Mountain Hiking

Jones Gap

It was a Friday morning in March.  I can’t say it was a great day for hiking; the sky was thick with clouds, and rain fell off and on, but it is so hard to get out on the trail that we were just glad to be here, no matter what the weather was like.  Think of all the forces that conspire to keep us off the trail:  work, family, chores around the house and yard, and inertia.  But we set a date, packed the pack, and we’re here.

We started at the Middle Saluda River, at the eastern border of Jones Gap State Park.  We didn’t get any sort of break-in period or warm-up but immediately climbed up out of the valley, toward Little Pinnacle Mt., a climb of 1200 feet to the peak, at 2600 feet.

It was a slow climb, as we warmed up little-used muscles and settled heavy packs onto our backs.  We passed big slabs of rock and cabin sized boulders, each with shiny rivulets of water trickling down their faces.  There was lots of water in the mountains today.  Every creek was running full.  The guide books regularly warn of dry creeks in the summer.  Don’t count on replenishing your water supply here.  But there were no dry creeks today.

The sun was trying to break through.  Little Pinnacle Mt. is actually an east/west ridge, about a mile long, especially sharp to the north, from which we came, more gradual to the south.  We reached the eastern end of the ridge and turned right.  The trees began to thin, as the bones of the mountain more and more poked through the flesh, and we stopped for lunch.  A band of brightening sky was coming toward us, hopefully a weather front with blue sky and sunshine behind it.

To the north, the mountain fell away steeply, and we got a wonderful view of the Saluda River valley and the next mountain wall beyond.  There were patches of sunshine on the valley floor, and we could see the ranger station that marked the start of our hike.  We hadn’t come very far, maybe two and a half miles.  Across the valley stood dark gray cliffs and the thin strand of a long waterfall.

I felt the warmth of sunshine on my back — just a few moments.  There were only small patches of blue above.  A soft, cool breeze.  These little things felt so good, out of all proportion to what they really were.  This is surely one of the attractions, even thrills of wilderness hiking.  We leave behind all of the momentous distractions of job, school, family, friends, (enemies), and we practically stand naked in the woods.  No house, no car, no TV or radio, no lawnmower.  What is important in the course of our usual day?  Well, it isn’t important on this mountain top.

We walked up a long knife ridge, with four sets of log steps in it.  Overhead was a big patch of blue now, with wispy, white clouds.  A cluster of little green spears poked through the soil, from a nest of bulbs below.  There were mats of shiny, dark green galax, patches of fuzzy moss, and mountain laurel that was quiet now, but would explode a couple months later in a riot of white and pink.

On our right, we still had beautiful open views across the valley.  There was another massive cliff at the top of the valley wall, with a broad white curtain of a falls pouring down its face.  Water was flowing everywhere.  We entered open woods onto an old logging road, and a little spring trickled across in front of us.  Near the rivulet on one side was a little patch of dark green moss, each plant like a fir or spruce twig, a soft, distinct cylinder of leaflets standing vertically.  On the other side, grew a lighter, fuzzier moss and a patch of gray-green lichen.  Such a variety of soft colors and textures.

Birds sang above, and above them dark clouds rolled over.  A mist began to fall, and I put on my rain jacket.  Then it stopped.  Everything was wet; the creeks were rushing.

Spanky had his glasses on, so he saw the red-orange salamander in the trail.  I put mine on and got down to get the bifocals into play.  Two rows of tiny black dots ran down its back.  Off it waddled, body lashing from side to side and legs working oppositely, first right front and left rear and then left front and right rear, like a swimming fish.

We left the logging road and walked steeply down into the woods with a rushing creek to our right, past a big slab of rock amidst a stand of rhododendron, a sheet of rushing water pouring over it.  The sun glared off the water.  Above the slab,  a gushing sluice of a falls poured down.

We emerged from the woods onto a huge slab of rock with a stream spread out across its face, among thick patches of lichen, and pouring down the slope.  There was a wonderful view to the south, with pretty little non-threatening clouds and mists rising up out of the valleys.  A cairn and paint blazes led across the stream and marched across the rock.  We walked down, across the side of the mountain, among great boulders, to another creek and a bead curtain waterfall six feet wide.  We continued down and down, past more creeks and little falls, among rhododendron, down log steps imbedded in the steep trail, past a cluster of little, clean iris blades emerging from the soil, a steep descent in a tightly controlled jog, thrusting my two walking sticks out in front of me, first one, and then the other, firm braking action at each step, down down off of Little Pinnacle Mt.

We crossed two more creeks, a little cluster of violets, and a big millipede with orange and brown stripes.  We were under the big rock slab now, and there was water everywhere, a sliding rock falls on the left, another pair of creeks, two narrow falls squirted over the edge of the cliff.  We walked around a boulder and found ourselves at the bottom of a football-field sized slab of rock sloping down from the cliff above.  The two waterfalls poured over the edge of the cliff, fell about 20 feet and then ran down the sloping rock in parallel streams for another 100 yards to the trail.

We kept going, over creek after creek, one a torrent tumbling over rocks, another just a trickle.  Later, Spanky said he’d seen another salamander, but he didn’t show me.

We passed through a cloud of dead animal smell.  Whew!  Whenever I stop at a stream to fill my water bottles, I always think of the dead and bloated deer lying in the water just upstream and around the corner.  Why?  Is this some kind of bitter pessimism or just a dark sense of humor?  I’m not intimidated by the thought, though.  I tell myself, I can take it; I’ve drunk rat water.

It was years ago.  I was much younger and I suppose stronger.  We did not have city water at home but collected our water from a spring and pumped it up the hill to the house.  The spring was dug out about five feet and lined with brick.  A pipe then led down to a bigger brick cistern that stored enough for several showers.  One day, we turned on the kitchen faucet and had no water.  I cursed mildly because this did happen every now and then.  Usually, we’d water the lawn a little too long, empty the cistern, lose the prime on the pump, and the pump would then just spin, pumping nothing.  So I hurried down the path to the pumphouse to try and stop the pump from burning up and to get it primed again.  Sure enough, the pump was spinning.  I cut off the circuit breaker.  I walked down to the cistern, and it was empty, but it wasn’t filling either.  The inlet pipe from the spring should have been flowing as always, gradually filling the cistern.  Is there a break in the inlet pipe?  I traced it up to the spring to find the spring overflowing.  The spring is essentially a brick box, extending a few inches above the surface of the ground and covered with a galvanized lid.  Water poured out from under that lid.  I’d never seen that before.  I raised the lid and peered into the water.  Reflections danced off the surface, and dark shadows moved around below.  I shifted myself so I could look between the patches of glare.  There seemed to be a dark shape against the outflow pipe, clogging the exit.  I got a garden rake and brought up a big, swollen, decomposing, hair-coming-off-in-patches rat.  You know, for the last week or two, we’d thought the water had smelled kind of “woodsy.”

Coincidentally, my sister-in-law was visiting us that weekend, and she took this little household problem with very good grace.  We joked about the rat giving our immune systems some good exercise, good practice in dealing with germs.  Besides, on the trail I always disinfect my water.

We climbed over another ridge, into another little valley, and were treated to another waterfall, this one straight and narrow, 100 yards or more, tumbling down a 45 degree slope, a white rushing torrent.  About 6:20 pm, we stopped along Oil Camp Creek and set up camp.  In 15 minutes, tents and tarp were up.  A tarpaulin is not so much a rain protector, something to get under when it does rain, but a rain preventer, something you go to the trouble to put up to keep it from raining.  Certainly, we’ve been on many camping trips where we’ve put up the tarp, day after day, and it never rains, and then the one day that looks nice and we don’t put it up, it does rain.

So, camp was put together, and I was lounging by the side of the creek, munching cold tuna fish casserole and raisins on the side.  I’ve pretty much decided not to cook on these trips.  The whole point of backpacking is to get away from the chores and responsibilities of everyday life, to simplify.  This way, I don’t have to carry a stove or fuel, pots and pans, and what is better, I don’t have to unpack them, fill the stove, light it and maybe clean the orifice.  I don’t have to cook and clean up afterwards.  I don’t have the smell of fuel in my sleeping bag.  And besides, humans were meant to be browsers, nibbling on roots and berries and buds, maybe insects and small game.  Now-a-days, this translates into granola and dried fruit and beef jerky, and the military meals-ready-to-eat, MREs, one of which I was enjoying now.  I admit that cold potatoes-au-gratin is pretty bad, but everything else has been tasty, and the grocery store is full of prepared convenience foods for breakfast, lunch, and snacks.  There are fruits, nuts, grains, meats, breads, and candy.  You’ve got all your food groups plus roughage.  Carry a few raw carrots, and if you want more vitamins, take pills.  Spanky did heat some beef stew over Sterno, but I just don’t cook.

It was humid and drippy, along the creek.  That was part of the reason we didn’t have a campfire, but we were tired, too.  Above, we had almost half a moon, and the sky was full of stars.  The rain preventer seemed to have worked.  At 7:30, we went to bed.

I do not sleep soundly on my thin mattress — it leaks slowly I’m afraid, and I do not usually carry an alarm clock.  I noticed it beginning to get light in the tent about 6:00 am.  I heard birds singing at 6:20 and of course the steady roar of the creek.  I got up at 6:30.  It was 35 degrees.

There was sunshine on the very top of the ridge line to the north, across the creek, and the sky looked absolutely clear, a soft gray-blue.  The sunlight slowly crept down the slope.  We packed up and left at 7:15.

I don’t usually like to eat breakfast in camp.  At such an early hour, it’s cold and damp.  I need to get going, get my blood flowing, and let the sun rise.  By 8:00, we found a sunny corner and settled for a comfortable breakfast.  No cooking.  No bacon and eggs and toast and coffee.  I nibbled on Pop Tarts, fruit, granola, and water.  I know it doesn’t sound as good, but it is so much easier and more relaxing.  I could lounge and admire the faint blush of green in some of the trees and the deep blue sky with not a single cloud.  Two big snails crept through a cluster of dwarf iris spears.

Spanky and I talked about home renovation and landscape development.  Both he and I have older homes and a compulsive desire to bring order to our immediate environments.  Whenever  I go hiking, I find myself thinking about the few acres of woods behind my house.  There’s an interesting rock outcrop back there.  I should cut a path across the slope, so we could walk past it.  It’s nothing like this cliff out here in the forest, but it stands out and has attractive growths of moss and lichen.  I should open paths to the creek over here and the patch of club moss and ferns down in the valley.

We climbed up and away from Oil Camp Creek.  It gradually warmed, but there was a cool breeze.  We passed a tree with an oval hollow in its base.  I yawned, too.  Spanky suggested that elves were up there baking cookies.  Maybe his breakfast wasn’t quite enough.

We could see Table Rock maybe ten miles away.  I’d like to spend a week sometime, hiking from Jones Gap over to Sassafras Mt., the highest mountain in South Carolina, at 3560 feet, back to Table Rock, and back to Jones Gap again, a circle of about 50 miles.

At 10:00 am, we reached a trail intersection and turned north.  We passed some private homes and wondered if the owners enjoyed their views of hikers passing through the woods, like views of wild animals, or if they resented the intrusion.

The trail approached the base of a twenty-foot granite cliff with a twisted oak on top.  Two vultures flapped hugely as we passed.  It sounded like a sailboat luffing in a gentle wind.  We looked up and commented, “We’re not dead, yet.”

The rock face was mossy and wet.  Water sheeted down the surface.  There were  long, vertical paths of green, yellow, and brown.  Little overhangs gave trickles and drips.  Tendrils of moss formed little bead curtains, strings of water here and there.  We listened to tiny, wet splashes on rock and dryer sounding pat-pats onto drifts of dead leaves. 

We walked past these cliffs and up to Rockcliff Falls, which poured out of a rhododendron and hemlock thicket, about 40 feet down a rock face in a single flume, into a deep pool, and then down among scattered boulders and across the trail.

We were climbing, and we had a big view back down the valley to the east and of our cliffs shiny in the sunlight.  We crossed the highway to Caesars Head, less than a mile to the west, and hurried back into the woods, feeling a little disconcerted.  We began this hike to escape a little from the civilized part of our lives, and here, in the shape of this road, civilization had caught up with us.  We slunk across, looking furtively over our shoulders, treading as lightly as we could, and escaped into the woods.  I don’t think any of it stuck to us.

The trail paralleled a small stream, which dropped over a 20 foot Firewater Falls.  The remains of an old moonshine still were supposed to be at the top, nestled among protecting rhododendrons.  We took pictures near the clean fall of water.  Over to the right, a shallow and fairly dry cave sloped up under the dark, granite ledge.

We continued along this unnamed creek, which eventually flowed into Coldspring Branch and then into the Saluda River.  At Frank Coggins Trail, we turned west and crossed the creek just above Cliff Falls.  Here, the water spread out into thin curtains, arching over three, successive ledges like stair treads.  We climbed out of this little valley on wooden steps and through a tunnel of rhododendron and a carpet of ferns, over a ridge, and gradually down toward Coldstream Branch.  We crossed a small stream on a log and stopped to have lunch.  The sun was warm, and the sky a clear blue.  The stream rushed and gurgled.

No worries or responsibilities here.  Home, family, job, and community were far away.  It wasn’t going to rain on us.  In March, we didn’t even have to worry about insects or snakes.  We stretched out by the stream and reveled in the peace.  We talked a little about Leon Redbone, folk singer.  He’s certainly not a mainstream performer.  I’d seen him on Austin City Limits years ago, even decades ago.  Such a laid back style and clean, simple guitar work.  Spanky saw him in Greenville not too long ago.  Small world.  The stream churned and sang.

We roused ourselves and finally arrived at Coldstream Branch and turned downstream.  This was a fast and tumbling creek with lots of whitewater and falls and pools in between.  We crossed on a log and then later on stones.  Down the stream and back and forth, past rushing cascades and swirling eddies, it was music to ears, eyes, and nose.

Coldstream Branch flowed into the Saluda River, and the water continued to churn and rush and pour.  We were on a broad trail, now, an old logging road heading east and back to park headquarters.  It descended smoothly and gradually, first on the north side of the river and then on the south.  We began to hear the twittering and warbling conversations of three girls coming from behind us, girls out on a day hike and moving faster than our relaxed mosey.  They passed us, gesturing and dancing and excited.  We thought surely this is some kind of mating display, not for us, but a general, instinctive, or subconscious thing.  Or is it for us?  They swirled down the trail and around a curve, the music gradually fading.  It was a nice reintroduction to civilization and the real world.