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!

Rocky Fork, TN - A Winter Wonderland

I’ve met several people who don’t share my love for the outdoors, hiking in particular. Bugs, spiders, snakes, poisonous plants, physical exertion – I get it. For me, though, all aspects of nature – what we consider the good and the bad – combine to form an experience like no other. Your senses are awakened. You’re both alert and at peace. It’s magical.
 

While hiking within the most peaceful scenes is wonderful, there’s an added thrill to hiking in inclement weather. Most people would disagree with that, I’m sure – and under certain circumstances, I would too – but nothing can compare to the excitement of hiking in the rain or snow.

Sure, you’re cold and wet. It’s not comfortable by any means – but I’ll trade creature comforts for spiritual uplifting any day. The sights, the sounds, the smells you perceive are only perceptible when the wilderness is alive, welcoming the precipitation. The deafening sound of rain pushing through the forest canopy, pouring onto the wooded hummus and flooding small streams. The soft background noise of snowflakes falling on snowflakes. Strong winds whipping between trees, stripping open ridges of their covering. Dense fog obscuring old landmarks, making distant noises much louder while softening your own footsteps. It’s wonderful.

Our region has had a harsh winter. Temperatures dipping below zero – something that’s relatively uncommon for our area – and then rising into the 60’s and 70’s only days later. A few days before Valentine’s Day this year, our region got another helping of fresh powder; my apartment saw 6 inches, whereas some areas were met with over a foot of snow.
 

As I packed my 4Runner with typical survival gear for my short, yet adventurous journeys to the office, I realized that I’ve never made a blog-post about a hike in the snow. I’ve hiked in the middle of winter before – with snow-drifts above my knees and rivers of ice covering a well-maintained trail (I’m looking at you, Roan Mountain) – but I’ve never had the chance to blog about it.

So on the day after Valentine’s Day, with the recent snowfall beginning to fade, I decided to make a short hike into Rocky Fork to see what beauty and challenge Mother Nature had brought.
 

I’ve posted about Rocky Fork before, so I’ll spare you faithful readers the details, but it’s a beautiful, and an ever more accessible wilderness. Both main- and side-roads in Unicoi County were clear on that Saturday – a welcome relief from the week of slowed stops and careful acceleration. Once I turned onto Rocky Fork road, it was a different world. It was clear that the road hadn’t been touched, as was expected, and the snow covering the road was undisturbed by tire-tracks until my 4Runner climbed into the valley. Despite the 6+ inches of mostly-frozen snow as my tarmac, I had little trouble making it to the main gate and trailhead at Rocky Fork. The less-than-accurate thermometer on my dashboard told me it was 25 degrees outside, and so I scoffed at the temperature as I stepped out into the snow.

My new watch! http://bertucciwatches.com/Bertucci/home.html

 The wind took my breath away. The ambient temperature may have been 25, but the wind-chill was surely below zero. The wind gusted at more than 30 mph, easy, and my exposed face and hands were stinging within seconds. Prepared, I  put on my gloves and better-covered my head, neck, and face.

The snow began to fall again as I walked past the blue gate at the parking area and into the Rocky Fork wilderness. The deeper I walked up the water-shed, the higher and steeper the gorge’s walls grew, the colder it became – what little relief that was offered by the limited sunlight was diminished, and the narrow valley focused the wind into a laser. In short, it was cold. And as I hiked through ever-deeper snow, the snowfall became thicker and faster. It was chilling, but absolutely beautiful.

 

 

 

 

 

An odd place for a heart, despite Valentine's Day

I took as many pictures as I could, before the snow became prohibitive to photography. I trudged my way up the clear but covered trail, following the tracks of a lone deer that were fading by the minute, making awkward tracks of my own with hiking poles and clumsy boots kicking snow in front of me and behind. In some places, there were still 8-10 inches covering the trail.

 

I hiked up to Long Branch, a tributary of Rocky Fork about a mile from the main gate, and decided to turn around. My legs had forgotten how much more difficult hiking in the snow is than normal. Every step is met with resistance and it’s like walking up a flight of stairs on level ground.

The snow slowed as I made my way back to the 4Runner, but my previous tracks had already been partially obscured – those of the deer had disappeared. As I reached the main gate, the snow stopped; as if I had been treated to a winter wonderland only for the duration of my hike.

After the winter we’ve had, I’m thankful to see warmer temperatures. Normally, I love the cold and snow, but this season has been a bit much, even for me, despite my adequate preparation for cold-weather survival (read: overeating). Nonetheless, my hike was beautiful and inspiring – and I look forward to the next chance I have to experience the splendor.

Beautiful

Thanks for reading!