. "Not bad! I think I can make it back out with this!" Walked around a little more, and the inevitable next thought: "Not bad at all! And I really hate to turn back now..." Am I really that dumb? You should know the answer to that by now!</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">So I started up the mountain, telling myself what a foolish idea that was! The trail is steep but beautiful. It goes up a huge ravine in the mountainside, which I took the liberty of naming The Big Green Ravine. A great place, and my boot was still together! I finally came up to the Big Green Trail, and followed it up the ridge to the top of Big Green Mt. I found the top of the cliffs and settled myself down for lunch and contemplation. I still had a long path to get back out, but I wasn't worried. It was such a beautiful spot, and I was just thankful to have reached my goal.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: large;">View from Big Green Mt.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Cliff-top on Big Green</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-size: small;">After a relaxing stay it was time to make my way down. I re-tied the cord holding my boot together and started out. I followed the Big Green Trail to its intersection with the Mac's Gap Trail, & took a left on it. As I was going down from Mac's Gap I ran into Carlton beside the trail picking blackberries. Of course I had to stop & talk! He said it was a slow summer for berries, he'd only picked 45 gallons so far. (Every time I saw him during blackberry or blueberry season he'd tell me how many gallons he'd picked. I don't know what he did with them all, I think he gave them away!) </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-size: small;">He was shaking his head at my tied-together boot, but when I told him where all I'd been he seemed to think I wasn't totally hopeless as a hiker. We talked some more about scheduling a hike together, which sounded fine to me!</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-size: small;">I made my way from there through Pine Valley and back up to Salt Rock without further incident. Altogether an enjoyable and satisfying hike! I did have to retire those boots, but I made sure the next pair were sewed <b>all </b>the way around the sole. </span></span></div>
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Stephen Wilderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10386881094326662968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-990449720907606103.post-83829813729653951182014-06-20T23:02:00.001-04:002014-06-26T14:47:17.129-04:00To the Batcave<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This
was around 1975, so I was in my early 20s – ready for most
anything.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A
friend, who I will call The Instigator, approached me and a couple of
like minded (crazy) friends with an idea for an adventure: “Let's
go up to the Batcave!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Always
the responsible one, I replied: “We can't do that, I know where the
trail starts, but it's covered up with No Trespassing signs!”</span></span></div>
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“<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Oh,
it'll be OK. I went up there last week and nothing happened. It's
awesome! There's a big cave, and a bunch of cliffs. I want to go
back up with ropes and do some rappelling.”</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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“<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Well,
that sounds like an adventure all right, lets go!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
Instigator got his rope and the rest of us grabbed some
flashlights(!) and the 4 of us headed out. We parked on the side of
the road, walked around the No Trespassing signs, and followed the
trail up the mountain. It was steep and rugged – just the way we
liked it. The cave itself is in the line of cliffs that run along the
gorge, so when we got up that far we were surrounded by rock faces
and boulders. Beautiful!</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We
found the cave entrance easily, and went right in. I'd never seen a
cave around here that big! A description I found online says this: </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">One
of Bat Cave’s coolest features (pun intended) is its natural air
conditioning: a cool moist draft constantly pours out of vents on the
side of the large cave. Bat Cave is the largest known granite fissure
cave in North America. The main chamber is a dark cathedral more than
300 feet long and approximately 85 feet high.” </span></span>
</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We
wandered around just checking it all out. And yes there were bats.
Lots of bats! It was eerie! In several places around the sides
there were cracks or holes that were just big enough to crawl though,
but were too scary looking for any of us to attempt. </span></span>
</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">After
we finished exploring we went back outside to where the cliffs were.
My friend set up his rope on a 50 footer and was rappelling down in
big swooping jumps. Having nearly gotten myself killed the year
before in an attempted rappel off the side of Eagle Rock I was
content to watch.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So
I was standing there minding my own business when I heard a noise
behind me. I turned around in time to see a man pop out of a hole in
the ground, followed by two more, all with helmets and headlamps.
Spelunkers! We got to talking, and one of them asked if we'd like a
tour of the caves. Alrighty then!</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So
we went back into the main cave and he went to one of the cracks in
the wall and crawled right in. We followed with our plastic
flashlights and entered a whole new world. Since it's a fissure cave
there were no more big open spaces, just cracks in the rock. There
were passages leading off to the left & right, up & down. I
felt like an ant crawling in a rockpile! It was a maze, and I soon
realized that if I got separated from the group I wouldn't have a
clue how to get back out.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A
lot of places were a tight squeeze, including one spot where you had
to lie on your back and wriggle under a huge slab of rock. It was so
tight that even with my 32” waist I had to reach down & pull my
belt buckle loose from the rock. I was on the verge of
claustrophobia there, it felt like the weight of the whole mountain
was pushing down on me, and one tiny movement of the rock would cut
me in half! One of my friends who was just a little heavier got
stuck, and it took one of us pulling his arms while another pushed
his feet from behind to get him through.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
passages had holes in the floor, you had better watch your step! At
one hole a couple of feet wide we stopped to see if we could tell how
deep it was. All our lights combined showed only blackness. We
tried tossing rocks down and listening to them bouncing off the
sides. The sound faded away, and we never could hear it hit
bottom...</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Then
we started climbing. It wasn't vertical enough to need ropes &
gear, but dang nearly! I was a pretty good boulder scrambler, but
this was as difficult as any I ever did. And did I mention most of
the rock was wet? And we were in pitch blackness with our Kmart
flashlights? One spot was an inclined rock over 50 feet long at a 45
degree angle. You needed both hands to climb, so we took turns
holding a light for the person climbing. I made it about halfway up
and got to a real sketchy spot. I barely had a foot-hold and was
searching desperately for a hand-hold before I slipped. Right then
somebody yelled: “I need some light over here!” My trusty light
holder switched his beam to the other guy, leaving me in total
darkness! I may have cussed some. I needed my light back NOW! </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm
not sure how far we went, but it was a long way. I do know I was
relieved when we crawled up out of a hole into the sunlight again!
We had to hike down about a quarter mile of steep mountainside to get
back to the main cave again.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Whew,
what an adventure! We went back down the trail tired but pleased
with ourselves and what we had done. But when we got nearly to the
bottom of the trail we looked through the trees and saw a sheriff’s
car sitting next to ours. That wasn't part of the plan! We didn't
want to come popping out of the trailhead with all the No Trespassing
signs, so we bushwhacked away to the side til we were out of sight
and then came walking up the road looking all sweet and innocent. Of
course he knew where we had been, and proceeded to tell us so, along
with a long lecture on Trespassing and arrest and prosecution and
punishment. Mixed in with questions and checking of IDs and
generally making us very uncomfortable for about 20 minutes. And the
he let us go and drove away. Like I said, Whew!</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
current status of the Batcave as I understand it is that it's owned
by the Nature Conservancy. They used to do guided hikes up as far as
the main cave. But now there is an epidemic of White Nose Syndrome
decimating the bat population in many states, including WNC. In an
effort to quarantine and protect the bats from infection the area is
closed to the public for the foreseeable future.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I
found some pictures online. The first half of the page is some good
shots of the Rumbling Bald Cave, scroll on down for Batcave pics.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/goog_1117703522"><br /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://www.flickriver.com/photos/alan_cressler/sets/72157607426293722/"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">http://www.flickriver.com/photos/alan_cressler/sets/72157607426293722/</span></span></a></div>
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Stephen Wilderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10386881094326662968noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-990449720907606103.post-28924167769081115292014-06-16T19:55:00.000-04:002015-05-17T17:27:01.580-04:00Panthertown rambling begins<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-size: small;"> </span><br />
<b><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: small;">Salt Rock Vista</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">I first went to Panthertown Valley in the Summer of 1993. I had been wanting to go for 13 years, since the Summer of 1980 when I was a caretaker for the Clarke family on their property at Rock Bridge.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> <span style="color: #274e13;">Their land bordered Panthertown, and they told me how beautiful it was. This was before the power-line, when the Valley was owned by Liberty Life Insurance Co, and not open to the public. Then Duke Energy bought the property and did their abomination.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">Then finally some good news; Mr. Clarke, who was a US Congressman at the time, was very instrumental in arranging the purchase of the remnants of Panthertown Valley by the Nature Conservancy, and then its transfer to the National Forest. It could have become just one more gated "community" with mansions hanging off the cliffs. I'm grateful that so much was saved!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">I procrastinated a few years longer, but finally decided I had to go. I got </span><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">a shiny new topo map </span>and driving directions to Salt Rock Gap, and drove out on a Summer Saturday morning. (Breedlove Rd was all gravel at that time which made the drive more interesting!) I got parked at the trailhead and headed off down the road. I signed the entry log book on a tree beside the trail. (Is that still there?)</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">Of course it wasn't long before I came to Salt Rock, and I was just overwhelmed. The valley was so beautiful, and looked like hiker heaven. That view was worth the drive! I walked on down to the crossroads at the bottom of the hill and randomly took the right hand turn onto what is now known as the Mac's Gap trail. You need to remember that back then none of the trails were named, marked, or blazed. Only a few of the main logging roads were on my topo map, unnamed.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">I soon came to what I call Pine Valley:</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbB5jekpS2u1bB6EyhKeSw5L0w5qmYvVcDqbgQd8SdjgonCLnMIAvLctVZ0yrpz3D1DedmXvQzRtln4zI3G4g1au9ZtHF8Q8IzXbDTqZJV4cIU78WelFej-yu1iaDbeqXB8j-pwNpa5tdY/s1600/Pine+Valley+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbB5jekpS2u1bB6EyhKeSw5L0w5qmYvVcDqbgQd8SdjgonCLnMIAvLctVZ0yrpz3D1DedmXvQzRtln4zI3G4g1au9ZtHF8Q8IzXbDTqZJV4cIU78WelFej-yu1iaDbeqXB8j-pwNpa5tdY/s1600/Pine+Valley+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">Evidently after that area was clear-cut it was replanted in White Pine. I heard someone planted them for Christmas trees but never cut them. (Does anybody know anything about that? Does anybody raise White Pine for Christmas trees?) However they got there it's a magical place. The open park-like spaces covered in pine needles, the ferns & moss, very cool!</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">I followed the road</span><span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-size: small;"> and after</span></span><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"> a while it started up the mountain. I went up for a while, but finally turned around because I didn't want to wear myself out on hills without knowing if they went anywhere worthwhile. (Shows how little I knew!) I backtracked through Pine Valley, still enjoying the unique look and feel of those woods. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">I can't remember for sure, but I think I probably discovered Granny Burrell Falls (at low water flow) along the way: </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXJS9joZr37B4ENX4MnNHDfMbJC5ao93KVnrWqXqdPF9MaklexgeRmf_Y4ZbQQ9PV0lWP3kMhdbl2-_pwWLo4GnMRjpq-Dwpr0kOnfss7LLH5RkyUw3cYLa_qW14RZCz-B76KHnhVKXEiG/s1600/Granny+Burrell+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXJS9joZr37B4ENX4MnNHDfMbJC5ao93KVnrWqXqdPF9MaklexgeRmf_Y4ZbQQ9PV0lWP3kMhdbl2-_pwWLo4GnMRjpq-Dwpr0kOnfss7LLH5RkyUw3cYLa_qW14RZCz-B76KHnhVKXEiG/s1600/Granny+Burrell+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">I never could pass a side-trail without checking it out. After all, it might go somewhere! So I'm going to give myself that much credit.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">Back at the crossroads I turned right and headed down the Panthertown Valley trail. I passed the Sandbar Pool with its little shelter, and when I came to the old rickety bridge over Panthertown Creek (Since replaced I believe) I decided it was a good place to sit down & eat lunch & try to figure out where I was and where to go next. So I was sitting on the middle of the bridge dangling my feet over the creek when this old guy & his dog came along. He said his name was Carlton McNeill, his dog was Cheyenne, and he was the unofficial guide to the Valley. He talked like an old codger, but you could tell there was more to him than that. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqxHwdVC8F9qvA-9YeI07z_1sxNspFnjZ-9To867291542Q_6v28TLuhh0wzdwh6tQQwvnkhEf612DT7gGCup2TGWBTGPKYSMbkibj6xXS1Sup29m6hjH9R0TsuwjXek9ytuZJmEpbInEb/s1600/Carlton3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqxHwdVC8F9qvA-9YeI07z_1sxNspFnjZ-9To867291542Q_6v28TLuhh0wzdwh6tQQwvnkhEf612DT7gGCup2TGWBTGPKYSMbkibj6xXS1Sup29m6hjH9R0TsuwjXek9ytuZJmEpbInEb/s1600/Carlton3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"> It's hard to describe Carlton, he was a genuinely unique man. He was small built and wiry. </span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"> Weather-beaten with a twinkle in his eye. He loved to talk, to everyone he met. He could do a 15 minute monolog while speed-walking up any hill in Panthertown. He'd talk about nature (He knew a lot!) anything about Panthertown, the trail he had just clipped out, literature, philosophy. (He was a devout atheist.) I once asked his age and he replied: "Well, I got as far as 70 and figured that was old enough for anybody, so I turned around and started going back the other way. I'm down to 67 now."</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">He could see I was clueless about Panthertown, so he took my topo map & showed me where I was and with an old pencil sketched in a couple of trails he said I should try. He suggested I should go on from where I was to see School House Falls. He said I could then go up and across Little Green Mt to Mac's Gap trail (Pine Valley again!) and go back out that way. Sounded good to me so I set off refreshed and encouraged. Before I left Carlton gave me his business card and told me to give him a call if I wanted a guided hike.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjefPDLG_lcRL01vKlU8ypnrLMYCx_Qg94088hzuH4TSEwYbFT4dBhzG7rXWLOYkQmL5-V_OyfWnn5SHgxeGRfmQiniTjMGI3cHR02AolWRu7uBZs-OlNoPARldmi-u5MfugrHeQmrZANOo/s1600/Carlton's+card.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjefPDLG_lcRL01vKlU8ypnrLMYCx_Qg94088hzuH4TSEwYbFT4dBhzG7rXWLOYkQmL5-V_OyfWnn5SHgxeGRfmQiniTjMGI3cHR02AolWRu7uBZs-OlNoPARldmi-u5MfugrHeQmrZANOo/s1600/Carlton's+card.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">I found School House Falls and spent some time admiring it. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqVh0gD2WNluHbRldZ27V-v7q0ZRmvPQrhMkZliaWYXNGSpyEz_bnKc-wrF5rw8MM932pzw8doaUiXySM6n1VfaNFeZl0IUmBEq3uErWFi4am7JXj5itZuUzBDiKXsFiUeiL1vw6-x90CO/s1600/School+House+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqVh0gD2WNluHbRldZ27V-v7q0ZRmvPQrhMkZliaWYXNGSpyEz_bnKc-wrF5rw8MM932pzw8doaUiXySM6n1VfaNFeZl0IUmBEq3uErWFi4am7JXj5itZuUzBDiKXsFiUeiL1vw6-x90CO/s1600/School+House+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"> </span><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">There was a drought going on, Carlton said it hadn't rained for weeks. Everything was bone dry, and the water flow was way down. But it was still pretty!. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">I located the trail up Little Green and made the climb. I came up to what's now known as Tranquility Point and just stood there admiring the view and the surroundings. This was what I had come to see! </span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj74VYYnWqiFBmErqaKTy6F1nwXF_8M58NdPLKeuc1IBhbhS3Riaac-ok_etA77Y9aFzdJUaesyjaucrdlH5Md0x9MkuKRUuxgUQ00uFR1bqwkyIAmiTWCKcrqp8bM4pdxfiQxYD963xT02/s1600/Top+of+Little+Green+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj74VYYnWqiFBmErqaKTy6F1nwXF_8M58NdPLKeuc1IBhbhS3Riaac-ok_etA77Y9aFzdJUaesyjaucrdlH5Md0x9MkuKRUuxgUQ00uFR1bqwkyIAmiTWCKcrqp8bM4pdxfiQxYD963xT02/s1600/Top+of+Little+Green+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"> But meanwhile I kept hearing rumbles of thunder from the West. I tried to find my way across the clifftop as Carlton had instructed, but couldn't find the path right away. And that thunder kept getting closer. Maybe it hadn't rained for weeks, but now I was here. Standing on top of a cliff. And that storm was getting CLOSE! Time to retreat the way I had come, and quick. I started down the trail and the rain began. Not just a little rain, but a genuine Wrath of God Thunderstorm. Of course I didn't have rain gear, and was soaked in no time. Water was streaming across my glasses, and I could barely see the trail. (Of course I could take them off but really couldn't see then!) I had a case with all my camera gear that I really hoped was waterproof. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">I felt my way back down to the valley and made it to the open-sided shelter at the Sandbar Pool. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1fQgZHVUaHxc79epxxNnb9moENCnSQ2_qqgENqa2cPB7JQVcAVDy5z7nx4zFzi7M2gJswgfWUnHDLZ6zWOsfETCIE78P-1k8VjdelBmt9TX5ccBO8QbSPbMWTPxKrQ9EwjLYMTpmVktvr/s1600/Sandbar+shelter+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1fQgZHVUaHxc79epxxNnb9moENCnSQ2_qqgENqa2cPB7JQVcAVDy5z7nx4zFzi7M2gJswgfWUnHDLZ6zWOsfETCIE78P-1k8VjdelBmt9TX5ccBO8QbSPbMWTPxKrQ9EwjLYMTpmVktvr/s1600/Sandbar+shelter+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">I went in with 3 or 4 refugees already there and watched the storm. The drought was over for sure! It must have put down 2 or 3 inches in an hour. Rain was blowing in one side of that shelter and out the other. I think I'd have been drier if I'd jumped in the river! Finally it slacked off some, and I decided it was time to go, so I headed up the Panthertown Valley trail. There were long stretches where the water was standing a foot deep in the road, over the top of my boots of course! Just when I thought I couldn't get any wetter...</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">But I slogged my way through and finally made that last climb to Salt Rock. That's when I took these pictures. The storm was over and mist was hanging in the valleys & swirling around the cliffs. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVevaFMqL17SMQmB84UN9bOn5XXhqszNSw6E57CzW4Gd76utUPHGB0RdV2w5Q6Fg2b7KV_rxpuM94n0BdR115qE9iwDVWt5cy-YwNzgJI4ypxZKMT6vV4_hQ1t2Uf5wotCBX6H_DhfsaCm/s1600/From+Salt+Rock+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="436" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVevaFMqL17SMQmB84UN9bOn5XXhqszNSw6E57CzW4Gd76utUPHGB0RdV2w5Q6Fg2b7KV_rxpuM94n0BdR115qE9iwDVWt5cy-YwNzgJI4ypxZKMT6vV4_hQ1t2Uf5wotCBX6H_DhfsaCm/s1600/From+Salt+Rock+1.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC-Y7VsEzpoUwZjA3VYwYJFGasWjQwynHd5KYjX30fN4i6PeKuppipfIFac1Zl7Op6VAsxtrXjPdWsxSKycNHFnxScme_YRE7Jpu9bKARyrJ7rpvGUlG11pkHlmJlx8dlWveVYS9Q_QM6I/s1600/From+Salt+Rock+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC-Y7VsEzpoUwZjA3VYwYJFGasWjQwynHd5KYjX30fN4i6PeKuppipfIFac1Zl7Op6VAsxtrXjPdWsxSKycNHFnxScme_YRE7Jpu9bKARyrJ7rpvGUlG11pkHlmJlx8dlWveVYS9Q_QM6I/s1600/From+Salt+Rock+2.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg2xZipDsfmPTPVC6dKK1V_7Df8iS4fx8SAX_YErCpfAi-kvmOmgPxqDBv0CDsHMe542iMqXx6vC6NUL0hf_hjkHIbYNru6vuD46PDQlf0Q2bxogv1qQcuYyGbfsINjfdkXNIkn98yGC0X/s1600/Big+Green+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="438" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg2xZipDsfmPTPVC6dKK1V_7Df8iS4fx8SAX_YErCpfAi-kvmOmgPxqDBv0CDsHMe542iMqXx6vC6NUL0hf_hjkHIbYNru6vuD46PDQlf0Q2bxogv1qQcuYyGbfsINjfdkXNIkn98yGC0X/s1600/Big+Green+4.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">That experience made the near-drowning seem trivial! I was happy with my day, and knew I'd be back to learn more about this amazing place. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: small;">(Some of the other photos on this page were taken on different hikes, but are representative of what I saw that day. I apologize for the image quality, I'm scanning faded old 4x6 prints, but it's what I've got!) </span></div>
Stephen Wilderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10386881094326662968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-990449720907606103.post-67033215512754376672014-06-12T19:24:00.000-04:002014-06-26T07:58:57.241-04:00My first trip to Coffee Rock.<div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiLeLDh2FUrdMsodpTBSltyC6C4iX7HUh5F_0uzGR-pX9W1uVhINphCaQtg1wpRLKkkQ_rXJcHoWbsKLVradjkpnyoVBsP962ySEV_lp04Yds3sMGZ-Y4HkMhrD2jh-H4hgRSPsDr1Fd2E/s1600/Coffee2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiLeLDh2FUrdMsodpTBSltyC6C4iX7HUh5F_0uzGR-pX9W1uVhINphCaQtg1wpRLKkkQ_rXJcHoWbsKLVradjkpnyoVBsP962ySEV_lp04Yds3sMGZ-Y4HkMhrD2jh-H4hgRSPsDr1Fd2E/s1600/Coffee2.jpg" height="436" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><b>Coffee Rock</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><b>(Named by Josh Simons after he prepared and drank a cup on top of it.)</b></span></div>
<span style="color: #274e13;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #274e13;">Labor Day Monday, around 1996.</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #274e13;">I had been hiking in the Valley for a few years, and was learning my way around. That was a lot different in those days! Carlton McNeill had been hard at work surreptitiously “clipping out” new paths and keeping existing ones open, so there were at least as many trails as now. But the Forest Service was not active at all in the Valley. There were no trail markers or blazes. When I first started exploring there were no trail guides available. It was a real adventure in wilderness route finding!</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #274e13;"> I'd been to all the major clifftops, most of Greenland Creek, Wilderness & Frolictown falls, and was working my way down the Tuck a section at a time. I had learned my way from Warden's Falls to Riding Ford. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf1hH8-zrt_s6zGnB2zl-RB0M2om5XHvA3acAcDOiw-r4VFxTfOleucWWn1gQkKli5mRLi9dFYggMHfxywzgFkFqqAACyDSEMRgR1GbJLllC1AmvAjgy-O0anVNkE-OR3_xCLPhav6v51w/s1600/Warden's+Falls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf1hH8-zrt_s6zGnB2zl-RB0M2om5XHvA3acAcDOiw-r4VFxTfOleucWWn1gQkKli5mRLi9dFYggMHfxywzgFkFqqAACyDSEMRgR1GbJLllC1AmvAjgy-O0anVNkE-OR3_xCLPhav6v51w/s1600/Warden's+Falls.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: #274e13;">Warden's Falls</span></b></span></div>
<span style="color: #274e13;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #274e13;">I was ready to go farther downriver with the ultimate objective of getting to Devil's Elbow. It was obvious from the contour lines on my Topo map that it was where the action was!</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #274e13;">On this trip I was exploring the last of the little side trails running from Devil's Elbow Trail to the river before the main trail climbs up the ridge away from the water. </span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">The trail goes to Elbow Falls, which is a small drop but has a strange feeling of power. From there on down you are entering the mouth of the gorge and it feels like wilderness!</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #274e13;">I found a trail that goes downriver from there, Rich Stevenson describes it and that section of river in his website trail guide at:</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">http://www.ncwaterfalls.com/panther7.htm</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #274e13;">At that time the trail was narrow and faint, but not too hard to follow if you paid attention. It soon climbs up the ridge away from the river and runs parallel for about a half mile. Then it goes back to the river in the Red Butt Falls area.</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">From there I explored on downriver into the area around Coffee Rock . I was trying to find a trail heading from there towards Devil's Elbow, but there was none. I wasn't ready to start wading at that point, so I turned around. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBJR7e-6Y82lKpyms4VI9qgymsnyxXIw4hiLlx75WC1NCf_fdFfqmpzdht2ZeLjCSZhrWPrNm-eUJtLWDoMHyzT8Iz74a6bgB5VzHAhqFuWNUhzZ7OY7Scuw-KvmVIIu_u_E5Z6qICS1qW/s1600/Coffee3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBJR7e-6Y82lKpyms4VI9qgymsnyxXIw4hiLlx75WC1NCf_fdFfqmpzdht2ZeLjCSZhrWPrNm-eUJtLWDoMHyzT8Iz74a6bgB5VzHAhqFuWNUhzZ7OY7Scuw-KvmVIIu_u_E5Z6qICS1qW/s1600/Coffee3.jpg" height="442" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: #274e13;">Looking back upriver at Coffee Rock</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;">I headed back upriver, looking for that little trail. It was at this point I realized I had committed a serious newbie blunder - when I came down off that trail I didn't pay good attention to where I was. I didn't place it with landmarks or stick arrows or nuthin. Now I couldn't find it! I'd go upriver til I ran into the briar-patch that covered the riverbank. I'd head back downstream but couldn't see where the trail went up the ridge. I did circles through the woods with no success, and the terrain is too steep to navigate very far. After 15 minutes of this I gave up. I may have cussed a couple of times, and felt pretty foolish. I wasn't lost, since I was on the river, but I was seriously inconvenienced! </span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;">I finally said “Oh well” and started upriver. I soon realized why the trail had not followed the riverbank. That may be the healthiest patch of scrub and saw-briars I ever encountered! I was wearing shorts & t-shirt, and was getting slashed. Every step was painful. I finally got stopped by a dead-fall tree and had to get in the river and start wading in my hiking boots. </span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">Rich Stevenson mentions this section of river in his account: “ I rock hopped and waded down one time. The river is very scenic, but there are deep pools to maneuver around.”</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">That sounds a bit under-stated compared to my experience!</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;">Even though I spent a lot of time in wilderness areas I didn't feel very sure-footed on those wet rocks in fast flowing water. I felt in real danger of a broken ankle or something worse, and was very aware what my situation would be then. Alone, way off a barely known trail, and no one knowing my location any closer than “in Panthertown”. Didn't even own a cell phone. I could have been there a long time! You might say I was scared, I prefer to call it being a little concerned.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;">When the river got too treacherous I climbed out into the briar-patch again. Until it became impassable and I got back in the river. I probably did 3 or 4 repetitions of that cycle. </span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;">(Another complication of wading in deep water was my oversize camera case full of all my 35mm gear. I went shopping for a smaller case the next week!)</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;">I think that when I finally rejoined the trail at Elbow Falls it was one of the happier moments of my life. I hiked back out to my old '76 Ford Bronco in my soggy boots with arms & legs bleeding and a smile on my face!</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;">Of course I had to go back on my next trip, paying closer attention. Then I couldn't believe how obvious that trail was to find!</span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;">If there is a moral to this tale it would be: “”Pay attention!” Especially when you think you know what you're doing. Don't let your enjoyment of wilderness make you lose your respect for it. Or it will bite you!</span><br />
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<br />Stephen Wilderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10386881094326662968noreply@blogger.com0