JACK BURNS LIVES!

Fall is the favorite time for most people visiting the Smokies, since, in my opinion, its panoply of colors is rivaled only by the forests of New England. But New England, even the magnificent White Mountains, cannot surpass the incredible diversity of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.

Its boundaries contain more species of native trees than in all of northern Europe and more native trees than any other national park. The exact number is undefined but it’s generally agreed there are between 100 and 135 native species of trees found in the park. And with elevation ranges from 875 to 6,643 you can experience a similar range of flora that you might see if you drove from Georgia to Maine.

It’s a genuine national treasure, but like many of our irreplaceable natural areas, it’s under constant attack.

In the case of the Smokies, there are three major culprits. One is the coal industry in the TVA region. Two, the balsam wooly aldelgid, a non-native pest reeking havoc on the spruce tree populations above 5000 feet in elevation. And three, tourists. The Smokies are no different from Arches and several other national parks in that they’re being loved to death. Too many cars, too much exhaust and too much encroachment upon its borders by monstrosities like Pigeon Forge and Gatlinburg.

My wife and I are willing and frequent participants in the madness, although we’ve imposed some new restrictions on our visitation. From here on out, the car is parked on the edge of the park. No more drives deep into the interior. Inconvenient? Yes. Necessary? Maybe not, but it makes me feel better about visiting, since I’ve concluded it lessens my footprint and therefore my impact.

This is our second trip to the Smokies in the last sixty days, only this one is a short stopover on our way to Knoxville to visit our son, a student at The University of Tennessee. We decide to go to the North Carolina side this time, pulling off I-40 at the Pigeon River. Our destination is Big Creek trail, a 5.9 mile, well graded path through some of the prettiest forest in the park.

We make our way to the parking area at Big Creek ranger station and park. Stopping here requires another three quarters of mile walk to the trailhead, but a small price to pay, I say, to gain access to what lies ahead.

After checking our packs and supplies, we move out.

Approaching the trailhead, I’m startled to hear a screeching, high-pitched noise, coming from near the campground. I conclude it’s a small engine, probably the two-cycle type found in leaf blowers and in fact it is. Looking up, I see a park service employee blowing a small collection of leaves in front of the bathrooms. I’m astounded.

Why the hell do you need to blow leaves in a national park? And even if you insist on removing the leaves, which will return by tomorrow, couldn’t you use a rake in such a small area?

Allison encourages me to keep moving and ignore it, and I wisely follow her advice. After all, what’s the guy going to do, stop just because some wild-eyed Ed Abbey devotee chastises him about a leaf blower? No, he’s going to keep on blowing because that’s his job. His performance appraisal and income depend on it. If he could get away with it (he probably could) he’d just say “blow me.”

Although the area was heavily logged late in the 19th century, it’s recovered nicely. Evidence of logging remains, but large trees have reclaimed the slopes of the watershed. Allison and I take our time ascending gently toward Walnut Bottoms, a large, popular backcountry campsite. Since we got a late start, we decide we probably won’t go that far, perhaps only to the bridge crossing the creek, about 2.2 miles from the trailhead.

Moving along we pass second growth tulip, hemlock, maple and sycamore trees. Nearly the entire length of the trail is adorned with Skunk Goldenrod (Solidago glomerata), Big leaved astor (A. marophyllus) and various ferns, including Appalachian Rock Polypody (Polypodium appalachianum).

Initially, the trail rises high above the creek, but by the one-mile point, you’re nearly level with it again, as its clear, cold mountain water roars over and above massive boulders in its path. By the 1.5 mile point, we reach the well known Midnight Hole, a deep, green pool known to contain some very nice trout. We stop to take a little break and snap some photos and enjoy the silence of the forest.

As I sit and observe the water pouring over the rocks and into the pool, I contemplate the profound difference between life on the trail and life in the city. In the backcountry, there are no cellphones (at least not with me), no deadlines, no reports, no mortgage bankers, politicos and other malignancies. The forest wraps its arms around us and provides a place of refuge from the madness of the city.

I don’t want to leave.

Edward Abbey was right. “Wilderness is not a luxury, but a necessity of the human spirit.”

Heading back to the trail from the creek, we run into two families with children we passed early on the trail. There are several kids, probably five to fourteen years in age. The youngest look tired and bored, and the parents don’t strike me as regular hikers. They’re wearing jeans, don’t have day-packs, and don’t appear to have maps or any supplies other than a single Batman kids pack one of the dad’s is wearing. I hope it has water.

“How much longer, daddy?”

The father replies, not so assuredly, “Not far. I don’t think we’re far.”

The father’s attention then shifts to me.

“Do you know where the waterfall is?”

“Sure,” I respond.

“You’re at about 1.5 miles now, and if you’re trying to reach Mouse Creek Falls, that’s 2.1 miles from the trailhead. You’re almost there.”

Looking down at the boy tugging on his father’s leg I continue.

“You’re almost there, son. You can do it, and you’ll like it when you get there.”

His stares at me with a look of absolute fear and dread. This is the man his parents warned him about. I imagine there’s now a bruise where he’s clutching his father’s leg.

The mothers study us in attempt to gauge our reliability. They smile and offer a genuine “thank you,” so assume we passed the test.

After saying “good luck,” we move on down the trail.

Chuckling, Allison says “Those kids look like they’ve had enough.”

I respond, “They shouldn’t be, they’ve only walked a little over a mile. They’ll be fine, event though their parents are clueless.”

“At least they took them hiking,” Allison retorts.

“True. Maybe this will be the start of a life full of hiking!”

One can hope.

We reach the falls quickly and take in the unbelievable scene before us. Truly a magical place in the park but before long, we’re once again joined by the families.

My mood turns sour.

“Shit.”

The little boy, now smiling and eager to explore, changes my mood.

“See, I told you you’d make it!”

The little boy looks like he’s scored a major victory and all the kids look invigorated as they stare in subtle amazement at the falls. I’m happy for them and happy to share the trail with them.

We decide to press on, hiking to the bridge and searching for a few more places to take photos. The sun is now beginning to dip beneath the ridgeline, changing the character of the forest. As the canopy darkens, my mind races back to the many nights I camped in the park, mostly with my brother-in-law. I think about dusk, building a fire, preparing dinner and enjoying our conversations as I sipped a refreshing beverage. I relish those memories but also recall how much I missed Allison, especially in the evenings. I absorb the warm feeling I now experience knowing she’s by my side on the trail here in the Smokies and ponder the perfection of the moment.

Frequently given to overly romanticized notions, I consider what life would be like on the trail. To never return to the city and live like a rambler, just wandering the trail. To make your entire life a thru hike. It sounds appealing until you read the accounts of Appalachian Trail thru hikers and how much they enjoyed their stops in the towns along the way. There are benefits to showers, medical supplies and luxuries like ice cream.

I conclude that a “middle way” is the logical solution. To live in a smaller town, some place nestled near wilderness or something approaching wilderness. A slower pace of life in a place reasonably devoid of the horrors we face in our cities.

But what if everyone decided to move to small towns? Wouldn’t they all become like Telluride or Aspen, overpriced playgrounds for people with more money than brains? Certainly, there are a lot of people looking for an “escape.” Abbey wrote about it, and it’s even worse today. Ranchettes, million dollar condos, private retreats. Capitalist infections that drive up real estate prices and drive out the locals.

We return to the car refreshed from the vigorous walk and beautiful scenery, but I ironically find myself longing for dinner in the city with our son, Alex. I suppose a well lived life requires balance. Sufficient time on the trail and sufficient time in civilization.

Mileage may vary.

Kudos to my awesome friend Moab Mike!!

From the National Geographic Adventure Blog:

Best American Adventures: Backpack the Hayduke Trail

Edward Abbey, who spent his formative years working in the parks of southern Utah, used to suggest that every time you see one of those national forest signs that say “Land of Many Uses,” you change the last word to “Abuses.”

A Vietnam vet turned radical conservationist, George Hayduke is the hero in Abbey’s famed novel The Monkey Wrench Gang, which chronicles the adventures of ecowarriors sabotaging extractive and exploitive industries in order to save public lands from destruction. Hayduke is a sort of environmental superhero, evading the law while he defends the land he loves—and inspiring hundreds of Abbey’s readers to, in fact, change the words on those signs.

It’s only fitting that an 800-mile (1,287-kilometer) trail that began as a semisecret underground project be named after Abbey’s folk hero. The Hayduke Trail was the brainchild of hiker Joe Mitchell, who wanted to go out on a long, Abbey-esque trek that celebrated the land. Mitchell and fellow hiker Mike Coronella then set the route that spans the Colorado’s Plateau’s must-see list of postcard landscapes, starting in Arches National Park (where Abbey worked), heading through Canyonlands National Park, down into Capitol Reef National Park, across the Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument, into Bryce Canyon National Park and the Grand Canyon, and finally ending up in Zion National Park.

Many Americans hit these sites in an RV, but the Hayduke way requires an incredible amount of resourcefulness, wriggling through slot canyons, route-finding, careful logistics, and luck—in short the way Abbey wanted Americans to experience their public lands. Completing the entire trail can take up to three months. Go ahead. Abuse yourself and enjoy the land.

Need to Know: Find maps and hiking information at www.hayduketrail.org.

Every time I visit the Smokies I proclaim it’s my last visit. Too many cars, too many rednecks that never leave their cars and too little solitude. Not to mention the dirty air, an unwanted gift from TVA coal fired plants. But alas, I always return.

It’s as if the park calls me back. Like it has some sort of psychic connection with me and won’t let me go. Which is fine, because it’s a beautiful, wondrous place, filled with perhaps more biological diversity than any other national park. It’s a jewel in our tarnished national crown.

Allison and I made the trip from Memphis for Labor Day Weekend, mostly to see our son Alex, a student at The University of Tennessee. But the Smokies are an easy forty-five minute drive from Knoxville and offer the best hiking options east of the Mississippi. When we come to dirty K-town, we have to see the Smokies.

We lived in East Tennessee for about eight years when the kids were little, and during those nurturing years, we regularly took the kids hiking. We wanted our children to love the natural world and hopefully one day be its defenders, so we spent a lot of time in the park hiking, enjoying picnics or riding bikes around Cades Cove. Looking back, they were perhaps the best years of our lives together.

Alex, then age four, called them either the “Mokey Mounshuns” or the “Pee Pee Mounshuns.” It’s hard to enunciate when you’re missing two front teeth.

After a hearty breakfast at the hotel, Allison and I stop for gas and ice and then hit the road. For me, the ice is nearly as important as the fuel, because it’s un-American to not have a cold beer after a long hike. And it should be a good American beer, preferably a PBR, not some of that hoppy mountain hippy beer like Fat Tire or Sierra Nevada. I’ll admit to formerly drinking expensive beers, even some of those thick English beers that taste more like Fletchers Castoria than beer. But I finally came to my senses and opted for the more affordable, less pretentious, real thing. Ironically, about the same time as millions of hipsters.

When you drink PBR, you’re saying that you’re basically a somewhat sophisticated redneck. Sorta like Edward Abbey, a guy that measured trip distances by beers consumed.

As we start to pull into the park, I’m astonished by all the traffic. Not sure why, however, since the Smokies are the most visited national park, and it is Labor Day weekend. Still, seeing lines of cars, motorcycles and motorhomes piling into the park by the thousands gives me pause. I realize most of the occupants not only won’t go hiking, they’ll barely leave their cars during the whole trip. Except, of course, to visit the outlet malls, museums and theme parks in Pigeon Forge and Gatlinburg, two living, expanding hells on earth.

And of all the motorized thrill seekers, it’s the motorcycle crowd that bothers me the most. Why is it necessary to drive a machine that you can hear in four states? Is there some supposed correlation between the amount of noise that comes out of your tailpipe and the size the size of your penis? I understand the beauty and simplicity of a motorcycle, as well as the danger, but I don’t understand why it has to sound like something blasting off at Cape Canaveral.

The only way to escape is to hit the trail. Go where they won’t or can’t go.

The weather is stunning. An absolutely gorgeous day with clear skies, so we opt for a high elevation hike. When we lived in East Tennessee, clear days on the ridgeline were becoming few and far between, thanks to the poison spewing from TVA facilities and thanks to the voracious human appetite for energy. Fifty years ago, you could see over one hundred miles from the Anakeesta Ridge. Today, there are many days when you can’t see twenty-five miles.

I’m told by the President, however, that clean coal can change all that. Can it? Is there really such a thing as clean coal? I suppose there is since, after all, there’s such a thing as a justified attack on a peaceful sovereign nation. It’s all good for business, as is tourism in the parks.

Edward Abbey nailed it back in the seventies when he wrote all those spot-on essays about industrial tourism. Abbey forced us to peel back the cover and face the ugly reality of the National Park system. Yeah, the National Park Service does a lot of good, and I fully support the good work our Rangers do in the field. But the administrative folks back in Washington are ultimately swayed by powerful Congress Critters that want tourism in their districts and in their states. They want long lines of cars in parks, because all those people are going to buy gasoline, hotel rooms, meals, tickets to theme parks and tons of cheap plastic shit made in China that eventually all ends up in landfills.

“That’s not exhaust you smell, son. That’s money!”

Seeing the long lines makes me think Abbey was also right in advocating that we close the National Parks to cars. I broach this subject on the trail with Allison who’s quick to point out that would eliminate access for elderly and handicapped people. Not so, I respond. We could give them a special area or have handicapped shuttles. And after all, we don’t have paved, handicapped access to the top of Gregory Bald or Mt. Whitney. There are simply some places not everyone can get to. As Ed once said, “it’s hard, but it’s fair.”

Finally reaching the trailhead parking area, I’m once again dumbfounded by the number of cars. But I find solace in the knowledge that few of these people are going to hike on the longer trails. Most will take the easy half-mile paved trail up to Clingman’s Dome, a trip Ed once took, in fact, and a fun little adventure for park newbies.

And sure enough, after walking not even twenty-five yards down the trail, the noise disappears. We’re surrounded by blue skies and towering trees. We’re enveloped by precious quiet broken only by the sound of the wind.

The trail is a short one, only two miles or so one way, mostly level and well graded, except for the first quarter mile or so. The initial section, perhaps the first quarter mile or less, is mostly rock and uneven. We make our way through the rocks, surrounded by Red spruce (Picea rubens) and Fraser fir (Abies fraseri) and what one local we saw on the trail called “bear berry bushes,” although I suspect it’s chokeberry. It’s actually easy to distinguish between the two evergreen species, since the Red spruce lacks the silvery undersides of the Fraser fir or even the Eastern hemlock. The bark of the Red spruce is flaky and its cones hang down from the branches (Fraser fir stand upright on the branches). Its needles are sharp, so if you touch the need and feel a sharp stick, it’s Red spruce. Many of the firs in the park have succumbed to the non-native, sap-sucking balsam wooly adelgid. Still erect, the remains are eerie skeletons beginning to outnumber the healthy trees by a wide margin. They give the landscape a ghostly, otherworldly quality.

Before the trail levels out and enters a hemlock forest, we catch several fine views down into the valley at Fontana. The rays of the southern sun cascade downward and upon us, drenching us in warmth as the light highlights often obscure or hidden aspects of the forest. We notice small spiders at work in the flora, see all the varying shades of greens, reds and browns, multiple species of native pollinators and the sparkle of quartz nestled in the Proterozoic walls of sandstone, dolomite and limestone.

Our destination is Andrews Bald, one of several balds in the Smokies. Balds are large, mostly treeless meadows found in several areas of the park. They date to the early 1800′s, although their exact origin is unknown. Andrews is what is a grassy bald, meaning its flora is dominated by grasses, but you can also find the mountain laurel, rhododendron, blueberry and huckleberry found on heath balds. Andrews and Gregory are now being maintained as balds, more closely resembling their appearance in the days before the park when locals grazed livestock in the high elevations.

As we approach the bald, I find the trail conditions have improved dramatically since my last visit approximately fifteen years ago. Trail crews have erected wooden supports and even bridges in areas formerly heavily eroded. As we walk along, we notice several species of fern, including Intermediate Wood fern (Dryopteris intermedia), Mountain Wood fern (Dryopteris campyloptera) and Appalachian Rock Polypody (Polypodium appalachianum).

Entering the bald, the first thing I notice is how much larger it seems than on my previous visit. The restoration appears to be extensive. When we last visited the bald, there were very few spots where you could get an expansive view into the valley. The mountain laurel and rhododendron had grown to the point where the valley below was largely obscured. Not anymore. The views were expansive and magnificent, although I have to question the logic of “maintaining” the bald since it means man is interfering with the natural course of things.

As I recall, the Park Service “surveyed” visitors to ask their opinion on the bald, and as expected, people opted for the restoration and the “views.” And since that means more visitors, the Park Service complied. What if they’d asked for ski lift?

The meadow is open and pretty, dotted with blueberries and wildflowers including Skunk Goldenrod (Solidago glomerata) and White Wood Aster (Aster divaricatus). It’s among the most inviting spots I’ve ever seen in the park, so we decide to sit and enjoy a snack and soak up some rays.

Although we don’t have the place all to ourselves, it’s large enough that the other eight or so visitors are barely noticed. We nestle ourselves adjacent to a blueberry bush and absorb the magnificent beauty that surrounds us. Nothing but moderate temps, a crystal blue sky and the most beautiful sound in the world, quiet. As I ponder our good fortune, I wonder why more people don’t get out of their cars and explore. Abbey pondered the same thing, and as I recall, concluded he liked it that way since there were fewer humans to contend with on the trails. Perhaps. But the failure to venture beyond one’s vehicle compounds ignorance and ignorance contributes directly to neglect and to apathy about wilderness.

Since Ed’s time, I believe the numbers of hikers and backpackers has probably increased exponentially. In fact, selling “outdoor gear” is a huge business. REI alone does over $1.4 billion in annual sales. Apparently, we can’t venture out onto the trail unless we have the latest Gortex clothing and titanium gizmos made in China. My god, how did we ever make it without Gortex and GPS devices? Not sure, but I sure enjoy my twelve year old Patagonia quick dry top. It’s served me well on trails all over the country.

As we start to hike out, I notice a group of five or six new arrivals. For some reason, they look out of place, and in a second, my instincts are confirmed. They are out of place. They’ve left their cars, but not their devices.

“Hey, I can’t believe I can get a signal up here!”

And as you might expect, this person starts calling someone on his cellphone, at which point I hasten my retreat. Walking back to the parking area, I think to myself what a noble endeavor it would be for someone, some good patriot that loves his or her country, to disable all the cellphone towers within a twenty-five mile radius of the park.

I dream of a day when the roads will be closed, and to get to Andrews Bald, you have to earn it. Not the easy four mile walk we just took. Walk the whole distance from the park entrance and climb 3000 feet to the ridge. Make it a multi-day backpack. Who knows, you might see black bear, hear Barred owls and coyotes at night. You’d have three days or more to relish the solitude of the trail and commune with something other than your car, your cellphone, your laptop or teevee.

Of course you can do this now and simply ignore the road. Why didn’t I? Because I didn’t have to. I took the easy way out and failed miserably to live up to my own wilderness ethic. Well, not exactly. Truth be told, the trip would have been too much for Allison, since she struggles with rheumatoid arthritis. But if I ever come back to the Smokies alone, or visit any other national park on my own, I believe I’ll observe a new self-imposed rule of walking to my destination from the park entrance.

As Ed would say, “It’s hard, but it’s fair.”

Hayduke left a comment about my Arizona post that’s worthy of further discussion:

Why do we want to travel quickly for long distances?
Where do we stop feeding our desires and begin living our ideals? We only live on this poor beat up and much abused earth thing one time. No going back and doing it over. No second chances, no one gets out alive.
Why not do it right the first time?

A good, fair point…..

Americans are enamored with getting places quickly, having things delivered quickly and quick service. As a society, we’re fast paced and don’t like delays. Fast food is popular because it’s fast, not because it’s good or affordable. (It’s not good, and it’s not affordable.) Although we have the interstate system and highways, Americans seem hardly satisfied with driving safe and sane speed limits. We want to get there even faster! FedEx is all about fast. Music downloads, Netflix. It’s all fast. Fast rules the day for most Americans.

Now, when you only have five days of vacation, it’s nice when you only have to spend a few hours of it actually traveling. It’s also nice if you have a debilitating disease (like my wife) and find it difficult to sit for long periods of time. But mostly, it’s because we want our shit fast, and I suppose it’s simply another negative aspect of our consumptive culture.

Fast comes with a price. Fast means exponentially more fuel and more resource use overall. It may create jobs, but we can create better jobs than taking fast food orders. How miserable can that be!

As far as travel is concerned, I think train is the way to go, but I’m not happy with our current system of routes. For example, for me to get from Memphis to New Orleans and then on to west Texas, I have to take a series of buses between major stops, including Lafayette, a city I travel to several times a year. This trip could take several days and is simply not practical. In fact, it’s idiotic.

Let’s look at the Lafayette, Louisiana trip on the Sunset Limited. If I left Memphis on Wednesday, I’d get to Lafayette, only 437 miles by car, on Friday because there’s no service from New Orleans to Lafayette on Wednesday night or Thursday. I’m better off driving the Prius down the pleasantly shaded and mercifully slow Natchez Trace. On a single tank of gas, mind you.

Memphis to New Orleans is a nice, reasonable eight hour ride, but New Orleans to San Antonio is nearly 16 hours or 48 hours when you add the Memphis section. That’s an additional 8 hours for travel and a day lay over. It’s 726 miles by Prius in 11 hours and less than two tanks of gas, and I don’t have to pay for cab fare once I get to my destination. And just to illustrate how pathetic our rail system is in the United States, a comparable trip from Paris, France to Marseille St. Charles (nearly 800 miles) takes slightly over 3 hours on Société Nationale des Chemins de fer français (SNCF).

As I’ve said before, we need vast improvement in this area, a national rail system comparable with those in Europe and Japan, but don’t hold your breath. Looks like we’re only getting a cosmetic, politically motivated, face lift, not the real thing.

I loathe air travel. The whole experience from check in to claiming luggage, assuming you were lucky enough for your luggage to show up. Once you arrive at the airport, every stage of the process seems stressful and demeaning. But if you want to travel quickly for long distances, it’s still the best option.

My fear of flying is largely irrational, since statistics clearly show it’s safer than traveling by auto. But when I get on a jet, my brain shuts down and fear takes over. Every minute is excruciating, from take off to landing. Every bump creates a rise in blood pressure. In fact, I’m feeling one right now, as this essay is being composed during the Phoenix to Denver leg of my homeward journey.

I need a drink.

The most dangerous form of travel, the automobile, is my preferred mode, because I’m in control, or at least to a large degree, of my agenda and of my fate. I can see more of the country and can stop at all the quirky, interesting little places along the way. But too much car travel brings guilt, as I realize I’m yet another American packing the highways and burning fuel like there’s no tomorrow. And of course there’s the time involved. In order for me to drive from the Mississippi Delta to Four Corners, it takes over twenty hours. I have to remain alert and sober at all times. And as I age, I find I’m becoming less alert and less sober. Perhaps the two conditions are related….

Trains? Yes, a wonderful, dignified, greener method of travel, although once again, there’s the time issue. Due to the fact our national passenger rail system is at best, half ass, it can take nearly 20 hours to get from Memphis to San Antonio, and I’m still a long way from Arizona or Utah. The other option goes through Chicago, and I can’t logically see any reason why I’d travel to Chicago to get to Flagstaff.

Our journey was fairly smooth, except for one big bump on the initial Denver to Phoenix flight, and in less than five hours from leaving home, Allison and I were in our rental car headed north to posh, overpriced, over-developed Sedona, Arizona.

Driving northward on I-17, we’re both fascinated by the cacti covered desert landscape. The contrast between our home and our destination couldn’t be more extreme. In the Mississippi Delta, everything is lush and moist. Towering trees, dark, rich soil and eighty percent humidity. Here, the land is harsh. It’s arid and the vegetation seems stunted and sparse. It appears uninviting yet it has a beguiling quality that calls to us.

Unfortunately, too many Americans have responded to the call. Millions and millions have poured into the west and the continuing patterns of growth are alarming. On the flight to Phoenix, I decided to do a re-read of Edward Abbey’s The Journey Home, specifically for the chapters dealing with Arizona. Abbey hit the nail squarely on the head back in the 70’s when he wrote about “The BLOB” and the metastasis strangling the life out of place. I can only imagine what he would think if he could see it today, especially the sprawling ugliness of Phoenix. Why anyone else would move here is a complete mystery to me.

I had mixed emotions about going to Sedona, because I knew it was a tourist trap. But the desire to explore in and around the unique rock formations was too much to resist.

Sedona advertises its population as around 4500 people, which sounds pretty good until you realize a couple of things. One, it’s a ritzy, pampered populace, and two, over four million souvenir seeking people visit annually. Its “downtown,” if you can call it that, is crowded and expensive, packed with vendors selling cheap plastic shit made in China and “Pink Jeep Tours.”

The mountainsides are littered with multi-million dollar homes, monstrosities that suck enormous amounts of energy, so much so I imagined that I could hear it, like the sound of a suddenly opening clogged drain.

Allison and I did some research and found a great spot for our “base camp,” a cozy little inn on the edge of the town’s western end, far removed from the hustle and bustle of the tourist district. It was tastefully and modestly decorated and priced well to boot.

We were also fortunate to find a great breakfast joint, The Coffee Pot, a locals joint with a reasonable spattering of tourists. Yes, I’m a tourist, but I don’t want to be with my own kind. I want to do as the locals do which means eating at the local hangouts and finding remote trails only a local may tell you about.

The service was friendly and lightening fast and the food was delicious and hot. Should you have the good fortune or misfortune (depending on your view) to visit Sedona, this should be a part of your food agenda. You won’t regret it.

For our first day of hiking we select the Boynton Canyon trail, a popular, easy six mile walk to an open red rock hill side with views into the canyon. I had originally opted for the more remote Secret Canyon trail, but Allison was nursing a bad back, so we decided to put off the remote, challenging stuff for the next three days.

The trail is easily graded and gives the hiker a good introduction to the immense variety of desert life present in the area. Walking through the 275 million year old cathedral of rock is like taking a trip back in time. The Forest Service literature says “from bottom to top layer, one can observe about 80 million years of sediment deposition.” Most of the layers, from Tertiary to Mississippian, contain hematite or iron oxide, the element that gives the rocks their red color. But the entire trail is a collage of color, greens, reds, yellows and blues thanks to an impressive mix of desert flora.

Within the first two miles, we see Banana Yucca, Pinyon Pine, Cottonwood, Century Plant (Agave parryi), Juniper, Prickly Pear cactus and dozens of wildflower species.

I’m dismayed by the fact I can only identify a few of plants. Botany has never been my strong suit, and it’s one class in college I really struggled with. Too much memorization for my alcohol clouded, girl crazy brain, and besides, what difference does it make if you can’t name the plant?

In the case of Moon lily or Sacred Datura (Datura meteloides), a flowering plant I believe we’ve correctly identified at several points along the way, knowledge of species can make a big difference. Although it was an important medicinal plant to American Indians, all parts of the plant are extremely poisonous. Moon lily derives it’s name from the fact that its flowers open in early evening and close the following day when struck by sunlight.

The initial quarter mile of trail was amongst the best I’ve seen anywhere, except for one major issue. Running along side the trail for the first quarter mile is the Enchantment Resort, a sprawling defilement built for wealthy muckety-mucks. There are a few homes as well, massive, multi-million dollar enclaves for folks that apparently know a lot more about making money than nature. And I think it’s also safe to say they probably love money more than nature.

All the travel mags talk about the place like it’s some Taoist nirvana on earth, touting what Abbey called “zen bullshit.” Special services like yoga, qigong, tai chi, vortex excursions, blah, blah, blah. Want to find nirvana? Go on a long hike in the quiet of the morning. Come back in the late afternoon sunburnt and tired with aching knees and big appetite. Follow that with a hearty meal with a cold beer with friends and family. That’s nirvana enough for me.

Desert Living magazine, one of those worthless publications designed for the sort of folks that stay at the Enchantment Resort, claims the resort “blends into the Canyon.” I beg to differ. It’s a monstrosity, an unnecessary, ugly intrusion into an area that didn’t need “improvement.” As Allison and I walked along this section, we could hear the pounding of construction equipment building a new mega-home along the side of the canyon. The highlight, however, was the warning sign and security camera just before you reach the end of the first mile of trail. “HIKERS NOTICE” is written in large red capital letters and the sign goes on to imply that we’re being watched and taped by armed guards and gizmos and will be prosecuted if we trespass through their beloved ooh la la shithole.

The one thing I do know about Desert Living is this: none of their writers know a goddamned thing about living in the desert. It should be called Desert Raping. It’s all about extravagance and living a self-absorbed, consumptive life at the expense of all other life. As we finally got past the resort gate, I thought to myself how satisfying it would be to ride through their property with some comancheros, rustling the residents out of their comfy beds and hustling them into the parking lot for an announcement.

“Buenos días, amigos. This property is being confiscated and returned to its native inhabitants. You can collect your personal items at the Sedona Land Cooperative some time tomorrow. Have a nice life somewhere else.”

After this major annoyance, the rest of the trail is sublime. Red rocks rise over the flora, taking our eyes upward toward a brilliant blue sky punctuated by a spattering of white clouds. For the first two miles, there are few places to hide from the scorching Arizona sun, but luckily for us, the temperatures are unseasonably mild, so the heat isn’t terribly oppressive. It’s just enough to pleasantly warm our humidity oppressed Southern bones.

Lizards also bask in the sunlight all along the trail including what I believe is a Plateau striped whiptail. Its pointed snout and large eyes are alert to our movements, and it only allows us fleeting glimpse before scurrying for cover beneath a clump of undergrowth and organic matter just beyond the edge of an emerging conifer forest.

We turn north into a narrow gap known as “Boynton Bowling Alley.” Here the trees are taller, especially the Ponderosa pine. Allison and I stop and take a sniff of the bark which gives off a scent of vanilla or even praline pecan.

Standing beneath the mighty Ponderosa, we stop to simply enjoy the quiet of the forest. In the distance, we hear what sounds like a low roar. It’s wind, blowing up perhaps a mile or more beyond our location. We listen intently as it increases, an indication it’s headed our way. Within seconds, a few leaves on a scrubby Gambel oak begin to rustle and before we know it, the wind is upon us. The air cools significantly as the wind roars through the canyon, blessing us with a satisfying breeze. I imagine it’s a gift from the spirits of the ancients, the Sinagua, the Yavapai or the Apache, or perhaps a warning for us to not linger, to move on to another place.

We climb a little over 400 feet in the final 1/3 mile and are rewarded with a splendid view of the canyon and its sandstone cliffs. All sides are imprinted with manganese stains from melting winter snows and monsoon season rains. We rest in an open area with four or so other hikers that made the wise choice to complete the six mile journey. One gentleman came equipped with a guitar, a meditative, new ager type for sure. I resist the temptation to laugh as he poses and asks his wife to film him playing his guitar.

Noticing a slight trail continuance to the west, I decide to explore a bit and find a small saddle decorated with dozens of cairns constructed by previous explorers. I decide to make my own, just beyond where the river flows from a small desert garden. I arrange seven small rocks for all family members, including two beloved dogs. Allison does the same, although hers is much more interesting than mine since she’s more creative and generally more intelligent.

We pause a few more minutes to soak it all in before beginning our downward trek back to civilization. I feel great joy and a relaxed satisfaction from the fact that I’ve finally come west again and placed my feet upon yet another dusty, sandy path. I rejoice in how alive I feel and how happy I am to have a loving companion with which to share the adventure. All of my melancholy is swept away by the towering red rock, the gentle wind and the life that makes this place so special. That, and the knowledge that it’s protected, or at least reasonably protected, from the interlopers and opportunists that would destroy it if given the chance.

The dream vacation is set. Marathon, Texas, population 450.

Why is Marathon the dream destination? Because there’s really nothing there. A hotel, a few B&B’s, several art galleries, a book seller, a good bar, a couple of eateries, local train service and miles and miles of open space and hiking through west Texas and Big Bend National Park.

There aren’t any big houses or exclusive resorts in Marathon and hopefully there never will. We’ll have to hope the locals don’t sell out to opportunistic parasites with more money than sense and that they keep their shotguns handy. Enact some ordinances that restrict population growth and place a ceiling on real estate prices. Maybe even do away with private property altogether and recreate the commons.

Word on the street is a couple of executive chefs have made their way there, which is tolerable I suppose. Let’s just hope that doesn’t become a trend, because once it does, you’ll soon find your $9.95 t-bone, hash browns and Mexican strawberries (refried beans) replaced with Proscuitto wrapped european quail with port wine figs and a port soaked filet covered in caramelized shallot confit. (market price)

Adios, PBR and Lonestar and bonjour, Pinot Noir. Say “so long” to the $90,000 rancher and meet your new neighbor, a $500,000 non-sustainable monstrosity. And of course the latter attracts the attention of the tax man, so before you know it, you can no longer afford to live in the place you were born. Get outta here, local! Make room for us yuppies.

Happy trails, Fred and Hazel, here come Winthrop and Buffy and they’re bringing Buckhead with them.

Everything around here either bites, stings or sticks in your skin, so my advice would be to not come here. Stay home or if you just have to go somewhere, go to Aspen, Las Vegas or some other fancy pants place. Leave Marathon for us rednecks.

And no, while tempted, I’m not staying. I’ll come back to where I belong and leave Marathon as I found it. You do the same.

Little River, Great Smoky Mountains

When I left East Tennessee seven years ago, it was a year too late. I was excited to be headed west, not quiet as far west as I wanted, but anything west of the Tennessee River seemed like an improvement.

Most of my reasons for leaving were business and financially related, although I was convinced, and apparently rightly so, that Knoxville was a town going nowhere. A town suffocating under the crushing weight of over development, traffic and human greed. For a brief, fleeting moment, I naively thought Knoxville could become a special place known for its greenways, intellectual qualities and environmental awareness. Instead, it, like too many places, cast its lot with the growth machine and the bulwark of the community, the University of Tennessee, lead the way.

I’m told by a professor friend, things are now so bad at UT that the professors are going to have a “vote of no confidence” of the President to show their displeasure with the direction of the school. It seems that really important academic areas are to languish, so the University can fund more research into profit motivated boondoggle known as alternative fuels and its ever expanding athletic empire.

Sustainability, writing, music and art are taking a back seat to Fuel Cells and Football. But that’s what most people want, because most people are frankly ignorant. Hopelessly ignorant.

I do have many fond memories of this place, a beautiful landscape of rolling hills, forests, flowing rivers and that well known ancient Proterozoic uplift best known for its incredible diversity of flora and fauna covered by a wispy, smoke-like fog. I met wonderful people. Shared incredible moments with my wife and children on snowy days in the Smokies and in our cozy, Cape-Cod styled home near the University.

I remember our creeky wood floors. Jack Johnson’s ghost. Our neighbors. The large trees that surrounded the house swaying back and forth during storms. Quiet afternoons reading on my deck with Buster the cat and Chewie the dog. Baseball at Lakeshore Park. Swimming at Court South. Our Halloween party. Cross country races on Cherokee Blvd.

Climbing to Spence Field and Gregory Bald and exalting in the glorious, fall sunshine. And best of all, perhaps my most favorite memory, was a brief magical moment near Clingmans Dome. Sitting at 6600 feet on a snow covered path with my wife, surrounded by snow covered trees and icicles, I held her soft, sweet hands and gently but passionately kissed her while the afternoon sun warmed our bodies. The place was beautiful and was so the moment.

“Why leave,” you may ask.

Although we made some life long friends there, one of the biggest issues for me was the people. There’s quiet a passel of ignorant, mean rednecks. I generally like rednecks. Come from a long line of ‘em. But I don’t like mean ones that don’t have a lick of sense. And then you have Oak Ridge and its nasty nuclear power industry, and those gawd awful TVA coal fired plants all over the place. Dumb, mean rednecks, dirty air and nuclear weapons production sort of spoiled everything else.

Over the years, I’ve returned to the park on a handful of occasions, each time promising myself it would be my last. My brother-in-law and other friends would entice me, usually for backpacking, and I found the allure of the mountains too much to resist. Yet, each time I came away saying it would definitely be my last visit to the Smokies. As Abbey would say, people were “loving the park to death.” Too many people, deeply eroded trails, lines of cars stretching for miles and crowded campsites.

And compared to the west, I frankly found it boring.

How does a nature lover find the most biologically diverse park on the continent boring? Within nearly 800 square miles, there are over 10,000 different species. From the southern hardwood forests at 875 feet moving upward to the spruce-fir forests at 6643 feet along the 70 plus mile stretch of the Appalachian Trail, you’ll find the same amount of forest diversity as you would driving from Georgia to Maine. Over 100 native species of trees, 1500 flowering plants and over 230 avian species.

I reckon it’s just a case of “been there, done that.”

I find the east, in general, lacks the color of desert, even in the glorious springtime when the hillsides are covered by white, pink and red rhododendron, or in the more famous fall and its harvest colors. The Smokies lack the wide open expanses of the west. The grandeur of the Sierra Nevada or the Rockies. It’s heaven for a biologist, but I prefer the open spaces. The hot sun. Red rock. Cacti. Dust. And I prefer the diversity of people in the west. American Indian, Spanish, Mexican and Anglo. Cowboys and vaqueros. Saloons. Ghost towns. My own, romanticized and fictional view of things I refuse to disturb with historical facts I’ve buried away somewhere in the recesses of my bizarre brain.

Yes, I’m in love with the over romanticized, often fictionalized west of cowboys and Indians. The real history of Geronimo, the Texas Rangers, Comancheros, The Sioux, Puebloans, Kit Carson and Edward Abbey. The make-believe world of Cormac McCarthy, Woodrow Call and Hayduke.

And as was the case with Abbey, I find the Four Corners region has it all. Mountains, high desert, canyons, rivers, history. I can see golden aspen in the fall and snow capped 14,000 foot peaks. Red rock and cacti. It’s like no other place on earth.

I did, however, return to the Smokies this month, for what I feel certain is my last time. My brother-in-law was once again the instigator, inviting me to accompany he and his son on a loop hike in Elkmont, the first section of the park I explored back in the early ’90s.

As I walked out, via the Sugarland Mtn., Huskey Gap and Little River Trails, I had a different feeling than ever before. Enjoying the pleasure of hiking alone, it was quiet and in this quiet I said goodbye to the park. Thanked it for harboring me and for allowing me to cut my teeth on its trails. For sharing its clear, cool water and its bountiful diversity of life.

Returning to the crowded parking area, I turned around, looked back at the trail and said “goodbye,” figuring my absence was the best gift I could offer this special place. And with a quick turn of the key and the ignition of the engine, I drove forward, not looking back. Looking only ahead, leaving behind some bad memories but taking the good ones with me.

Back to my favorite place, Ridgway, Colorado. I simply can’t stand it any longer. The call of the mountains and the forest is too strong.

Right now, Ridgway looks a lot different from the above photo. It’s cold and snowy, with nighttime temps in the teens, daytime highs in the low 50′s. You can see what it looks like right now by clicking here.

Cold or warm, it’s my favorite mountain town, equipped with only a handful of eating establishments, a single grocer, less than 1000 folks. Miles of trails with nary a soul, an ocean of trees and peaks from 8000 to 14000 feet. Cold beer, Orvis Hot Springs.

It ain’t easy to get to, either, which suits me just fine. You stay away, though. Find your own place to hide from the blob.

I’ll be going it alone. My corporate chick wife ain’t into the scene. Too much Christmas shopping and too many spreadsheets for her to break away and enjoy a long weekend in the mountains. Gotta keep pushing that worthless sodie-pop on the gullible, gettin’ fatter by the second, American public.

Yes, I know. We’ll get her into therapy as soon as she first admits there is a problem. That’s the first step to recovery.

I’ll be burning some the remaining fossil fuel in order to indulge myself, but the iron bird is flying whether I’m on it or not. Might as well be on it. Scares the crap out of me, but it sure beats driving. Right now, it’s cheaper than driving.

Finally, something to look forward to! And if I don’t post ever again, you can assume the best has happened.

I recently returned from my first trip to New Mexico, where I did a little “Abbey touring.” Like Ed, I was impressed by the landscape and horrified by everything else. Swarms of humans, dependent on government teat and the weapons industry. And the Albuquerque Chamber of Horrors is doing everything it can to recruit more people, and more business , despite major water issues.

The insanity continues, unabated.

The trip report is here.

Pics are here.

So, the big California trip is nearing an end. As I peck, tap, tap, tap…I’m trapped on a missile moving at 500 miles per hour with several dozen other tourists, peering over the edge into the abyss, contemplating my recent journey into the Shasta Nation. NorCal.

An inaugural trip for everyone but me and my daughter. A vacation I felt would offer something for everyone. Nature and all sorts of cultural curiosities. Food, literary sites, parks, oceans, mountains, trails, museums.

We spent two days in what’s left of the real San Francisco, four days in and around posh Carmel and the spectacular Big Sur coastline and the last day in the primeval, awe inspiring redwood forests of Big Basin.

Overall, a good time, though tiring. And if there is a weather goddess, she was on our side, blessing us with seven straight days of sunshine and reasonable temps. Pretty much the norm for NorCal in summer, but I like to think luck was finally on my side.

We buried our toes in warm sand, were awed by 300 foot redwoods, watched lizards “posture” on rocks and saw the fog roll in off the bay. The Museum of Modern Art was a highlight, featuring Picasso, Matisse, Warhol and interesting new art from artists like Felix Schramm. We drove across the Golden Gate Bridge for the first time and enjoyed stacks of hot pancakes at Mama’s and at Katy’s. I finally made it Tor House, only to be disappointed that it was closed. Not to be deterred, I jumped the fence and explored.

Jeffers would have approved by rebellion.

Made our way to the Beat Museum, an exploitative disappointment decorated by blown up Wikipedia-like biographies, photos and copies of original book printings. Perhaps I’m too harsh, and it will improve. City Lights Bookstore was what I expected and more. I read Snyder, Welch, Ferlinghetti and Kerouac and imagined what it was like to be there when all the cool stuff went down. Listened to The Momas and The Papas driving through Haight-Ashbury, thought about what is was like during the Summer of Love and why we don’t have more Summer’s of Love.

We laughed and loved and completely wore ourselves out seeing all that we could see.

We saw friends, made new friends, scampered up hills and communed with the locals, human and non-human.

I was often moved to tears, simply from the joy of knowing my wife and kids were having a good time and that I was able to provide such a vacation before the children moved off, married and started their own families. I wanted so badly to do something nice for all them. In the end, I believe I achieved my goal.

Allison speaks of living there. A real shocker. Something I never thought I would hear from my deeply Southern rooted soul mate.

They mean everything, and without them, my life is nothing. So, I give thanks to the Shasta Nation for allowing us safe passage and blessing my family with its awesome sights, smells, sounds and tastes. It’s truly like no other place on earth.

Live there? Another visit? Not so sure about either.

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