Redrock Mountain, VA

In my first post, I mentioned that my outdoor pursuits typically end short of complete success. Far more often than not, I don’t attain my goals. It’s something to which I’ve grown accustomed. I have limits, both physical and mental, and Mother Nature doesn’t always comply with my facile demands. That’s 99% of the time.

Last Sunday was the other 1%.

The second day of fall was beautiful. Mid-sixties. Not a cloud in the sky.  With the gorgeous day laid before me, my plan was to accomplish what I could of the hike I missed the week before. Near Laurel Bed Lake above Saltville, VA, there are two mountains, Redrock Mountain and Whiterock Mountain. I didn’t know if I could hike both in a single day, but it was my intention to try. My plan was to reach Redrock Mtn. first; from all accounts, it’s a nicer hike, provides better views, and is geologically more interesting. Once I reached Redrock, I would assess the situation and determine if I had time to make it to Whiterock and back before dark.

I’ll tell you now, Whiterock didn’t happen. I half-expected it wouldn’t. There’s a much easier route to Whiterock that would make a great, short stand-alone hike in the future, but I made Redrock my priority Sunday.

I parked at the beginning of a gated hunting road on the lake-ward side of the ridge from which Redrock and Whiterock Mountains rise. The mid-morning start of my hike was cold and foggy and I was alone, save for a sole hunter training his dogs for the season ahead. A rifle range was nearby, and though it was abandoned when I started out, it made for an exciting end to my day.

The first hour or two of hiking was gentle and pleasant – I was led through idyllic high-country meadows in which the sun had burnt away the fog.

 

The hunting road made for easy hiking, but that was short-lived.I knew the road would end and that a small trail began a few hundred yards beyond. When the road ended at a seemingly endless briar patch, I realized – having searched the area for an alternate route – that going straight through to the trail. was my best option. Best isn’t quite right; “least bad” is better. After a few hundred yards and an hour later, I was defeated. I was bleeding from everywhere and the trail for which I had hoped was nowhere in sight. I knew that I couldn’t make it to Redrock through the thorny nightmare I had chosen – I simply didn’t have the time (or the blood volume).

So close, yet so far...

Given that I’m easily frustrated, I wasn’t pleased with my apparent failure. In my anger and disappointment, I turned to find my way back when I ripped through a sharp gnarl of briars into a thin clearing – the trail! Ignoring how I could’ve missed it, I set foot on the trail and hiked as fast as I could, empowered by my relief, stopping only to keep my heart from pounding its way out of my chest.

After 2 hours straight uphill, my leg muscles were as shredded as my arms, but I was so close to my goal. I purposefully looked away from the clearings in the canopy - I didn’t want to ruin the surprise awaiting me at the top. After a last push with my calves cramping and every gasping breath a pain, I made it. I lumbered onto the first outcropping, threw my pack on a rock, and I yelled out above the valley in joy. Or, as Whitman would’ve said, I sounded my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

 

Whiterock Mountain

An unnamed outcrop facing the ridgeline.

 

Whitetop and Mount Rogers towering on the horizon.

The views were everything I had expected. The sky was so clear and calm. I could see for miles. I sat down and enjoyed my lunch while the breeze and the sun battled to influence my body temperature.

I was stirred from my restful meal by a rustling in the thinning brush along the ridge. I stealthily made my way toward the noise and found an old man carrying a mattock and a countless number of little orange flags. His name was Clint. I introduced myself and asked if he was surveying the area; he was not. Clint must have been in his 50’s or 60’s and it was clear that his work, maybe his life, was taking a toll on him. He was doing his best to make a trail. As he explained to me, the view upon which I had marveled was his wife’s favorite. And she was dying.

With a worn and rusty hand-tool, Clint had set out to ensure his wife could make the hike one last time. By his account, the cancer eating at her brain made her too weak to walk, and he wanted to be sure he could maneuver a wheelchair along the narrow, crumbling ridge. The idea of making such a rugged and remote place handicap-accessible seemed almost comical to me, but I didn’t argue. I stood awkwardly, observing his failure as he repeatedly smashed a birch root with his ancient mattock; I suppose he was used to the futility. I offered my axe and what energy my lunch had afforded me to help clear some of his trail.

Clint had managed to access various logging roads up the other side of the mountain in his Jeep, and the trail he was making from his parking spot to our spot on the ridge was admirable. He had been working on it for weeks, he admitted, and doubted he would finish before the death of his wife. But he was trying. The ground was crumbling on the exposed ridge and rocks tripped every step. As I parted ways with my new friend, I recall thinking how the flags stabbed into the loose dirt stood a poor chance in the wind, but they remained nonetheless; stubborn just like Clint.

I reflected upon my meeting as I made my way back to my 4Runner. The only distractions from my thoughts were the slugs slamming into the hillside just beyond the rifle range. I was close enough to hear the impacts. By then I was exhausted, but boy did I move. After my talk with Clint, my pack didn’t seem nearly as heavy.

I admire Clint. I admire his passion, his dedication, and his resistance against forces we'll likely never understand. So I dedicate this blog post to Clint and Mrs. Clint – may they find relief, in one life or another.

...and for those still wondering: yes, Clint heard my barbaric yawp.

Laurel Bed Lake, VA

Going into last weekend, I had a fairly extensive hike planned. With the leaves starting to turn and the breeze a bit cooler, I wanted to spend as much of last Sunday in the woods as possible. My plan was to get up early, drive to Laurel Bed Lake above Saltville, VA, and hike until dusk. The area is very scenic and the route I had chosen would have afforded plenty of pictures and great views. Nothing could stop me.

Then Rhythm & Roots happened.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not one to partake in the more destructive habits my generation enjoys, but we all stay up late for the same concerts. Rhythm and Roots is always a blast, and seeing one of my favorite bands, Folk Soul Revival, is well worth the price of admission.



Folk Soul Revival!



After the late night of great music and great friends, I overslept and missed my chance to make the hike I had planned. Disappointed, I drove up to Laurel Bed anyway to salvage what I could of a nice late summer day. I hiked an abbreviated route around the lake and the most accessible ridgeline. Despite my disappointment, I couldn't have asked for a better day for a free-hike. Fall, impatient, shoving its way into our region, provided to me a pleasant day of solitude and reflection; a welcome reprieve from the busy festival the night before.

I started out next to the lake, hiked around its northern banks, climbed the ridge shadowing over the water, and made my way back down to my 4Runner. This wasn't a particularly strenuous hike and, without a destination in mind, I was able to take my time and hike at my leisure. After finishing my loop near the lake, I made my way down to Tumbling Creek, the rugged stream that drains Laurel Bed.

Tumbling Creek

Tumbling Creek would make a great, short hike on its own.  Tumbling is an apt name - the creek falls off the mountain, pouring itself over massive boulders and cascading waterfalls. The shade provided by the canopy and the steep walls of the gorge, coupled with the cool water from the mountain lake, made it seem that I was sitting on the bank in the middle of November. As I explored the rocky creek, I met a few people fishing for trout; a man and his son were proudly grilling their catches nearby and kindly offered me a sample - it was delicious. My only complaint is of the acorns dropping on my head at the slightest breeze.



The best view of the hike.



Don't worry, little guy...he got me too.



Those who know me can attest: I hate running late. Though I didn't get the chance to take the hike I had planned, I stumbled my way into a serene late summer day that was a fitting end to a great weekend. I think I can live with that.

Throughout the course of this blog, you'll find that I often hike in Virginia. Despite a dear friend's misgivings, I love the "communist-wealth". It's a beatiful state that I treasure. And though this isn't the Virginia to which I'm referring, please enjoy this sample from Folk Soul Revival; you should check them out sometime. Thanks for reading!

Fatwood

We’re so close. Each morning is crisper and cooler, football is back, and you can dig out the flannel from the back of the closet. Fall is almost here.

            Last weekend was rather busy for me – UT’s home opener (an awesome win), blacksmithing, old friends, etc. Though we’re quickly approaching my favorite time of year, I didn’t get a chance to go on a hike. I’m always disappointed when I can’t take full advantage of a beautiful weekend and make it to the great outdoors. But such is life.

            Fortunately, I had a few free hours Sunday evening and decided, in the interest of maintaining a blog, to go into the woods and make a short post on a very important survival/bushcraft skill: making a fire. There are more ways to make a fire than I could ever learn or care to know, but the hardest part of any method is getting it started. That initial ignition is crucial. I always carry a firesteel in the sheath of my knife; for those of you who have never watched the Discovery Channel, a firesteel is a rod typically composed of a magnesium alloy which, when scraped with a sharp edge, produces flakes ignited by the friction. The sparks it throws burn at temperatures exceeding 5,500°F. So really hot. Hot enough to ignite most dry tinder easily. Yet, if your tinder is wet, there’s a problem. Nature, however, was so kind as to provide us a source of fire-starting material, readily available in most biomes (especially northeast Tennessee), which can be easily lit even when wet – fatwood.

            Known across the world by many different names, fatwood is a common and valuable resource. Fatwood is essentially the heartwood of a pine tree – it houses a dense supply of resin (or pitch, if you prefer) and is very resistant to decay; it's from fatwood that turpentine and tar are produced. The best source of fatwood is in the decayed remains of a pine stump. Whether the tree is broken by wind, struck by lightning, or felled by a logger, the stump sits and rots away – except for the fatwood. Typically, there will be a slightly taller, harder protrusion from the center of the stump which is the remnant of the center-most heartwood; the outer-most bark and sapwood has rotted away. Stumps such as this can be found throughout any boreal forest, but among the best places to find pine stumps and fatwood are old logging cuts. There you can find plenty of stumps just like…



This.


            Once you find a useful stump, dig in. I recommend carrying an axe for such a chore, as I did on Sunday; it makes for quick work and blasts the fatwood into convenient chunks. You'll know the fatwood when you see/smell it. It's brightly colored in reds, oranges, and yellows, and smells like Pine-Sol.



That's the power of Pine-Sol, baby!

            Once you've gathered as much fatwood as you want to haul, store it in a plastic or metal container. I don't recommend storing it for a long period of time in any cloth material (such as your pockets). This stuff is loaded with resin - trust me, you won't want that mess.

            Soaking wet, fatwood ignites easily. But it's always best, just as with any tinder, that you make shavings of the material for quickest ignition. The thinner and greater the surface area, the easier it will burn. Direct contact with a flame (like a lighter) will easily ignite any piece of fatwood, but cool kids carry firesteels.

            Fatwood burns hotter than most tinder, since it's being accelerated by the oils in the wood, so be mindful of containers near or around a fire fueled by it. The flame isn’t the best to cook with either - the burning resin produces fumes that aren't pleasant.

Whenever I’m hiking, I’m always on the lookout for fatwood. I keep a supply in my backpack because, well, you never know when I’ll need it. A fire could save my life. But I know, around here, I’m never too far from all the tinder I need.

Thank you for reading! I really quite enjoy writing about the outdoors, something that is such a significant part of my life. I hope reading this blog brings you the joy it brings me to create. I plan to have a more adventurous and picturesque post coming soon, but until then I will leave you with a selection from Robert Service…I think this is becoming a thing…

___

The Song of the Camp-Fire

…Let me star the dim sierras, stab with light the inland seas;

Roaming wind and roaring darkness! Seek no mercy at my hands;

I will mock the marly heavens, lamp the purple prairies,

I will flaunt my deathless banners down the far, unhouseled lands.

In the vast and vaulted pine-gloom where the pillared forests frown,

By the sullen, bestial rivers running where God only knows,

On the starlit coral beaches when the combers thunder down,

In the death-spell of the barrens, in the shudder of the snows;

In a blazing belt of triumph from the palm-leaf to the pine,

As a symbol of defiance lo! The wilderness I span;

And my beacons burn exultant as an everlasting sign

Of unending domination, of the mastery of Man;

I, the Life, the fierce Uplifter, I that weaned him from the mire;

I, the angel and the devil, I, the tyrant and the slave;

I, the Spirit of the Struggle; I, the mighty God of Fire;

I, the Maker and Destroyer; I, the Giver and the Grave.

___ 

Chimney Rock - High Knob, VA

For the past few months, I’ve been considering starting this blog to chronicle my various outdoor pursuits - hiking, hunting, bushcraft, etc. I knew the biggest leap to make, just as the first line to a great novel, is the first post. I knew it had to be a good one: a post that would grab your attention and not let go, one with poignant thoughts and pretty pictures; I really had to bring it.  Eventually, I chose a short hike - not too complicated, not too strenuous - that's scenic and photo-friendly. After serious map-study, I came across a rock formation within the High Knob massif near Norton, VA - a formation called Chimney Rock.

Little did I know, but my choice was far more appropriate for this first post than I had realized. It was complicated. It was strenuous. It turned out to be far more difficult than I had thought. Prior to the hike, I researched the area hoping to find information about Chimney Rock and the surrounding wilderness, but I found nothing. Frankly, this is typical; I often set out to destinations for which I can find no directions or guide. I have merely a crude map, a compass, and my wits. Rarely is there a discernible trail. This blog, in part, is intended to serve as a crude guide to the places I explore which so often are remote and undefined. So, setting out on this excursion, I really didn’t have much of an idea of what to expect.



Turning off of US23 in Norton, my 4Runner and I made our way into the Jefferson National Forest, deep into the High Knob landform. Once at the top, I had to take several interconnected forest service roads to reach the area at which I planned to park. In some places the road disappeared into tall grass, in others the road was covered in the largest gravel I’ve ever seen – we’re talking baseball-sized chunks. It was a rough ride. About 5 minutes after losing radio reception, the dark and bumpy road spilled into a field flanked by spruce trees – my parking lot.

Examining my map, I set out to follow the listed trail down to the creek which carved the gorge below Chimney Rock. The trail was easy to find and surprisingly well-kept for being so remote. After almost ½ mile, I discovered why it was so convenient: it led to a tree-stand mounted high in a red oak, a survey bearing tree at the corner of the national forest. This was where the trail stopped. As is so often the case, when there is no more trail to follow, you find trails everywhere. To keep going in such a situation is an easy way to become lost. Since I knew I was at the very nose of the ridge, about to descend the face down into the gorge, I followed the age-old survival axiom – I went downhill. Leaving simple blazes along my path, I hiked (read: tumbled) down the steep ridge and had to jump the final 5 feet onto an old logging grade. The creek, a tributary of Chimney Rock Branch, was flowing steadily several feet below.

The logging grade I had found and which was, presumably, the continuation of the trail which had abandoned me 800 feet up the ridgeline, would have made for smooth, pleasant hiking. Yet, in what I can only imagine was an ironic retaliation against the lumber industry, the years of harsh weather had downed tree upon tree obscuring the old road. It was a mess. In some places I could jump trunk-to-trunk, but I spent most of this stretch crawling on my belly. After a torturous mile of doubting the success of this venture, the road forked and I chose the branch which hugged the ridgeline (and the creek). After less than 100 yards, Chimney Rock was in sight.

  

A glimpse...

  

Chimney Rock Branch

 

Chimney Rock Branch

 

Once I laid eyes upon Chimney Rock, the ideas I had for the extent of this outing changed. Despite much research into the area, I could only find vague references to the creek, Chimney Rock Branch, and nothing on the formation itself; forget about finding pictures. Before seeing it, I had only a crude satellite picture and a topographical map to give me a sense of scale. I was way off. Chimney Rock is massive. It was still ¼ mile away, but I could already tell that I wouldn’t make it to its peak.

Nope. Not gonna happen.

Even with rope and a partner, I’m nowhere near experienced or brave enough to attempt the climb required of Chimney Rock. Crumbling sandstone. Gaping overhangs. It was formidable. I reached the creek-bed – which provided a welcome relief from the humidity – found a mossy rock to sit on and examine my options. My goal had been to reach the top and show everyone reading my new blog how manly I am. Well, that wasn’t going to happen. I studied my map and saw that the ridgeline forming the rock formation flattened out slightly as it ran up the mountain. So I climbed and climbed. I guess it was more “technical scrambling” than “climbing”, but it was exhausting nonetheless. When I reached the top of the wooded ridgeline above Chimney Rock, my legs were useless and I was openly bleeding from several places. By this time, the sun was directly overhead, it hurt to stand, and my sweat was burning in my scrapes and scratches. But I was near the top.

As I descended and reached the back of the cliffs, I still lacked a shear 70 vertical feet from reaching the top of the first rock formation. I carefully maneuvered around the cliffs to the next rock formation separated from the first by a gap of less than 3 feet running from top to bottom. I squeezed through, managed to shift my way up to a ledge, and found my way to a nice outcropping beneath a fragile, disintegrating overhang. I rested for a moment, took a few quick pictures, and climbed down the cliffs before I proved right everyone who thinks I shouldn't hike alone.

My disappointingly revised mission complete, I decided to make my way down the other side of the ridge. I knew the previous side was terrible, so I took a chance. Well, better the devil you know than the one don't. The scrub and laurel were so thick on the steep ridge-face that I couldn't fall. I tripped a few times on roots blocked from view and ordinarily would've gone tumbling down, but the branches were so thick and stubborn that they caught a clumsy hiker of my size. After getting poked in the eye a few times and fed up with the God-forsaken ridge, I laid down on my back and slid the rest of the way beneath the thickest bramble imaginable. I reached the bottom, stumbled upon a pool formed in the creek, shed gear and clothing all over the bank, and jumped in with the last power my legs had left. Six hours of exertion, pain, and disappointment for 30 seconds of bliss. Totally worth it.

…Then I had to hike back up to my 4Runner.

As I said before, this was an appropriate  hike for the first post of this blog; it was nothing short of typical. Unrealized goals. Mental and physical anguish. Losing the trail only to find it again. Despite struggle after struggle, the few moments you have to sit on a ledge and feel the cool, September breeze freeze the sweat on your brow, or the startling reflexes when diving into a mountain stream on a 90-degree day, make it worth the trouble. I don’t understand why anyone would do drugs when they could experience such grace with only slightly less ridicule. Though I didn't accomplish my goals and have nothing but scrapes and aches (and a blog post, I guess) to show for my trouble, I consider this outing a success. Come to think of it, no matter what went awry, I've never had a failure.

I thank you for patiently reading almost 1300 words to describe a fleeting moment and feelings that I wouldn’t trade for anything. I hope I've managed to convey the wonder I enjoy in my life and hope you'll find in your own. As you can tell, I’m no poet; but Robert Service was…

          

___

Have you swept the visioned valley with the green stream streaking through it,

Searched the Vastness for a something you have lost?

Have you strung your soul to silence? Then for God’s sake go and do it;

Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost.

___

The most sincere thank you to Micah Salyer and James Walsh - without their kind friendship and inspirational spirit, you wouldn’t have had to read all this.