When I was a kid in the deep South of the USA, the most wonderful thing that I would see were the infrequent snowfalls we'd get. So beautiful and fun to play in. But the most depressing thing was to watch it taper until the storm was over, melting until it was all just a memory.
Currently it's snowing. Just light snow showers. But we only get to see this kind of thing but rarely. It did snow briefly last week, no accumulation. And it's snowing now but the last I heard we're not supposed to get any accumulation. Winter is fading fast and will be over soon. I'd be surprised if we get any snowstorm that leaves any accumulation this season, but I suppose it could happen.
If I didn't have my part-time job tomorrow I'd head up to the mountains where the high country is supposed to get several inches of snow. One more reason, I think, to get rid of the part-time job. I've cut it back to two days a week. Maybe zero would be best. Life is, after all, quite short.
Blackwater Falls in a snowstorm.
Deer in Cades Cove, February of 2014.
Two deer in the snow at Blackwater Falls State Park, WV.
Me, on the Alum Cave Bluffs Trail near the summit of Mount LeConte in March 0f 2005.
A few times in my experiences hiking or camping or backpacking in the forests and wilderness areas I have had some creepy things happen. I've had several bad encounters with bears--once when I thought I was about to be killed (but of course was not). And a couple of times I had what I can only describe as weird experiences. It's said by many that humans still have some basic senses that they don't acknowledge on a conscious level, but have retained from those ancient days when we were still relatively helpless herbivores traveling through grasslands and forest, ever on the lookout for predators who could kill and eat us. Perhaps it's just an amalgam of the senses we know which, combined on a subconscious level accumulate to give us a pulse of a warning to make us alert for danger that we cannot pinpoint with any one or two of our five senses. Thus, the prickling of the skin for no observable reason, or the tickling of the fine hairs on our necks and arms when we cannot see or hear anything definite. The first time I had such an experience was when I had decided to hike alone to see Mooney Falls in the Nantahala National Forest one very late summer afternoon. I had already done several miles of hiking elsewhere and on the way back to my campsite at Standing Indian I pulled off the Forest Service road to take the brief hike to see and photograph the waterfall. I figured I could easily do it before nightfall. And I did that, but barely. Here's the thing. On the way back to my truck I paused to take some photos of gnarly old birch tree that everyone who hikes the trail notices. I figured to capture some images of it on my way back and stopped there to gather those shots. And as I got my camera out and began to record the images all I could hear was the rushing of the creek, and all I could really see was the close press of the green trees and woody rhododendrons that pushed in all around. But I had the distinct impression that I was being watched in the swiftly failing light. That's right. I felt that someone, or some creature, was peering at me through that luxurious mass of trees and flowers and shrubs. Why was I feeling that way? I have no idea. As I said, all I could hear was the rushing water, and all I could see were limbs and leaves moving in the slight wind. But the feeling was so strong that I stopped taking photos and looked all around me, trying to spot anything that might be giving me this very disturbing and very creepy sensation. But I couldn't see anything that might dictate danger. Just that feeling. So, I took a few more photos. And suddenly all of the hairs on my arm went up. And the fine fuzz on the back of my neck was standing to attention as gooseflesh made pimples up my spine and down my arms. It was at that point that I just made a quick 360-degree examination of my surroundings, jammed my camera back into its case, and hauled ass down that trail as fast as I could without actually running. After all, doesn't running trigger a chase response in big predators? I didn't want that. But I will tell you that I closed the last circuit of that particular hike in quick order and found myself hustling up the slope of the trail to the parking spot where my truck waited. It was pure relief to open that door and close it solidly to create a hardened barrier between my mortal flesh and the perceived threat that I never actually saw or heard--merely felt. Well, that was then. Some years back. On my hike last week in the Big Draft Wilderness Area in West Virginia I had a similar experience. I had decided to do a five-mile loop in the wilderness that would take me from the campground at Blue Bend Recreation Area and back to my campsite. So I did exactly that and soon found myself deep within that wilderness and its rich forest of recovering hardwoods and hemlocks (but mainly hardwoods). When I began the hike I startled a couple of whitetail deer who, upon seeing me, scattered and thrashed the woods with their fleeing. I watched their tails bouncing through the green screen of limbs and leaves like flags of white vanishing in the distance. We surrender. We surrender. We surrender. After that it was mainly just bird song and wind blowing and the laboring of my breath as I gained the ridges of Brown Mountain. Along the way, at a wide curve in the trail that took me through a cove, I discovered a particularly ugly Turkey vulture watching me. This vulture--for some reason--seemed fascinated by my presence and it followed my progress into the wilderness, flying from tree to tree, branch to branch, to watch me as I hiked along. I thought it was curious, but they're very intelligent animals, I have learned, and not much that they do particularly surprises me. After about a quarter of an hour it finally lost interest in me, and I lost sight of him. Around that time I noticed a pile of bear scat in the middle of the trail. Not terribly old, maybe dropped since the last rain. I am never startled to see bear crap in the forests because they seem to be just about everywhere in the southern high country, these days. I rarely see the bears, though. Now and again as they're racing away from me when I startle them. The higher I climbed on the mountain, the more obscure the trail became. Until I realized that few people were using this trail and it began, at times, to vanish into vigorous growths of all types of low, green plants; including stinging nettle which pricked at my bare calves and made me miserable for several seconds every time I brushed against those nasty, poisonous leaves. All I could do was plunge ahead and make good guesses where the trail should be. And each time I was right. In no time at all I had achieved the summit of Brown Mountain. At the top, I paused to take some video and photos and. I got that old, creepy feeling that not only was something watching me...it was also following me. My breath held in my chest as I strained to hear anything that was not...well...normal. But there were only bird calls and some slight sighing of wind among the trees. Nothing moved that should not be moving. Nothing called out that alarmed me in any way. And, yet. That feeling of being watched and followed. Once more I pushed on, knowing that I would soon come upon a trail shelter in the wilderness. Most wilderness areas do not have things like trail shelters and bridges and such. They are, after all, supposed to be wilderness. But in a few minutes I came to that shelter. It stood there in the shadows and dappled sunlight of a mild summer day and looked as if it had not been used by anyone in a very, very long time. As I had realized since I'd begun the hike, not many people walked into this wilderness. I was very much alone. At least when it came to human company. Still, that feeling of being watched and followed continued to dog me. I saw some brightly colored mushrooms on the ground near the shelter and decided to photograph them. And it was then, crouching on the forest floor to get a good point of view, that I heard something cracking what I knew were very large, very dry dead limbs on the ground. Something relatively close--perhaps forty or fifty feet away. I stood up and looked in that direction, and didn't see anything; but did hear some more limbs being cracked underfoot and then some lighter sounds as of something retreating from me through that decaying leaf litter. I had been right. Something had not only been watching me, but apparently also following me. Or maybe it was someone. I have no idea. But feeling even more a sense of dread than I had before, I put my camera away, pointed myself down the trail toward Blue Bend, and made haste to get back to the campground and my waiting wife. Sometimes, I know, those feelings of being watched, of being followed, are not passing paranoia. Sometimes they are spot on.
About where I scared the deer.
Hello, Mr. Man. What are you doing here in the deep, dark woods?
Pushing on.
Death in the midst of so much life.
I'm still here. You are, too, I see. Hm.
Where does a big bear shit? Anywhere he wants to.
Sometimes the trail vanished under depths of stinging green.
It looked like it had not been used in a very long time.
Pretty colors to distract me....WHAT'S THAT NOISE??!!
We're back from our week-long trip into the mountains of West Virginia. When Carole and I were younger we would vacation in WV at least once per year. Later, we got out of the habit of traveling north to those mountains and journeyed elsewhere. But lately we've had the urge to re-visit the state. So we hooked up the Casita and went to stay at the Blue Bend Recreation Area deep in the Monogahela National Forest about fifteen miles north of Lewisburg. The campground is a classic site created and developed by the old Civilian Conservation Corps, that finest of mildly socialist programs instituted by President Franklin Delano Roosevelt. That organization did so much to provide the USA with excellent recreational sites. Many decades after its demise, we are still enjoying the campgrounds, trails, lakes, dams, pools, picnic areas, and playgrounds those hard working citizens toiled to make for the generations that have come and gone since those days. Weather-wise, we couldn't have had it better. Some of our more recent camping trips have been tough due to the rain and inclement weather we have suffered. But this vacation was perfect in that regard. It never rained, rarely even clouded over, and we left the hideous heat and humidity of the Charlotte area behind to find high temperatures in the mid to upper 70s and lows in the 50s every night. We had perfect sleeping weather and with the fresh air blowing in through the screens each evening I dreamed vividly. Two days back, and I already miss that place terribly. Carole and I both got in some good hiking. I climbed the mountainsides in the Big Draft Wilderness Area which lies across the creek from our campground (via a swinging bridge), and Carole joined me on shorter, developed hikes on extremely well-engineered trails at Cranberry Glades Natural Area, the Falls of Hill Creek, and at Beartown State Park. We had a blast! Carole prepared her usual five-star camping meals. We did not lose any weight. She worked on some new Dutch oven recipes that were all excellent, as always. Breakfast, lunch, and supper were all feasts, each day. I'll try to post some details, either in text, or photographs, or video--or all three--in the coming days.
I took this from a viewpoint on Brown Mountain in the Big Draft Wilderness Area looking down on a farm that abuts the wilderness.
Our campsite, which was enormous.
Carole, standing on the swinging bridge that allows access to the opposite side of Anthony Creek.
The swimming hole at Blue Bend, and the spot for which it's named--the big bend in Anthony Creek. The water was clear and cold and great for swimming on a summer day (even if it was only 77 degrees!). Those slate "beaches" and retaining walls and picnic shelters were all constructed by the Civilian Conservation Corps between 1933 and 1935 and are still in use today.
A selfie I took deep in the Big Draft Wilderness Area on a five-mile loop hike.
A shot I took from a picnic area at over 4400 feet above sea level on the Mountain Scenic Highway. All of the peaks along the drive and around us were over 4,000 feet above sea level. Lots of dark spruce trees cover the peaks and ridges here.
Lots of amazing shops and restaurants in Lewisburg, WV which was not many miles from the campground. We spent the day here having a great time. They even have a top-notch bookstore where I bought a Bukowski volume I didn't have. Voted "America's Coolest Small Town" not too long ago. Well deserved, I think. I'd live there, no problem.
Fall colors are on the way. Looking forward to seeing them. Until then, here are various Autumn colors I have photographed from a wide variety of locations. (And, yes, we have a camping trip scheduled in the midst of the color change in the mountains.)
I've been going through and adding to and revising some of my travel videos of campgrounds and hiking trails in various states. I just completed a trio of them detailing an October 2011 trip to a state forest campground (Kumbrabow) and a National Forest campground (Seneca Shadows) in West Virginia with added footage and photos.
Over the years the Appalachian Trail has become more and more crowded. Often it's so crowded that I have found that I am completely unable to find anything like the solitude that is the main reason I go to hike and backpack. The last time I backpacked a section of the Appalachian Trail was in late May of 2009. The Trail remains a unique and physically beautiful place, but the crowds I encountered there convinced me that it's not really the place for me to spend a lot of time in anymore.
Obligatory shot on the precipice of McAfee Knob.
The warmup hike we took to McAfee Knob before beginning the backpacking trip.
The scenery was indeed stunning. But the opportunity for peace and solitude was hard to find.
The three-day backpack that took us to Mountain Lake.
Here are a couple of more newly created videos of older hikes. One to a virgin forest on the slopes of Mackey Mountain here in North Carolina, and another featuring hikes to see some isolated corners of the mountains of Virginia and West Virginia.
Falls at Camp Creek State Park, WV.
A gorgeous virgin forest high in the North Carolina mountains.
Catawba rhododendron beginning to bloom. Great hiking and waterfall wandering in VA and WVA.
As I have written before, I cannot fathom western-style economics. It has always seemed to me to be utterly wasteful and impractical. Yes, it seems to operate. But that does not mean that it actually works for the wider good. Since, as I said, I don't understand it, I'm not going to attempt to try to explain it or suggest a better alternative. It remains a mystery to me. One of the effects that I see of the system every single day is the way it discards construction. Vast sums of capital and brute force are expended in creating man-made structures of one type or another. This is something that I see on a weekly basis. First, land is cleared. That is, land that once held forests or fields--along with accompanying aquifers and streams--is cleared. If there are trees there--and they are generally present in large numbers--these are cut down and carted off as timber or ground up for mulch, or just carried away for disposal or sometimes buried on site. Any streams present are channeled, diverted into vast concrete pipes, and buried forever. Upon this wreck of former forest or farm landscape (almost as often, the land was once a productive farm), the construction begins. Engineers and architects come in, examine the lay of the land, alter it, drain it, pack it down, and make it ready. After that come the trucks and the graders and the backhoes and various other tools of the trade. Foundations are placed, concrete is poured, rebar is installed, asphalt is laid down, walls go up. In the blink of an eye where the trees or pasture once grew there is now a shopping center or an office complex or a subdivision or sprawling apartments--sometimes a stadium. Often these buildings that were bought and constructed will then stand empty. I've seen them stand empty for years because there was not a need for them in the first place. Or they will fill up and subsequently the businesses that arrive will all fail, one by one. The apartments or houses will lie idle, or be used by people who don't (or won't) understand the importance of a good house and they will deteriorate in quick order. Within a few years I have seen these structures planned and built and offered up like some kind of hideous blood sacrifice become shattered and vacant and ruined almost as quickly as they were erected. Mainly they are left to succumb to the elements after this. They may fall in, or maybe the city or county or state will declare them a danger to the wider community and have them knocked down. The brick and concrete will be pulverized. The metal frames and aluminum cladding might be recycled. Much of it will go into various landfills. And somewhere, I know, there are men who profited from all of this. Men who have homes in San Francisco, and apartments in Manhattan, and beach homes in Tahiti, and villas in Italy. But not the laborers. They're still out there looking for work or being robbed of what little they have by the banks who approved all of this construction in the first place. But I always ask myself, who are these men? How did this circle of destruction form? Why is it tolerated? I have no answers. I am just your humble observer. (Maybe someone in St. Louis has the answer?)
I've forgotten the town, but this was in West Virginia which is rife with the remains of old industry. It made some money for some one, some time. But now it's all a burden on the communities where these concerns once dominated life and liberty. I'm sure the town where I saw this wreck is responsible for cleaning up the mess. Certainly not the fat cats who profited the most from it. As always, lay the debt on the people least able to bear the burden.
