Rocky Fork, TN - NWN (no words needed)

Wilderness Falls, TN

I recently learned something interesting – scientists estimate that nearly 80% of the species on earth have yet to be “discovered”. For every creature you can name, there are four out there undisturbed by human classification.

 

The world is huge. So large that the human mind can’t really conceive of how big it is; at least not without scientific notation and calculations of astronomical scale. There are over 7 billion people on Earth, yet every human could fit, shoulder-to-shoulder, in the Los Angeles metropolitan area. With that in mind, it’s no surprise that a sizable proportion of our planet remains unexplored. Tracts of land untrodden, valleys unseen. Siberia. Antarctica. The Sahara. The Amazon. On each continent lie regions so remote, so inhospitable, so inaccessible, that modern humans have yet to perceive their splendor.

Our region isn’t an exception. Though not nearly as inhospitable as the Sahara or inaccessible as the Amazon, our terrain is rough. Our mountains are steep. Our forests are dense. Our wildlife can be combative. And despite our relatively high population density compared to the world average, and especially that of those regions noted above, there are still wonders to be found.

 

I recently read of a waterfall here in northeast TN that was undocumented until a few years ago, and unknown even to the Forest Service. Wilderness Falls, as it’s so appropriately named, cascades from a towering rock cliff on the back of Rich Mountain. This NW face of Rich Mountain is rich in waterfalls – I’ve visited 6 significant ones myself (including this one) – and if someone hasn’t already checked each creek flowing from Rich Mountain for a waterfall, then we need to get started.

Despite this waterfall’s notoriety for being so elusive for so long, it’s readily accessible, especially compared to other waterfalls but a few miles away. So over Memorial Day weekend, with an extra day off work, I set out to see what had been unseen for so long.

 

My hike that day began at the Longarm Branch trailhead off of Clarks Creek Rd. – my gifted readers will recognize this as the access point for the falls of Devil Fork, Pine Ridge and Josiah Falls included, and so I was pleasantly familiar with the area. Normally, I would take the spur trail that splits from Longarm Branch Trail after ¼-mile, but my route took me deeper into the Longarm Branch watershed. I had high hopes for high water that day – we had received rain the day prior and a torrential downpour graced my drive to the trailhead. Alas, as I approached my parking area, the morning sun was burning away the clouds and blue skies could be seen above. Though a beautiful, blessed day, it wasn’t advantageous for the water-level I had wanted or the photography conditions I prefer.

So disappointing

Nonetheless, undaunted by the pleasant day ahead, I trudged on toward the waterfall. The higher I climbed into the valley, the more slight Longarm Branch became. Given that it’s much larger than its tributaries, I wasn’t hopeful for a good show. After 30 minutes or so of leisurely hiking, I came to the junction of the two creeks.

The hollow from which the Creek flowed was as steep and narrow as I had assumed – so rugged, in fact, I wasn’t sure how best to proceed. The Creek flowed through a chasm in the trail, which I detoured several feet down to creek-level to cross, and then it poured through a large drain-pipe presumably left from the logging this area once supported. At creek-level, I slowly climbed into the water and delicately moved upstream.

It didn’t take me long to get wet nor to realize how harsh of a creek I was hiking. The first 50 feet of the creek was a series of small waterfalls, cascades dropping the water through natural half-pipes of rock and a tunnel of laurel. The sun had just begun to touch the hollow that morning, and the fog, trapped by the vegetation, had just started to lift. I climbed into the giant pipe formed by the surrounding rock and plants, both to photograph the scene before the water from the earlier rain had run its course and to rest up before the predictably grueling hike ahead.

 

 

Once I left my seat on a cool, moss-shrouded rock, I noted a small trail ascending the ridge to the left of the Creek. I didn’t know if it was human- or animal-made, but it was a clearing heading in the right direction, so I didn’t argue. After a few hundred feet of climbing straight uphill (I didn’t say it was very well designed), the trail dumped me up onto an old logging road, scattered with small brush and a relief. I knew the difficult section of the hike would be climbing into and navigating the steep hollow – in my experience, if it looks steep on a topographical map, then you’re really in for a treat – so I welcomed the old road for as far as it would take me.

 

The road roughly followed the creek its entire route, staying 10-20 feet above at all times. It appeared to end as it descended to creek level at ¼-mile, where a much narrower trail picked up the route across the creek. The trail, which was barely that, wasn’t easy to follow – truth-be-told, I simply kept the creek the same distance to my left and continually found and lost the trail.

 

The trail eventually faded into the width of the Creek’s course, and though much clearer of brush and debris, the hollow had become much steeper. The ground was scattered with rocks of all sizes which made for clumsy hiking. The farther I hiked, the steeper was the hiking, and I could see the Creek falling from increasingly higher levels as I advanced.

 

Making my way upstream was an exercise in balance and creativity. Though the floor of the gorge was comparatively wide, the ridges on either side were steep and slippery. My best bet, though cumbersome, was the route directly up the creek-bed. Though I had been cursing the lack of water all morning, I could sense that the route I had chosen would be barely wade-able, and certainly not walkable, in high-water. The grade of the creek was such that the majority was one continuous waterfall – a long, complex cascade. Once I could see the impressive rock cliff of Wilderness Falls in the distance, it was difficult to judge where the waterfall ended and the course of the creek resumed.

 

The terrain directly below the waterfall is as gorgeous as it is rugged. Many small waterfalls drop several feet at its base, and the ascent had become more of a climb than a hike. I could see water spraying off the open rock face in the distance – so with my poor eyesight, I was close – but the bottom of the cliff was still far above my route within the creek. I had some climbing to do.

 

 

Despite the caution with which I approached the climb, it was difficult. Given the rock drop-offs within the creek-bed – some flowing with water, others simply moist – I chose a route along the northern ridge. The rain the night before and earlier that morning may not have been enough to produce impressive waterfalls, but it was certainly enough to impede my climbing. Rocks along the ridge were loose and unreliable; the ground was soaked and oozed out from my grip; moisture-loving critters – more millipedes, centipedes, slugs, and snails than I had ever seen – covered most surfaced or sprang to life from small mudslides. With every few feet I advanced, I would slide back down, bugs tumbling onto my head and shoulders. It was a mess, but I slowly made it to the base of the falls.

 

 

 

The cliff and the water flowing from its top were impressive – it’s surprising such a spectacle had gone undiscovered (or perhaps forgotten) for so long. I was disappointed that there wasn’t more of a show, as I could tell that the falls would be marvelous at full-force. Alas, that vision will come in time.

 

I sat at the base of the falls for a while, allowing the diminished mist to cool me from the late morning mugginess. I looked down the hollow at the impassable creek-bed well beneath me and thought, Now how do I get down?

 

Over an hour later, I slogged into Diana’s parents’ restaurant in Erwin  for lunch and a pre-shower respite (Toby’s Café– go get a burger). Diana’s mom noted, “Hey Ben, your butt’s wet.” ...That’s how I got down.

Thanks for reading!

Rattlesnake Ridge, TN

We have an interesting cultural interpretation of rain. Many movies include rain at the most dramatic moments – and while the rain can be symbolic of many things, it adds a flair that’s otherwise missing. It heightens intensity. It dramatizes the most theatrical scenes.

 

 

*Swoon*

Be it a scene written with drama in mind or an ordinary hike, rain adds excitement. I’ve always loved playing in the rain, not minding the inconvenience of wet clothes. From one of my first flag-football games, when the parents retreated to their cars and the cheerleaders ran squealing to the concessions stand, to these blog posts appealing to my vanity, I relish the chance for rain to make me feel cooler (pun intended).

 

Excited at the forecast of rain a couple of weeks ago, I set out to hike a portion of Rattlesnake Ridge below Unaka Mountain. Starting from Rock Creek Park in Erwin, my plan wasn’t as formal as usual – I had several destinations in mind, and the one I would choose would depend solely on my mood mid-hike. It had been raining off-and-on for a few days, and I had hopes to visit the waterfalls of Dicks Creek if the water-level was high enough for decent pictures. Alternatively, I could hike farther up Rattlesnake Ridge to an off-trail route atop a spur-ridge – as I had seen on a few maps, the ridge-top had a long, exposed section.

The forecast of rain had my blood pumping, and a constant drizzle fell on ym way to the park. Once I reached the parking area near the trailhead, the rain had stopped. I was left with the mugginess without the excitement.

My hike that day was more tiring than normal – my winter-ready body wasn’t prepared for the humidity, and each step felt like I was walking through a warm pool. Though the clouds were calm, my clothes were soaked within half-an-hour of easy hiking. The trail along the edge of the park’s campground is level, but once you cross a footbridge and onto Rattlesnake Ridge proper, it becomes more strenuous. The grade is slight, interspersed with short, steep jaunts, but humidity strangled my already labored breathing and made things that much more difficult. Just short of a mile, I stopped for a quick break on a tree that had fallen across the trail.

As I sat and caught my breath, I unsheathed my knife and playfully chopped into the branches of the dead pine. To my delight, the woody flesh within was rich with resin and had the distinct smell and color of quality fatwood – great tinder material. Excited, I removed my axe from my pack and replenished my supply. Hey, you never know. 

After 15 minutes of resting my aching knees and collecting fatwood, I hit the trail again. The forest was alive with colors and fragrances, amplified by the recent rains. With the humidity, the moisture soaking my clothes from trailside brush, and distant birds of all species chirping wildly, it felt like I was traipsing through a tropical rainforest.

After nearly a mile of hiking uphill, I reached Dicks Creek gap and its crossroads of trails. The road directly in front of me descends down to Dicks Creek, the road to the left is ominously marked “Dark Hollow”, and the trail to the right is the continuation of Rattlesnake Ridge trail. On the hike up, I noted that Rock Creek and the surrounding streams weren’t as voluminous as I had hoped – and so I concluded a trip to either of the falls on Dicks Creek wouldn’t be worth my time. Instead, I chose to continue up Rattlesnake Ridge in hopes of reaching the exposed spur.

Rattlesnake Ridge trail extends all the way to the top of Unaka Mountain, to the Pleasant Garden overlook, and provides a beautiful hike through changing greenery and wild scenery. My hike along the trail only lasted another quarter-mile, at which point I went off trail toward my destination. Within a few feet of hiking off-trail, the brush became nearly impenetrable – a sign of things to come. I blindly pushed and clawed my way up the spur ridge, stopping only at the top.

Once atop the ridge, I knew I was in the right place. The peak at the top was very rocky, and occasional crags exposed themselves from the dense underbrush. I began to move south, down the edge of the ridge toward the exposed section I had seen on maps. My route took me below the rocks on the eastern side, but the briars quickly became too thick to overcome. I studied the terrain and decided to take my chances at the very top of the ridge, hopping from exposed rock to exposed rock.

My plan worked for a long distance – better than I expected, really. But after so far, the rocks became larger as did the gaps between them, and I not only had to deal with climbing up and down these outcroppings but through the tangled messes between them. The briars and heath shrubs tore me (and my clothes) to shreds. Two weeks later, I still have the cuts.

 

Despite the blood and frustration, I pressed on, and the exposed sections became larger and larger, until I reached a seemingly impassible rock buttress. I could see the largest-yet exposed section beyond it, but this giant rock – with sheer faces all around and a thicket of briars and trees on top – was quite the obstacle. My excitement to reach my destination fueled my strength and ingenuity to do so. I cinched down everything I could and carefully scaled the side of the rock, clutching the strained branches of a pine tree overhead. After one last leap to a level rock, I was there. With the tree-tops below me, I had unimpeded views of the southern portion of the Unaka ridgeline and beyond.

 

 

 

 

Rattlesnake Ridge

 

Once I had snapped a few pictures and recovered from the shock of the magnificent views, I became aware of how menacing the clouds all around me had become. I’m often surprised at how quickly clouds can move, especially in the mountains, and the erratic movement of the sky that day had me unsettled. I hadn’t felt a drop of rain since I parked at Rock Creek Park – much to my previous disappointment – but a few sprinkles fell on my face as I snapped pictures as quickly as possible. I knew the rain I had been wanting would soon come in excess.

 

With a few cracks of thunder and the wind knocking me off balance on the exposed precipice, I knew it was time to leave. I stashed my camera deep in my pack, dug out my pack-cover, and started my way back to where I had left Rattlesnake Ridge trail. Within a few dozen feet, the sky opened up. In seconds, I was drenched.

 

I scrambled through the brush more easily on the return – the driving rain had tamped the briars and made them slick. It was still rough-going, but at least the rain quickly washed away the blood. The wind blew the rain in every direction, and it was difficult to see. I dropped off the top of the ridge, below the rocks, and moved slowly, keeping my bearings by the rocks.

 

I finally reached the top of the ridge where I had ascended from Rattlesnake Ridge Trail, and just in time – the rain and wind were at the height of their ferocity, and I was struggling to breath in the dense rain from my final quick jaunt to the end of the ridge. I collapsed beneath a rock overhang that shielded only a portion of the deluge, but it was enough for the respite I needed. Despite my heart pounding, arms leaking, legs screaming, I smiled at the thought of how much fun I was having.

 

As I gathered myself to descend to the calmer trail below, I noticed a tree that had fallen long ago adjacent to the rock under which I was licking my wounds. Beneath the tree, I could see an old National Forest boundary sign mangled beneath it – knowing this sign had passed its purpose, I removed my axe and quickly stowed the sign in my pack as a keepsake.

I surprised myself by returning to the exact point where I had deviated from the trail before (I marked it with a blaze) – it’s a shame my memory and sense of direction doesn’t apply to large parking lots. The hike back down to Dicks Creek Gap and Rock Creek Park was uneventful; the rain slowed with each step I hiked down the ridge, and by the time I returned to the trail beside the campground, it appeared as if the park itself hadn’t seen a drop of rain. As I slogged toward my 4Runner, I passed a few campground hikers who seemed shocked at my appearance – I imagine I looked almost as rough as the terrain that had just man-handled me. Soaked, torn clothes hanging from my limbs, clinging to my core; blood seeping from my arms; my hair, long overdue for a trim, matted and wild; body aching, yet smile beaming.

Thanks for reading!