Mountain Hiking

Cold Mountain

The Hiking Club left USCU about 8am, Saturday morning, under a beautiful, blue sky and the promise of temperatures in the 60s.  Great hiking weather.  I expect everyone thinks, on a day like that, “Ah, smell that air.  I should be up in the mountains, today.”

We drove up to Daniel Boone Camp, SW of Asheville, down a narrow country road and then at the end of a dirt road, on the flank of Cold Mountain.  I’m afraid we lost our blue sky and instead hiked into fog and clouds and cold, driven mist.  Occasionally, a pale sun would peak out at us, but mostly we had to look for the moss on the north side of trunks.  Tree branches creaked as they rubbed together in the wind.

Kevin is a great mushroom hunter.  He looked over one particular draw, with its ferns and fallen logs, and said, “this would be a perfect mushroom spot, back in Missouri.”  But we didn’t find any here in N.C.

We crossed tumbling streams and imagined them filling the Pigeon River, flowing at the base of Cold Mountain.  Up higher, we came upon tiny springs marking the very beginning of this mighty flow.  One was a smooth, arcing stream into a tiny pool, perfect for filling a drinking cup.  Intact drops spilled over mounds of green moss, without wetting them; not a flow, but a sparkling dance of spherical droplets.

I pretty much had to lead this hike.  We let Kevin lead for a while, but he steamed on up the trail and left the rest of us lost and alone (tough guy, but Tammy did say that he had the grace to admit to slightly sore legs on Sunday morning), and Tammy didn’t want to lead for fear that we’d see how goofy she looked as she tripped on roots and stumbled to catch her balance.  (I’m sure she was really quite graceful.)

Up high, the mist flowed over the ridge and froze onto each branch and twig:  white, feathery crystals.  The wind shook the branches and showered us with tiny chunks of ice.  Still we climbed.  The trail got narrower.  Not as many people climb to the top as reach the ridge line below.  Pushing through the branches, over rocks and roots, finally we reached the top.  A brass plate from the US Geological Survey:  6030 feet.  “Hey, we’re pretty well up here.”  The highest point east of the Mississippi River is just a little higher, at 6684.

Then, we had to scurry down.  It had taken us about four and a half hours to climb four and a half miles, but now we had only three hours until dark.  I asked Tammy if she’d brought a flashlight, but she’d left her purse at home.  So we scurried, and hurried for the nearest Hardee’s.  Next time, it’s Mt. Mitchell.