2007 July 15
Bill and I, in Butch the Wonder-truck, rolled out of Purcellville on July 15. Some anxiety for me in trying to get away early, facing a long drive and concerned about finding a campsite & setting up before dark. But, total anxiety meltdown was avoided – a good start, overall…
At Carolina Hemlocks, near Burnsville, NC, in the Pisgah National Forest, we couldn’t find a good site beside the stream, but wound up in a lovely, quiet & remote site in the upper campground, just up the hillside from the lower campground and swimming hole on the South Toe River.
July 16
From Carolina Hemlocks, we drove up to the Blue Ridge Parkway and headed south towards Mt. Mitchell State Park, in the forbiddingly high Black Mountain Range. Trying to find a place to buy a better road map of the area, we stopped at the restaurant’s gift shop. The restaurant was fun because there was a wall of carefully preserved drawings that visitors, mostly children, had made to describe their experiences & impressions of Mt. Mitchell. At the top, we visited the gift shop (and finally found the maps I wanted) and their little museum. The
museum was pretty good – especially the environment exhibits. I took photos of the display explaining the intense acidity of the rainfall, clouds and snow on the mountain (caused by air pollution, mostly from the big smoke stacks of the Midwest). The pH of winter rime ice on the mountain is 2.9 – almost a thousand times as acid as normal rainfall…
Elisha Mitchell was a lover of the mountains and a scientist (a professor at UNC – Asheville) who first identified Mt. Mitchell’s status as the highest Eastern mountain using barometric measurements in 1835 (before that, people thought that Grandfather Mountain was the highest – when it’s actually way down in the top 10 highest mountains east of the Rockies.). Mitchell was quite a famous figure of his time. It was big news in 1857 when he fell from the top of a particularly scenic local waterfall, hit his head on the way down and drowned in 
the pool below.
The actual summit of the highest mountain east of the Rockies is a denouement today, even more than when I visited it as a child 45 years ago. The old wooden observation tower has been removed and is being replaced by an unobtrusive concrete tower. It’ll probably be fine when it is complete – but you can’t get near it now.
We had a splendid picnic in a little stone picnic shelter near the top of the mountain. Then we drove back down to the Blue Ridge Parkway, headed north-east, and found the right forest service road down, a steep gravel and dirt road with primitive camp sites scattered here and there alongside the road, with a pronounced deep wilderness feel, until we came to the loop back to Black Mtn & Briar Bottom.
We talked to a friendly campground host, Ed, at Black Mountain Campground. There were a few really nice sites available right on the river there, but we weren’t interested in moving from Carolina Hemlock. Bill fished near the campground and had no luck. On Ed’s recommendation, we drove up to the Briar Bottom Group Campground, parked by the trail, and explored the upper South Toe from there. I tried out the wading ability of the old New Balance sneakers. Wading in the cool water of a clear mountain stream turned out to be a healing revelation for my plantar fasciitis… The cold reduces the inflammation, and it turns out to be an easy and pleasant way to explore a creek.
I found a pool ringed with rhododendron blossoms, humming birds buzzed me, and a rock with a shiny mica face
found its way into my pocket.
Back at camp, we cooked chicken and squash skewers on charcoal. Best meal ever.
July 17
From the base camp at Carolina Hemlocks, we took back roads up to Blue Ridge Parkway—through great interesting little places, lots of crafty glass-blowers, potters, and such, but also pockets of poverty. The map revealed inadequacies as we missed turns, and wound up at the BR Pkwy – but, had missed a detail from the map, and we passed under the Parkway in a little, dark underpass, without access. Driving on to the next entrance, we passed through the village of Little Switzerland, with interesting looking restaurant, which we would remember a couple hours later as we contemplated whether to picnic in the rain. First, though, we went on up the North Carolina Mineral Museum, which turned out to be a really good little museum. Bill found historical information which he enjoyed: I loved the geology exhibits. And, there were some gorgeous gem
specimens. 
After a great lunch at the Switzerland Café, we drove on down the parkway to Crabtree Meadows, where we took the hike down to Crabtree Falls. The Falls are lovely.
Due to a misunderstanding of the distances vaguely listed on the sign at the trailhead, I insisted that we take the alternate route up from the falls instead of taking the same trail back up. It turned out to be 1.7 miles up from the falls (instead of .9). We wouldn’t have done it, if we’d known it was further – but we’re so glad we did it!. It was a lovely, scenic trail, which led up along the Crabtree Creek, with some spectacularly trout-y looking places. There were some neat caves on the crest of one arm of the mountain. From a footbridge over the creek, we looked down and saw a good-sized native brook trout, who darted to hiding when she saw us on the bridge. We named her Minerva, and
vowed to return the next day with fishing gear.
Back at Carolina Hemlock, we went back in the South Toe, and enjoyed more fishing and
wading above the swimming hole. From the ledge of the swimming deck, kids jumped into the cold water and surfaced shrieking from the cold. Downstream from the swimming area, a man sat on a rock beside the river and played banjo, as we had heard him do the night before.
July 18
With a packed lunch, we went back to Crabtree Creek – using the shorter access to the creek side trail through campground loop B. Bill had a great time fishing. He didn’t catch big Minerva, but he did catch some of her smaller cohorts. A half a mile further down from the footbridge, we found a beautiful small waterfall filling a deep, mysterious pool. Bill caught little Brook trout there, too.
Back at Carolina Hemlocks, we visited the South Toe again, stalking the big trout in the big pool (but not catching
much).
July 19
We packed up to leave Carolina Hemlocks, with some of the now familiar packing irritation/friction between us.
Drove west to Hot Springs, and up the single lane road up the Paint Creek corridor. Oddly, the road and picnic spots seemed not quite finished – we found out later that the road and facilities have just been overhauled and rebuilt. We stopped at a waterfall cascading over the rocks into a long deep pool: it is clearly a popular swimming hole on summer weekends.
A few miles further up the gorge, at the Paint Creek Campground (Cherokee National Forest), we found only inside campsites – the nicer ones, laid out creek-side all the way around a the inside of big bend in the creek, were all taken. We settled for one that was level and pleasant – but there was no privacy at all. After setting up, we took a walk upstream and found another swimming hole – this one with a footbridge over it, which clearly serves as a place to jump off into the deep water. Unsure yet about how many trout we will find here…
Back at camp, I tried to rest and Bill read, but we experienced the constant parade of kids on bicycles around the campground & through the sites to be an annoying lack of privacy and quiet.
Finally, we got back in the truck and headed down to explore Paint Creek’s pretty little gorge. The road is one lane with turnouts, and lots of blind turns: at first, it was a little nerve-wracking. We were looking for more waterfalls, but couldn’t find them (we later realized that we drove over a bridge over the top of one three times and didn’t see it, because the bridge and its blind curves demand too much attention to be looking at the creek.) Despite the odd road situation, it’s a beautiful area.
July 20
In the morning, we sat at the picnic table and sipped our coffee as the kids started riding bikes around again. We agreed that we didn’t particularly like this place. We decided to pack and leave as soon as we finished our morning routine. On the way back from the toilet, I saw that someone has just left a prime site creek-side, across the road. Quick, let’s take it! We dragged our stuff across the road. A nice young couple who had done the same thing earlier that morning offered to help us move our dining tent – we each took a corner and walked it over. How much easier it was with their help!
Bill and I had a spat – I interpreted his lack of ability to read my mind as a lack of attention & affection. Once it was over and we forgave each other, we realized that we suddenly had a completely different perspective towards Paint Creek Campground – we were right on the bank of a beautiful creek – with trout in it, and we now had enough privacy from our neighbors to feel more comfortable. Hey, we could stay here all week!
We headed down Paint Creek Road to the bottom, where it opens up to the French Broad River. We stopped and photographed the rock cliffs that bracket the sharp, deep slot where Paint Creek slips through to the big river.
In Hot Springs we did laundry and visited the internet terminal in the Bluff Mountain Outfitters store. Once again, I spent too much money on frivolities at Bluff Mountain—but, it’s a fun place, full of great stuff, and we both enjoy it there. I bought a bandana with beautiful trout pictures on it as a peace offering for Bill.
While at the café, I called Tama Dickerson for directions to reach the fishing spot on Spillcorn Creek from the Big Laurel Mountain development.
After leaving Hot Springs, we drove up to my land at Big Laurel Mountain. The afternoon sun seemed golden, the sky intensely blue. The place was lovely. The new roads are complete, and the boxes of buried utilities squat at each property division. Parked beside my south-facing two acres, we peered through the trees at the mountains to the west, wondering if we could see the look-out tower that we plan to ascend in the morning.
Back in Hot Springs, we had dinner at the Bridge Street Café. It is wonderful, as 
always, but disturbingly un-busy. It’s clear that the busy tourist season is not so busy this year.
Back at Paint Creek campground, it was Friday night and the neighbors had a loud party going on around the campfire. After they started singing, very badly, I had enough, and went over and told them that their singing was “wonderful, but it’s well after 11 and quiet hour was supposed to start at 10”. They apologized nicely and got quiet very quickly. If Bill had not already been snoring in the truck tent, I would have used a different word from ‘wonderful’ in describing the singing of the group next door, but, who am I to criticize off-key singing and badly remembered lyrics?
July 21 Saturday
Early morning: Bill fished from campground, caught several little fishies, right there, off our campsight. Trout worship was blissful that morning.
We turned left out of Paint Creek campground, and drove on gravel roads for miles, to the top of Rich Mountain, crowned with a fire lookout tower. We climbed the steps to a stunning 360 view. We had a compass and detailed maps, and had fun trying to figure out what was what.
Then we visited the Big Laurel Mountain area again, this time intending to fish. Tama happened to drive by in his big Tundra pickup, and told us about the new road down to the pavilion, where he was headed to start a fire in the wood-fired hot tub.
In extra low 4 wheel drive, we drove down the new road to the private park by Big Laurel Creek. Talked with Tama as he prepared to start the fire for the wood-fired hot tub. His family and some friends were coming out from Asheville to camp, and he arrived early to start the fire (it takes hours to heat the water up.) We looked around at the log and stone picnic pavilion and saw a wonderful place to camp. I made a note to talk to Tama at some point about reserving a time to camp there next year.
We also drove to the end of the development’s new roads to hike down the trail to check out Spillcorn Creek: no habitat there for native brookies. It was pleasant and quiet, but there was lots of trash in the creek and a disturbing amount of silt. We gave up on Spillcorn Creek, and went back down to Tama’s little park. Bill caught a couple of little trout in the Big Laurel Creek, and we headed back up the road. We marveled at how greatly Tama’s guys had improved the road up from the park. This is technically the same road that scared the dickens out of me last year, as I drove up the crooked road with the right side of the truck bumping over boulders that were a foot higher than the left said of the truck, and as I glanced out the driver’s window I saw that I was looking straight out down a steep drop. They leveled all that off, and it's now a much less scary drive.
Back at Paint Creek, we grilled chicken for dinner. Best meal ever (again).
July 22, Sunday
Determined to find some very remote little National Forest campgrounds which are north of Paint Creek in the very wild Bald Mountains, near the Sampson Mountain Wilderness, we drove to Horse Creek and Old Forge, only to find the little graveled access roads jammed with dozens, maybe hundreds of parked trucks and horse trailers. No sign of horses or their riders. Then, we started to also see ATV’s, and their trucks and trailers. Unlike the absent horses, the ATV-ers were quite present, zooming around the roads. We made a tight turn on a steep hill, and were confronted by four ATV’s coming around the turn, skidding sideways as they tried not to wipe out on our front grille. The rear-most guy had just pulled out to pass, and barely skidded his way out of a wipeout with the truck.
We found the last available parking place at Old Forge – a much-praised campground for tents only, where you have to carry your gear in from the parking lot. The little swimming hole with stone retaining wall and stone-and-concrete terrace resembled the swimming hole at Carolina Hemlocks: it is the unmistakable handiwork of the CCC, bless them and FDR for putting them to work! The swimming hole was adorned by an adorable little girl paddling around in a blue plastic dolphin. The little gorge is lovely, but the campground lacked privacy, and with the crowding of the ATVers, the campers, and the deserted horse vehicles, we decided to leave quickly. We couldn’t even find a place to park at the picnic area, and got out of there as fast as we could.
With me crabby and suffering from low blood sugar, Bill made an executive decision and pulled into Lynn’s Restaurant in a little town. The waitress told us that it was ‘decoration day’ (known in Kentucky as Grave-cleaning-off day), and on this weekend, and this weekend only, the trails into the wilderness are opened, some to horses and some to ATV’s. She said, “There really ARE some old graveyards back in there, and Indian burial grounds, but these people are here to enjoy the trails.”
That’s good with me, I guess, but I don’t have to stay here. So, we consulted the map, and went back to the south, planning a route that would take us back to Hot Springs.
Along the way, we took a little forest service road, Brush Creek Road, which descended alongside Brush Creek. We found a beautiful wild spot where I sat while Bill fished. Under a thick canopy of hemlocks, I planted my chair and gazed at the burbling creek. Behind it towered a sheer tall cliff. A big hunk of the cliff had held a large hemlock, but the whole thing had broken off and crashed down very recently. What had been a large deep pool was now full of tree, rocks, and other cliff debris. Struggling to describe the scene in my notebook, I was searching for something to compare the size of one of the rocks that had crashed down so casually, when I realized it was just the size and shape of my grandson Alex’s coffin. Time to break for some tears for Alex.
We followed Brush Creek Road past Allen Branch Pond, which had a nice nature trail around it but not much else to recommend it. The road went around and came down by the French Broad River right at Wolf Creek Bridge, where we crossed the river on the highway (Routes 25, 70 & 9) and made our way back through Hot Springs and back up the other side of the river to the Paint Creek Corridor. All in all, it was a lovely circuit drive.
After dinner back at camp, we walked up the campground to sing gospel and trade songs with Anthony, the pastor’s son, and his beautiful Martin guitar. He’s a gifted picker, and a very interesting person. He and his lovely family come from roots that seem so different (such sober Christians!) from ours, but he is warm and accepting. We find we DO know some gospel songs that we can trade, and can get through the evening without beer, cussing or other irreverent behavior.
His kids were well behaved and so resourceful. Three little children (his two boys and their girl cousin, all under 6) played for hours with a stack of firewood, stacking it to make a house, a pen, a school, laying it out into a boat shape and getting in it. These are not children who spend any time in front of the TV.
July 23 Packed and left Paint Creek, taking photos as we drove out to Hot Springs the last time. We decided to drive the long way to Bryson City, because we wanted to see the upper watershed of Spillcorn Creek and Big Laurel Creek. What was it, we wondered, that was upstream of my land at Big Laurel, that so degraded both small and big creeks that the only trout were a few stocked trout in Big Laurel? As we drove, the answer was clear and easy: agriculture and erosion. There were tiny towns, nothing big enough to have much commerce, but there was plenty of evidence of where the soil and the associated agricultural chemicals were washing into the creek. We planned to drive due east to i-26 and down to Nashville, but, once again, we got into trouble by expecting exact accuracy from the National Forest map, and wound up driving south to Rt. 213 and Mars Hill. No problemo – it’s not like we were on a schedule.
In Bryson City, we checked into the Rosewood Motel, and the proprietress, Patricia, gave us one of the rooms with a back balcony right on the river at no extra charge. Those showers felt wonderful. After cleaning up, we drove up to the picnic area at Deep Creek, cooked dinner, fished, creek-walked and worshipped Nature and the Trout Goddess.
July 24 We left Bryson City after coffee and a light breakfast at the Mountain Brew Coffee shop. We drove west-southwest towards Robbinsville and Santeetlah lake. Following the directions and/or signs through the lake area turned out to be challenging, but we finally arrived at our destination in a remote area of the Nantahala National Forest. We saw the turn for the Joyce Kilmer area, but were looking for the campground to set up camp first. We made a wrong turn and drove up to a lookout at Maple Springs. It was accidentally-on-purpose—turned out to be a great view. The carefully built path, with log bridges and an overlook area, had unfortunately been defaced with offensive, anti-gay graffiti. We drove back down from that high overlook and found the road to the Horse Cove Campground. It was small, primitive and wonderfully remote, right beside a large creek just a mile or so above the level of Santeetlah Lake. We set up right beside the creek, with an extra challenge in the tight area around the picnic table, but worked it out so that the dining tent worked fine despite the iron grill being in the wrong place—but, the out-of-square arrangement was hard on the already overstressed zippers of the dining tent.
Then we drove back to the Joyce Kilmer Forest area, a remote patch of mountain with a sizeable swatch of virgin timber somehow rescued—at the last minute and at some expense – from the loggers. We walked as far as the first loop, and marveled at the giant trees.
July 25 We decided to drive on out to Robbinsville to get supplies, and again struggled with the poorly marked roads in the Snowbird area, making enough wrong turns at one point to go in a full circle. Once we got to Robbinsville, we resolved to try next time to go around the top of Santeetlah Lake. That turned out to be much better. Route 129 is known as the dragon’s tail, and motorcycles worship it for its miles of twisting turns and stunning views. But, the section between Robbinsville and the left turn towards Horse Cove and Joyce Kilmer were easy enough. We stopped for lunch at a swimming area and ate at a pleasant picnic table overlooking the lake. I got on the cell phone and committed us to renting a 2-person duckie (inflatable kayak) and taking a Nantahala River whitewater trip the next day.
From there we went back to the Joyce Kilmer area, and took the longer trail, traversing both loops. The trees were grand and stately.
Back at Horse Cove, Bill fished. Peggy sat with her feet in the creek, feeling blissful.
July 26 We allowed extra time to drive over to the town of Wesser, where the Nantahala Outfitters run the show. We arrived with plenty of extra time, so we went to fish in the Nantahala River. While we were there, an odd-looking tank truck pulled up, a guy with a net dipped some huge fish out of the tanks, dumped them in the river, and drove away. Bill promptly caught an enormous and fat trout. “Fed and stupefied on corn,” said Bill as he unhooked him and set him free. “Maybe he’ll learn something and be harder to catch for the next guy.”
We arrived at Nantahala Outdoor center, crowded with cars and people, and ate our lunch at a picnic table a little close to a dumpster. We were too excited and nervous to care. It took a long time to check in and see the ‘safety video’, but finally we were bussed up the river and dropped off. The bus driver had warned us that the first rapid was very soon after the put-in, and it was, and it was exciting, but we both felt pretty confident with the duckie (it’s a pretty forgivable little craft, with the buoyancy of a raft but more steerable. We struggled a little with working as a team, but resolved our difficulties and completely enjoyed the trip. The water was bitterly cold, however, and we were thoroughly wet the whole time. For a while we followed a group that seemed to know the river more or less, but then we lost them, and had to find our own
way down the frequent rapids. It was beautiful. Cold fast, rushing, energizing, stunning scenery: a great trip. Bill wished he had brought fishing gear, so that he could fish some of the perfect places he saw.
There was an interesting mist over the water. (More about that later.)
We pulled out to rest and reconnoiter before Nantahala Falls, and contemplated whether to kayak down the falls or not. We had stopped earlier, and talked to a nice couple who had real whitewater kayaks. The woman was putting on all her warm wetsuit gear. She said that she was a novice, and when they had run the river the day before, she had wound up ‘swimming’ (out of her kayak, that is) the whole falls, and she didn’t want to get cold because she was spending so much time actually in the water. Her partner, who knew the river well, reassured us that our duckie was much easier than a kayak. This was the first time it really struck me that ‘real’ kayaks are actually a very easy way to get in more trouble than in a raft or inflatable kayak. Still, by the time we scouted Nantahala Falls, I was plenty nervous. The thing is, it’s easy to chicken out, because it’s just upstream from Wesser, and one can leave the boat and just walk down the road to the Outdoor Center (they’ll come back later and pick up the boat). I talked to a 12 year old boy who, with the rest of his group, was bailing out and walking around the rapids. “Them falls is BIG” he said, justifying his chickening out. I was waffling, but Bill looked at it and said, “It’s not that bad, let’s do it.” So, we did.
No problem (well, there was a little section that we did backwards, but we pretended we meant to do that). Triumphant and tired, we pulled in at Wesser, and turned in our boat and gear.
We drove the truck back up the same road, pulled off and did some more fishing. A few more boaters were coming down, but the rush was clearly winding down. Bill pulled out another huge trout, even larger than the one in the morning. This one, too, was a corn-fed stocked fish, not that smart about striking at a
funny-looking fly. Somewhere along there, we realized that the river level was now dropping, having been visibly rising in the early morning. Ah, now it all makes sense, including that odd mist on the river: the water from the dam at Nantahala Lake, miles above, is piped through big pipes to the electric plant, right above the ‘put in’. The release water from the power plant is timed daily, to the beneficial and predictable effect on the rafting industry. Hmm, I wondered, does this arrangement put the rabidly environmentalist outdoorsy whitewater businesspeople in bed with Duke Power?
The Nantahala above that point (between the lake, upstream and the power plant) IS a much smaller river, as Bill and I had observed and argued about on our previous visit here. We drove further up the upper Nantahala Gorge, way above the power plant, and found a beautiful waterfall lockout point that we had admired back in June. It was late afternoon, and the west flowing river was a glowing, sparkling white with reflected light from the sun. A beautiful moment, and perfect for our last night in the mountains. We drove back to Wesser, and had a great dinner at the Paddlers Pub. A huge thunderstorm broke around us as we ate on the covered porch. It poured rain, blowing in on the riverside tables. A spectacular end to a spectacular trip.
Report from the first quarter of 2008
