Beyond the Thunder

The plan seemed simple enough: leave early Saturday before dawnlight could spill into the dark-stained sky, crunch loose gravel beneath the coche’s balding tires as they weave several miles of potholed backroads in the Cherokee National Forest, reach the terminus of the long road and pull the car to the side, finally strap on the essential (and not-so-essential) gear for the plunge into the interminable thicket of rhododhendron blanketing the footpath that mirrors the course of Citico Creek.

Somewhere in the limitless predawn ether my design involved sweating up the steady slope of the footpath pace by careful pace under a hefty packload, breathing coolsweet air until arriving at the magic split in the creek: North Fork and South Fork (JR was NOT shot here). Magic because anywhere upstream of the confluence an angler is allowed the special priviledge of fishing with the standard (hardly cheap)fishing license free of the additional purchase of the “one day trout stamp” required for fishing in the watershed below.

Lemme stop the dreamin’ right here and cauterize the wound: my fly rod was to never leave its cylindrical case, and no hiking up Citico Creek this weekend…

The long stretch of road leading to the trailhead was essentially jammed with fisherfolk (mostly spincasters at that) in every sector that a car could be safely parked on the (extremely narrow, virtually one lane) roadside. Everywhere. Sliding down embankments in mossy-oak camo, standing in profile mere feet apart, casting to the same riffles and deep pools on the far shore. Chaos for one expectant of a morsel of seclusion.

A few mournful sighs later I removed my blinders. Every passing year is a guarantee of increased people pressure in the National Forests – I’ve witnessed it firsthand since childhood. The forests are for us all; yet I’ve also seen a predictable increase in their abuse – especially in areas prone to the “car-camper” syndrome: where someone can pull their car into primitive campsite spots and proceed unflinchingly to cut down live flora pointlessly while simultaneously tossing cans in the creek and garbage into the canopy. Loads of fun I’m sure, except nobody ever bothers to pack the garbage out – and I’ve seen LOTS of it, even in backcountry campsites where so-called “enlightened” hikers feel that nature will cheerily envelop their slop. No, the caretaker is the conscientious. Those of us that try and carry an extra trashbag to remove the refuse of the others. And people can’t figure why Forest Service has shut down so many campsites.

Still I persevere. The Citico corridor is lost for now. The packed dirt spot at the end of the road was occupied by leery-eyed Skynard-types that seemed somewhat agitated at my approach. The road abruptly dead-ends here and I have to initiate the jagged dance of turning ’round the car with about two yards to work with at starboard and port. I could see the stick-on graphics slightly peeling from the grit-covered back window of their pickup reading: Tennessee Killin’ Krew I worked the wheel hard to get the hell outta Dodge.

Backup plan? Nahhh. The mental switch had now been flicked to Vagabond mode; an easy transition for me in this section of the forest, my peripatetic nature is familiar plenty with the scattered dusty backroads. I headed southwest over the mountain down to the Tellico River watershed. A beautiful waterfall in this neck of the woods is at Bald River; the obstreperous falls spill about one hundred and fifty feet or so:

Vagabonding continues: Higher within the adjacent hollows flows the North River (Sorry Chris, apparently the day we fished there was under illegal conditionals, a swarthy old fisherman told me I needed a one day pass to wet line in the NR as well….ignorance is bliss eh? ’till game warden comes a callin’…); cascading gently in stretches that quickly break into spewing waterfalls. This one I encounterd far from the trail, feeling its soft, cold spray on my face warm from exertion:

Traveling at a higher altitude I wrangled my path towards the headwaters of Bald River. Even here this stream is gigantico for one in the mountains, and my fly rod was in the car….damn the one day pass, pool after deep pool and wide calm shallow flats:

The sun of day evaporated as clouds thickened in breezy air that monotonously ripped my hat off my head. It was shelter time. A storm was bearing down from the northwest; clouds painted a rising fury against the darkening land. I made way to a lowland car-camp site (Camp in Officially Designated Locations Only) and pitched the Rock (my tent) and settled in for the ride. Efforts were rewarded at making a fire to cook what grub I had along: a few dried out tortilla shells and a half pack of hot dogs from the cooler were plenty to purge hunger from my body.
Just as I had the second dog on the stick I could hear it – the sheet of rain beating treetops miles away. The air was electric sweet and the sound of the charging clouds was a primal whisper from the horizon, a steady, unsettling skygroan.

Thunder clapping and lightening blanching bright whiteness inside the thin-walled confines of the tent. The sound of the pounding rain crackled fire-like against the tent and pushed me easily into the deep sleep of a fox in his winter burrow.

Morning again and skies pure. Bluer than I could remember, and colder too; the temperature had dropped at least twenty degrees– typical after a warm day and early-spring storm. It was time to vagabond again.

Later, on the dull roll townward I veered toward the signs pointing the way to a historic locale – the Tellico Blockhouse. A hodepodge of stonewall ruins pieced together from the archaeological remains of the original blockhouse structure that was used by the Tennessee settlers ca 1794-1806 as a frontier outpost and negotiating station with the Cherokee Indians (thus initiating a sad and depressive chain of history, alas another story). Spring flowers were a solemn counterpart to the old stone walls:

The blockhouse sits now above the highwater mark of Ft. Loudon Lake, fortunately in its original location. The lake itself the product of another dammed river in the Tennessee Valley (quite the habit ’round here). And across the channel the eclectic contours of million dollar houses rag the southerly view of the slate-blue Smoky Mountains soft in the distant haze. Quietly through the flowers I wound slowly through the ruins, feeling the cold and the wind and the voices of the dead murmuring old tales in the breeze through the stones – stories I tried hard to hear.