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!

The Waterfalls of Devil Fork, TN

My conversational style can best be described as tangential. My interactions are sprinkled with “That reminds me…” and “By the way…”. In all things, I tend to wander, and hiking is no exception.

 

I often set out with an often far-too-ambitious destination in mind, and it doesn’t take much to stay me from my intended path. An overgrown spur trail leading nowhere. The roar of an out-of-sight creek with no waterfall. A big shadow impersonating a cave. My ADD (check your DSM-V for Adventure Distraction Disorder, it’s there) has led to more incomplete hikes than I can count.

But every so often, I stumble onto something special. I have to laugh at how clumsy though blessed my adventures can become, and the hike featured in today’s post was certainly a blessing.

For the first time in well over a year, I found myself with a Sunday afternoon by myself. Without the moderating influence of a sensible woman, I degrade into some sort of masculine wreck – I either eat an irresponsible amount of food, or find myself irresponsibly in the middle of a wilderness. That particular afternoon, I did both.

On a full stomach, I started a hike up Devil Fork in the Clark’s Creek area of Unicoi County. The rugged and beautiful area has several waterfalls, some easily accessible and others deeply remote. The four waterfalls along Devil Fork are impressive, as the creek tumbles down the complex western slope of Rich Mountain in spectacular fashion. I had visited the first waterfall before, Pine Ridge Falls, and it’s a level, 10-minute hike that’s quickly traversed.

 

 

Advancing beyond the 25-foot waterfall, however, is a delicate task – the only direct route is along a very narrow (and very slick) series of small ledges to the right of the falls. The water level was high that day and the residual moisture from recent rains left the whole area far more slippery than I like– 250lbs. falls hard.

I wasted 15 minutes deciding how badly I wanted to risk a slimy fall into the water below, and finally decided that finding another route around the waterfall was best. I crossed to the left side of the creek and climbed up the ridgeline, following below the line of cliffs over which Pine Ridge Falls flows. The higher I hiked, the clearer the views into the Clark’s Creek valley became – and by the time I reached a break in the cliff-line safe enough for me to climb, I was near the top of the ridge.

I made my way between the two rock buttresses forming the cliff and was finally on the other side of the waterfall. I had already gained significant elevation, and I could tell that the ridge still above me was much clearer above me. So I made the decision to eschew my planned hike to reach all the falls of Devil Fork and climb higher up the ridge simply to see what was there.

It was cool in the shade of most of the hike, but the dense canopy of the valley gave way to exposed rock and heath shrubbery higher up the ridge and the air was thick with humidity heated by the sun (which seemed awfully close). After a few breaks to rest my aching knees, I reached the top of the knob and was presented gorgeous views.

 

 

I spent quite a while enjoying the views at the top, welcoming the breeze, and replenishing the many electrolytes spent to get me there. I finally decided that, if I wanted to complete the next portion of my original plan, then I needed to get moving. The hike down the ridge was far more perilous than the hike up – in a calamitous mixture of haste and clumsiness, I stumbled my way back down to Devil Fork, directly above Pine Ridge falls.

 

The hike up the creek wasn’t as steep as I expected, but it was confusing. The area is crossed by several old logging roads, which the trail only intermittently follows, and I spent half my time course-correcting back toward the creek. The sun had started to set on the narrow valley carved by the creek – the air was cooler and my pace quickened in an effort to reach the next waterfall before dusk.

As I kept my failing eyes fixed on the creek well-ahead of me and my ears focused on the volume of its flow, I topped a short hill to see a long, white streak in the distance. As I got closer, the walls of the gorge amplified the sound and my eyes focused on the shaded waterfall. I had finally made it to the next destination, Josiah Falls.

 

The trail to the waterfall lies farther up the ridge than the access to the falls at creek-level. My descent to the bottom of the falls was as clumsy as my hike down from the top of the knob earlier, and it ended with a muddy, uncontrolled slide into a deep pool. I was waist-deep in water that was not-surprisingly icy for early spring, and I quickly hopped from the pool, rock-to-rock, perhaps thinking that if I moved quickly enough the water would fly from my boots and pants. That didn’t happen, but in my haste, I arrived at the small waterfalls found below Josiah Falls.

 

 

It’s only a few feet along a makeshift path between boulders and under some laurel to the bottom of the falls. This part of the gorge is crowded with rocks and brush, with laurel hells flanking the creek on either side, but the base of the waterfall is completely open and clear. Josiah Falls is a steep, 30-feet high cascade and was a sight for strained eyes.

 

By the time I started the hike back to the trailhead, the sun had set further. It was hard to see the trail, but fortunately the trail from Pine Ridge Falls to Clarks Creek Road lies in a wider valley and was well lit – it was like walking out of a movie theater into a bright parking lot.

I was disappointed that I didn’t reach the other waterfalls higher up Devil Fork, but I find relief insomuch that my wandering wasn’t wasted. It was a great hike and I plan to finish it soon.

Thanks for reading!

Whitehouse Mountain Cliffs, TN

There’s something wonderful in the feeling of standing atop a mountain; it’s hard to describe to someone who hasn’t felt it. And I don’t mean stepping out of your car at an easily accessible road-side overlook. Or, to some extent, those commonplace mountain-top views accessed by so many from a trail worn deep into the earth.

 

A rare few know the joy which comes from once looking at a precipice from the bottom, wondering what the view from the top is like, then discovering something wonderful, after a trek through something terrible – something you once imagined at the extent of your imagination, but found it  to be wanting in comparison to creation – that’s amazing.

It’s no wonder we’ve assigned such positive connotations to mountain-tops and their related descriptions – acme, zenith, pinnacle. The feeling of truly being an insignificant part of such a powerful landscape – the wind shoving you, the sun burning you, nothing above you but air – it’s not simply special, it’s addictive.

This feeling, the draw of these scenes, is the impetus of most of my hikes. You faithful readers and my friends know of my love for  exposed, rugged landscapes. Though I’m an attentive driver, I can’t help but become distracted driving through our region, constantly scanning the mountains both near and far for craggy outcroppings and cliffs.

It was on a road-trip to Asheville, NC with my dear friend Ben that I first caught a glimpse of the cliffs featured in today’s post, Whitehouse Mountain Cliffs. And I’ve posted before about an attempt to reach the lofty outcroppings – an attempt that was ultimately rained out and left me with a dead car battery. You can read that post here.



The cliffs, as I first saw them

The cliffs are an example of the rugged terrain surrounding them in the Rocky Fork wilderness. Since that hike several months ago, I’ve explored a lot of Rocky Fork – but still yet a small fraction – and with each hike, I enter the wilderness through the main gate, travelling an old road adopted as the main trail. Not ½-mile into any hike along this route, the creek and the trail are flanked by tall cliffs, those of Whitehouse Mountain to the north, and a smaller set called Black Stacks which jut from Flint Mountain to the south. The more I hiked the trail between the towering cliffs, the more invested I became in the thought of one day standing atop the cliffs of Whitehouse Mountain. And on a recent, beautiful Saturday, that thought became a reality.

I got my usual, later-than-planned start to my hike – the work-week induced fugue lingers even into Saturday mornings, and for a brief time, my yearning for the outdoors is dwarfed by an overwhelming desire to pull the covers to my chin and snooze. On my way, I stopped by Bojangles for some breakfast; I’ve almost made a habit of stopping at Bojangles before hitting the trail – it started because Bojangles is the only place still serving breakfast by the time I manage to get moving (see laziness noted above).

 

I didn’t feel as guilty about starting so late – around 11:00am – as I knew the hike wasn’t terribly long. I had a good idea of where I was going, I knew the terrain well, and I had a good map to assist with any confusion and a big knife to clear the way, if needed.

The hike began at the main gate at Rocky Fork – the first ½-mile follows the main, well-maintained trail/road leading into the Rocky Fork wilderness. It’s a level, pleasant hike. The cliffs rise from the side of a knob and peer over the trail and main stream, and to reach them requires a route around the side, up the back of the knob, then a descent to the top of the cliffs. On the map and in my mind, it seemed straightforward. After half-a-mile of gentle strolling, the spur trail splits from the main trail, up the side of the knob. As I climbed up the intersection between the two trails, I spotted a young, dead tree an inch in diameter – perfect for a walking stick. I unsheathed my knife and hacked it to size, and began to propel myself up toward the back side of the knob.

 

 

The trail is narrow in some places, shrouded by laurel in others, but is otherwise clear and groomed. There were a few pieces of ribbon tied to limbs along the route, just in case I missed the trail in front of me. I could tell that the trail followed what was once an old road, likely a logging road, which had been acquisitioned by nature to serve as a creek in times of inclement weather.

By the time I reached the back of the knob and the next spur trail that leads to its top, I was sweating and my heart was pounding. I took a brief water-break on the saddle of the ridgeline and changed into a t-shirt I happened to have in my pack. I knew the next section would be the most strenuous, so I cinched everything tight, drank down plenty of water (both to hydrate and to decrease the weight in my pack). The trail up the back, toward the top of the knob was less clear – admittedly, I lost it in a few places – but the occasional trail ribbon helped me to right my route.

 

Once I reached the nose of the back side of the knob, I knew I was in the right place. There were survey markings everywhere, on trees, staked into the ground, metal signs, etc. And a trail clearly followed the spine of the knob straight up to the top.

 

 

 

Frozen Knob in the background

I gained elevation quickly hiking up the backside of the knob – there were no switchbacks, and the grade was such that it was difficult to stand still. The only thing that helped to keep me upright – other than the occasional old-growth tree and my walking stick – was my forward momentum. My legs churched and I dug my boots into the ground with each exasperated step, and I made it to the top of the knob somehow without needing a break.

The top of the knob is flat and mostly bald, covered only by thick heath and the occasional stubborn, stunted tree. The area at the top isn’t very large, but the trail led me beyond the initial, apparent peak, onto a more exposed section – and then I knew I had reached the top.

The view from the peak was fantastic. 360-degree views. Clear skies. The wind was strong, but calming. I could see Frozen Knob behind me, Flint Mountain staring in front of me, all the way from the Unaka Range distant in the east, to the Bald Mountains, flanking the Rocky Fork wilderness to the west and south.

 

Most of the the Rocky Fork drainage

 

Flint Gap

 

 

Despite my giggliness and awestruck gaze, I reminded myself that the top of the knob wasn’t my destination. So after a few pictures and a quick break, I began the steep descent of the rocky knob, down to the top of the cliffs. In my excitement, I forgot my walking stick.

 

It was difficult to keep my footing – rocks ranging in size from baseballs to basketballs covered the ground, and the greatest splendor of east Tennessee served as a magnificent distraction. It was dangerously steep, and I crawled in some places, slid on my butt in others, just to make it to the next level. The open face of the knob was such that it dropped in large steps – the going was very steep for a while, nearly vertical for a short bit, then very steep again.

 

 

My overloaded knees were burning, and it seemed that no matter how far down I climbed, I wouldn’t reach the top of the cliffs. Suddenly, the face of the knob leveled out near an unexpected band of trees, and I could see exposed rocks jutting into the air between the trunks. My heart began to pound with excitement.

As I squeezed my way between the briar-filled heath and the few trees, I could see that rocks began to dominate the side of the knob all around me. I slid down a tree-shrouded flat rock onto a pile of leaves, and I knew I was at the tip-top of the cliffs.

 

 

My exploration of the cliffs was one of inhibited excitement. It was so satisfying to stand atop the large, rocky pinnacles I had seen from both below and afar, yet I knew I had to maintain focus. The few faces of the cliff-line that weren’t awkwardly positioned rock were steep and unstable – I had to carefully plan every step, and some places required rather nerve-wracking leaps rock-to-rock. It took the better part of an hour to scale the entirety of the top of the cliffs – after a certain distance, it was a sheer vertical drop. Each picture I took was taken from a very carefully-negotiated stance.

 

Just in time for my arrival at the edge of the cliffs, the wind picked up considerably. The terrain itself, aided by the gusts blowing the little vegetation into my stride, made it much easier to sit than stand or walk. So I found a relatively flat rock and took in the views that fell far short of what my imagination had conjured.

 



 

Black Stacks

 

Rocky Fork, far below

The point on Interstate-26 from which I first saw the cliffs

I’m a lazy hiker, and I often get myself into the most trouble by taking shortcuts. Take my advice – if you’re given the choice, stick to the trail. Better the devil you know.

I could see Rocky Fork in a few windows through the canopy below, and dreading a hike back up the knob to the trail, I decided to descend the rest of the way down to the main trail. I took my time and worked my way along the cliff-line, scrambling my way to the point where the rocks of the cliffs met the ground of the knob itself.

After another harrowing hour of cursing my laziness, I made it to the edge of the cliff-line and began to walk down the side of the knob. The going wasn’t nearly as easy as I had envisioned – the side of the knob was just as steep as the terrain I had found at the top, only none of the rocks were stable. Each step was on rocks that immediately rolled away, taking other rocks with them. After stumbling 100 yards through the boulder-field, I had enough – I hiked across the knob to a more wooded section which I correctly hoped was less-rocky.

 

I traded the instability of that boulder field for the instability of 18-inch-thick leaf piles and a maze of laurel. I laid on my back and side and slid beneath most of the laurel, reaching irresponsible speeds, arresting my fall by grabbing the occasional tree (some of which broke free in my hand). The further I slid and crawled, the more level the knob and more open the woods became. I slid the last several feet unimpeded, and shot off the side of the knob onto the main trail.

It was a beautiful day of hiking in one of our region’s most beautiful areas – I couldn’t be more pleased from such a successful (and exciting) hike. As I walked back to my 4Runner, I ran into Joseph, my good friend from church, and a group of his friends who had been hiking deeper in the Rocky Fork wilderness. It was good to share with him where I had been and how to get there – and I was relieved to have finally checked this goal off my list.

Thanks for reading!