Walking Back In Time

My whole life I have been intrigued with the concept of ‘time travel’. Movies and books such as H.G. Wells, ‘The Time Machine, and Richard Matheson’s ‘Somewhere in Time’, are just a couple of examples that captured my interests at an early age. I did thirty five years of research about my family’s ancestors and was captivated by the emotions I felt as I mentally traveled in time to the lives of many generations past. I once again was given the opportunity to not only experience an unforgettable backpacking experience of six days, but was also proffered the chance to travel and walk the trails of a century past.

Rick Harding, Tom Harding and myself hiked thirty five miles in some of the most rugged North Carolina Mountains, retracing old logging roads, camping at old homesteads, stumbling upon old cemeteries long forgotten and left for the wilderness to recapture with its forests. Rock chimneys, appearing as monuments to the families that once called it home, still stood in plots of land, terraced by river rock stones to make the terrain easier to farm. Now the only vegetation was huge Poplar trees, fir and spruce, the wilderness now taking ownership, swallowing the evidence of the past.

The journey would take us down the steep slopes of Clingman’s Dome, following Forney Creek, one of the many major tributaries of Fontana Lake. Other major creeks that cascade down the steep slopes that feed Fontana Lake are, Chamber’s Creek, Eagle Creek, Noland’s Creek, Pilkey Creek, Hazel Creek and many other smaller streams, some unnamed. In the late 1800’s and early 1900’s there were small mountain communities that sprung up along the northern slopes of the Little Tennessee River, which carved it’s way through some of the most rugged and isolated mountains in North America. Rocky, dirt roads, although sparse and difficult to navigate, connected the small communities and the small homesteads that strategically placed themselves along many of these streams using the creek’s currents to power grist mills and provide water for their families.

After the Civil War, the demand for lumber skyrocketed and the logging companies began to look at the virgin forests of the southern Appalachians to log. It wasn’t until the early 1900’s that technology, such as the band saw, and innovations in logging railroads, allowed the loggers to begin to log this area effectively. Logging operations such as the Norwood Lumber Company and W.M. Ritter Lumber Company, logged the slopes heavily between 1907 and 1930, removing as much as two-thirds of the timber from the very slopes we would be walking down. Eighty years later, the forest has recovered. Tall stands of Poplar, Oak, Yellow Birch, Hemlock and Fir has reclaimed the steep slopes, with only traces of the operations in years past.

We began our journey at Clingman’s Dome, and at 6,643 feet, it is the highest peak along the Appalachian Trail. One can stand and gaze 360 degrees, looking down on towns, rivers, and miles of mountains in all directions, making one feel small and insignificant to the vastness of what lay below. It was a beautiful day, cloudless and a cool sixty degrees as we shouldered our packs and began the steep descent down Forney Ridge heading east down the steep and rocky slopes of Clingman’s Dome. We descended rapidly, carving our way through stands of Eastern hemlocks mixed with red spruce, the trail rocky and unforgiving to our feet and knees. Occasionally on the upper part of the trail we would see evidence of logging. Scars along the mountainside, caused by ball-hooting, which is when loggers cut trees high above the nearest roadbed, they then cleared a swath and shot or rolled the logs down the slope. The Norwood Lumber Company logged this area in the early 1900’s taking as much as 40,000 board feet of timber per day from this valley alone.

A little over three miles into the hike we came across our first sights of metal culverts and stonework left from the loggers in years past. There were steel cables partially buried in the rocky forest floor. These cables at one time were undoubtedly used to haul the heavy logs to a nearby roadbed where the loggers would load them on wagons to send them further down the mountainside toward the lumber mills located in Proctor. Forney Creek, even this far up the mountain was a tumultuous creek, spawning nice waterfalls (Rock Slab Falls) and deep pools. Evidence of an old boiler which once was used to power the steam engines that operated the cables and winches that moved the heavy timber, lay above the falls, almost hidden by rhododendron.

The trail became less steep as we began to follow an old roadbed toward our first campsite at Huggin’s Creek. Ten foot high stone walls, made from river rock, kept the roadbed at a manageable descent using a series of multiple switchbacks to descend the steep slopes of Clingman’s Dome. I could imagine the barren hillsides, with deep erosion gullies, caused by the heavy logging. I contemplated the dangers the men faced logging, the hardships the men and their families endured as they logged and carved a life for themselves and their families during the early 1900’s. At mile five, we had our first major creek crossing of Forney Creek. Fortunately there were good stepping stones to maneuver across the tumbling rapids.

Seven miles into the hike we came to the area where Huggin’s Creek and Forney Creek merge, forming an even more formidable Forney Creek. Here we decided to camp in a flat area between the two creeks, amongst Poplar, Beech and Maple trees.

The weather forecast predicted clear skies for the first several days but we also knew that this first evening was to be the coldest. I was a little concerned by the fact that I chose only to bring my 45 degree sleeping bag, forfeiting the warmth of a bigger bag for the weight and size advantage of the smaller 45 degree bag. I figured that I could stand one cold night and felt sure that the next several nights would be much warmer due to our lower elevation and the forecast predicting warmer days and nights.

We had a nice campfire and the three of us enjoyed the camaraderie, discussing our day’s journey and the sites that we had witnessed. We studied the maps and trail descriptions of our next day’s journey and was pleased to realize it was going to be a short hike (about five miles) the following day. We also noted that we had several Forney Creek crossings, which in the trail guide was described as difficult, challenging and even going so far as to say after rainy weather, choose another trail. This we discussed but we were not over concerned. We should have been!

7:00am the next morning and the sun crept over Forney Ridge to our east, casting rays of sunlight through the canopy above as we ate our oatmeal and drank our coffee and began packing our gear into our packs for the day’s hike. We all were feeling the efforts of our previous day’s hike. Our feet, knees and hips were aching, responding to nature’s way of the constant pounding and twisting that a steep, rocky trail effects. The three of us were in good spirits as we donned our packs and set off down the trail looking forward to our next day’s adventure.

There were cast iron machine parts and pieces of rail along the trail, almost hidden by the Buffalo-nut shrub, poison ivy, and rosebay rhododendron, that flanked the trail. Only a third of a mile brought us to our first difficult Forney Creek crossing. The trail dumped us at the creek’s edge and we stared in disbelief at the width, the depth and the impossibility that lay before us.
We walked twenty and thirty yards up and down the creek’s edge searching for a possible way to cross. We of course would like to stay dry, although if all we had to do was take off our boots and wade across, that would have been what we chose but the rapid current, the depth of hidden pools, and rocks the size of cars some slick as ice which blocked almost any path, prevented this from being an option. We would need to find an area, shallower that offered enough stepping stones to navigate across this foreboding creek.

I led as we began to cross, carefully testing the depth of the pools surrounding the jagged rocks as I leaped from one to the next, my forty five pound pack shifting on my back causing lack of balance and near disaster at every step. At times I would spot a relative flat rock beneath the surface, allowing me to step ever so gingerly on to it’s slick surface only to find the rock shifting beneath my weight causing me to grapple for a more solid surface before I fell headfirst into the frigid waters cracking my skull against other jagged rocks which littered my path. Half way across I stopped to rest, sweat pouring off me from the bundle of nerves that were in a frenzy as I willed myself to a point of no return. My legs and hands were shaking, spasms of fear and tension, as I studied what lay ahead and my next few steps. I did not dare look back across my shoulder, fearing that it would cause me to become unbalanced, and I instead yelled to my buddies to be careful, trying to describe to them which rocks to be careful with and they would respond with their on advice, the voices laced with the tension and fear which I also felt. Twenty minutes later I had navigated across the creek, only twenty yards, but it felt as if it had been twenty miles. I watched as Rick and Tom followed in my footsteps, each making it to the creek’s edge with no mishap. Once safely to the far side, we huddled together on solid ground shaking our heads, laughing at the danger in an attempt to make it appear as less dangerous.

We continued down the trail only to discover we had to cross the difficult Forney Creek two more times, each as difficult as the last. The second crossing was the most difficult. Rick and I chose to cross twenty to thirty yards upstream and after we finally navigated across safely, we found ourselves in a Rhododendron thicket that was so dense we had to get on our hands and knees and squirm through the twisted branches the twenty to thirty yards back to the trail. It was in this thicket where Rick and I both disturbed a nest of yellow jackets, resulting in several stings to the both of us.

We did eventually cross Forney Creek several more times, but there were some that were bridged or else there were easy stepping stones across.
We had hiked a total of about two miles for the day when we reached the trail junction of Jonas Creek Trail. There is another campsite here which lies between Jonas Creek and Forney Creek, but we planned to camp three more miles farther down the mountain at the bottom of Forney Creek where it empties into Fontana Lake. At the campsite at Jonas Creek there was evidence of both a tub mill and a custom mill. The Woody family had operated this grist mill during the late 1800’s and early 1900’s. Many families during this time operated water-powered tubmills, which had two legs in the water and two legs on a high bank, to grind corn into cornmeal. The larger custom mills were probably for community use. An old hunting camp made of bark slabs was farther up the creek.

We continued down the trail, passing an open area that may have been a logging camp. The trail climbed a small ridge before plunging down to yet another campsite, a horse camp. This campsite used to be the location of the Bee Gum Civilian Conservation Corp camp. A large two-story chimney with brick fireplace centers the area. The building that once enclosed the area has long gone, but remnants of the foundation and the fireplace still stand, reminding us that once this was home to workers that helped work the area making this land viable, livable, and accessible to others.

As we walked into the clearing, which was easily half the size of a football field, we smelled the smoke of a campfire, and after glancing around the area we noticed two men, standing around their smoldering fire, apparently having camped there the previous night. They had apparently come in on horseback, their horses tethered to some trees beside their shelter, which consisted of a lean-to-tarp stretched between a few trees. Their bed rolls and supplies stored beneath. I wandered this large area as we rested; taking pictures and imagining what it may have been like seventy years past.

The Civilian Conservation Corp came into existence as a work relief program not long after the Great Depression It was an attempt by President F.D. Roosevelt to provide work for the unemployed men from the ages of 18 and 24, while at the same time improving the country’s public lands by planting trees, building roads, and improving water sheds. This program worked the lands from 1933 to 1942.

I wandered the area, studying the piles of rock that once was the foundation of a building that housed the two story chimney. It was no doubt the building that was probably used as a mess hall for the young men that had come to work. I imagined hundreds of canvas tents, surrounding the building, home for these young men for months as they worked, improving the land. I wandered, dreaming, imagining, the hardships these young men must have faced, having to endure the unforgiving elements of the environment, while at the same time, doing hard manual labor. Forney Creek roared beside the clearing, and I could almost see the young men filling water canteens at it’s banks.

My buddy Rick yelled across the spacious clearing, “Hey Jeff, you want a deer burger?”
I looked his way, realizing he was talking to one of the guys that had come in on horseback. At first I was unsure what he had asked, but after a quick evaluation, I understood what he had said and I could not pass up the opportunity to jokingly respond, “A beer and a burger. Sure!”
I strolled their way, immediately accepting the offer, realizing the stranger and his friend, who had come in on horseback and had camped the previous night, had offered to share some of their food. I have learned to accept such offers, unconditionally, realizing that some day this may come back to haunt me, but the immediate benefits, the friendships, the conversations, the understanding of such people are worth the risk.

“Sure, I’m starving….. you said deer meat?”

I walked over to where they had camped, their fire still smoldering, their camp appearing to be in transition of packing to leave. Their horses still tethered to the trees alongside the clearing. We introduced ourselves, both Rick and Tom cautious, staring at me in amazement as I knelt and spooned a large portion of the sizzingly deer meat and onions wrapped in aluminum foil onto two slices of white bread.

As I introduced myself to the two guys, I could not help but think about the 1970’s movie ‘Deliverance’. The two guys, named Clifford and Billy Ray, looked like the two characters that made Ned Beatty ‘squeal like a pig’. They spoke in the language of the southern Appalachians, slow and with a twang, every statement ending as if it was a question. They turned out to be Native American Indians, Cherokee specifically; at least that is what they claimed, although they did not appear to be native American Indians to me. Billy was short and very skinny, constantly pulling at his jeans to keep them on his hips. Cowboy boots protected his feet, although they did not appear to have much more life in their soles, nor did they appear to have ever been cleaned, except by a rain shower that he may have been caught in at some time or other. Clifford was a little heavier, a heavy beard and long black hair, black as a leopard. He was less talkative than Billy but would occasionally make a statement and then look at Billy to see if he approved. They appeared to be good friends and in their early thirties. They spoke with a Tennessee, backwoods, redneck, accent. “Where youuu...enz from?” Billy directed his question to me, tilting his head in such a way that made me think he was trying to look beneath a ledge or an arch, to better be able to see my response (although there was nothing in his line of view).

“Georgia, Roswell Georgia. Up here doing some hiking. Where Ya’ll from?”

“Cherokee, born and raised… do’in some ridin’ enjoy’n git’n ‘way from the ol’ lady… you know?” Help youuu..enz self to more of that dar’ deer meat…it’s good, we had some beer a bit’ go but we drank it for breakfast.”

“Thanks, this is good. Backpacking we don’t get no good food.” I began to lapse into my second language of southeastern redneck. Billy, Clifford and I talked as I ate the deer meat. Rick and Tom seemed to wait, watching as I ate my deer burger, apparently waiting to see if I would kill over from food poisoning or immediately grab my stomach with gut wrenching pain. I continued to eat with no ill effect and only then did Rick and Tom jump in and helped themselves to the aluminum foil wrapped deer meat as Billy and I conversed in what seemed to be a foreign language to Rick and Tom.

Clifford talked about the number of black baarrr he and Billy had seen and warned us that they had heard from other backpeckkkers that had seen some huge cat prints, probably mountain linees (mountain lions) on the trail below us. I could not help but think they were just trying to scare us a little, reveling in the fact that us being city boys, would not have any experience with the wildlife in the area.

They had three horses tethered and I questioned Billy Ray, “I seez’ youuu…enz got three horses thar. Is one of um a packhorse?”

Billy Ray nodded to the horses, tilting his head slightly, again as if he was looking under an obstruction, “yep…the one with no tail is my peck horse. Everyone gits a kick out of seeing a horse with no tail.

I again could not help myself and said, “Was it the baaar or the mountain lion that bit it off?”

Both Billy Ray and Clifford got the joke and chuckled, although I could feel the tenseness in both Rick and Tom as I began to test the two hillbillies.

“Nah….his’n tail was broke as a young’un. Kep gittin ‘fected so we cut it off.” Billy Ray said as he began to try to sound more professional.

“Did he squeal like a pig?” I asked, again not being able to help myself, and I thought Rick and Tom were going to slap me.

Fortunately, neither Clifford nor Billy Ray understood my statement and simply answered,

“Nah…just one quick chop..took car’ of the prob’lm. Poor thing git’s mad as hell when he can’t swish flies away from his ass though.”

Clifford, the bigger of the two offered some of his Canadian Mist Whiskey, which I did not accept, because as he took a swig, I realized he had a big chew of tobacco lodged in his right cheek, and I could only imagine the ‘back wash’ that may lay as residue in the bottom of the bottle. I instead explained that I preciate’d the offer but I was strictly a Makers Mark man and offered him a swig of mine, which he graciously refused, but took a big swig of his Canadian Mist, spitting a glob of who knows what at his feet, smiling and toasting, seemingly all at the same time.

Billy Ray told us that they had offered some of their deer meat (they did not want it to go to waste) to some backpeckkkers who had camped there the previous night, but they had refused. Billy Ray could not believe someone would refuse such an offer. “You know, my momma always to’ld me that it was unsoc’ble to refuse an offer to eat.”

“I would ne’vr …..besi’dz I is hungry. Maybe they we’rnt.” I offered as a possible reason for the previous backpacker’s unsociable behavior.

“Yeah…. Yu prob’ly rite….they were kind-a thick.” Billy said as he was deep in thought.

Rick and Tom continued to eat their deer meat burgers, standing in amazement at my ability to speak in such a foreign and exotic language, savoring the food but more so the moment, the experience that just seemed to happen in the middle of nowhere, a time past.

We said our good byes, thanking them for the food and headed further down the trail toward the end of Forney Creek and Fontana Lake.

The last mile or so was relatively easy, following an old road bed, which was once the only way between Bryson City to the East and to where now stands Fontana Dam. Small mountain communities and a major lumber mill located in Proctor were only accessible by traveling this treacherous, narrow, dirt road. This road was the only link to the outside for many of the mountain families that carved a living from the rugged terrain. Old, rusted car bodies, from the early 1900’s can be seen laying as scrap next to the road, as if the car, a hundred years earlier just quit working and the owner just left it where it was, letting the forest claim it as it’s own. Old wash tubs, rusted from a hundred years of unforgiving weather are found here and there, scattered along the forest floor, evidence of lives that once attempted to scratch out an existence.

The next three to four days would find us on the 41.9 mile Lakeshore trail which basically follows the shoreline of Fontana Lake from Bryson City to Fontana Dam.

We had planned to hike the next twenty-one miles, over the next three days, to the old ghost town of Proctor. It was at Proctor that W.M. Ritter set up a massive lumbering operation around 1907. The small settlement of Proctor grew rapidly, boasting a hotel, school, several churches and a company mercantile store, becoming home to hundreds of families, only to be displaced by the construction of Fontana Dam which was completed around 1944 and flooded most of the valley.

Many of the small towns surrounding the Little Tennessee River in the valley, such as Fontana, Forney, Bushnell and Judson that had sprung up in the early 1900’s were flooded with the completion of the Dam and now lie at the bottom of Fontana Lake, erased from the face of the earth forever.

The trail would rise and fall as it followed the shoreline, climbing the finger like ridges that projected into the lake, then descending once again to yet another valley, channeling many of the streams that feed Fontana Lake.

We camped at designated campsites that were once homesteads. The stone chimneys still standing, giving witness to the lives that once tried to scratch a living from the unforgiving terrain. Stone walls, built from river rock, still existed, giving evidence of the past families attempt to terrace their land, an attempt to make their meager plots easier to farm. The stone walls still standing in rows, being swallowed by the bog hemp, round leafed greenbriar, and dodders, crumbling, surrendering to the elements and to mother time.

During the next three days we would stumble upon small cemeteries. The plots, usually located on high ridges above the homesteads would be the final resting place for several generations of a particular family, a family that worked hard to try to make a life for itself on the slopes below. The tombstones giving witness to the hard lives the people endured. Forty years old or older was rare, being more common to see children under ten and young adults in their twenties being buried in these forgotten plots. Rick, Tom and I would wander the cemeteries, each lost in his own thoughts, trying to imagine the souls, the love and sorrow, which these families had to endure. We drank water from the same springs and creeks, walked the same trails that these past souls had in years past and we could not help but feel the emotion of the experience.

Over the last few days of the hike, we would see a total of four Black Bear, proving the two hillbillies, Billy Ray and Clifford to be true with their warning and we began to wonder about the huge cat prints they had described. Could it be?

The last day brought us to Proctor. Some of the buildings still standing, giving witness to what was once a thriving community. Several cemeteries dot the area, each resembling those we had passed earlier, again testifying to the short, hard lives they had endured.

It was a great five days of hiking, with two of my best friends, enjoying the peace, the solace and the beauty the wilderness so graciously provided, but what moved me the most was witnessing the evidence of the past, the past souls seemingly to still linger amongst the ruins; souls that seemed to drift on the light mountain breezes, gently stirring the leaves of the canopies above, whispering, “I was here.”

I had a constant sensation that as I walked back in time, they were watching.

Clarion ForeWord Review of my new book

ForeWord Clarion Reviews
FICTION – GENERAL
Lost Then Found
Jeff Morgan
AuthorHouse
978-1-4520-0980-3
Five Stars (out of Five)

Jeff Morgan has written a deceptively simple, short tale about hiking the Appalachian Trail, one that is rich in detail and meaning.

While Lost Then Found is a work of fiction, Morgan draws heavily from his experiences as a long-distance hiker. "All of the characters in this novel are real," he says in a note at the beginning of the book, "but they may have been embellished to make them more interesting to the reader – not that they were not interesting to begin with."

Indeed, it is the interesting characters that make this story engaging. The reader learns that everyone has a nickname on the Appalachian Trail. Kirk, the semi-retired baby boomer narrator, is known as Piece Maker. He sets off on a hike from his Atlanta home by himself and meets a number of colorful personalities along the way, including the fun-loving Bruiser and Tooth Fairy, a large woman who is not at all what she seems.

Kirk stays a few nights at the Nantahala Outdoor Center in North Carolina and befriends a young woman named Caroline. Caroline, despite her youth, stirs emotions in Kirk but their relationship remains platonic. A central character in Lost Then Found, Caroline makes an unexpected appearance later in the story.

Kirk must move along, and that’s when he meets the somewhat mysterious Pops, an old man who is unusually fit for his age. Kirk and Pops end up hiking together and sharing details of each other’s lives. Their talks cause Kirk to reflect on his marriage, his
daughter, and the meaning of life. It is Pops who awakens a spiritual side in Kirk that he didn’t realize he had.

The author does a fine job describing Kirk’s journey (both the actual one on the trail and the metaphorical one) with just enough detail to give the reader a sense of what hiking the Appalachian Trail is like. The first-person narrative provides the reader with an intimate view of the hiking experience as well as Kirk’s thoughts on life.

Morgan skillfully paints pictures of the story’s characters so that they have realism and depth. The narrator himself is the most developed character, but Caroline may be the most complex; in fact, the story is as much about her journey as it is about Kirk’s. Pops, as Kirk’s spiritual guide, is the most mystical and endearing character in the book.

Lost Then Found is a thought-provoking story that uses the Appalachian Trail as a backdrop to what is, ultimately, a story about spiritual enlightenment. With an unusual twist at the end, Lost Then Found is a satisfying and enjoyable book that will likely make the reader take stock and think about his or her own life.

Barry Silverstein

'Little Beee-hind' the Rain

‘Little Beee-hind’ the Rain

‘Little Behind’, that’s what they call him. It’s pronounced, if you want to say it correctly, ‘Little Beee-hind’. That’s my buddy, Rick. I guess you can say he is probably my best friend. We share the same interests, about the same age, and fit socially in the same circles. We frequent the same neighborhood watering holes, grabbing free hugs from the young barmaids, captivating them as well as other patrons with our tall tales about our mountain adventures.
You might wonder how the name ‘Little Beee-hind’ was acquired by the previously mentioned and I will attempt to explain, although to do it justice, it would take an average size paperback novel.
We had hiked, climbed mountains, and backpacked all over the world, but never much together, until we decided to do a small stretch of the Appalachian Trail a few years back. We started at Springer Mountain and planned to hike about four to five days, enjoying the camaraderie with the mass of thru-hikers that begin their journey at Springer Mountain in early April and continue over the next five to six months till they reach their final destination at Katadin in Maine. It was on this trip that Rick was bequeathed, anointed, and given the trail name, ‘Little Beee-hind’, and I must admit it was well deserved. On the trails, especially the Appalachian Trail, hikers will be given trail names. These names are usually earned in some way by the individual. It will sometimes reflect an individual’s personality, state of origin, physical appearance, or almost any other identifying quality of that individual. On the trail there may be several Steve’s for instance, but there will only be one ‘Stuttering Steve’, or ‘Stinky Steve’ or ‘St. Louis Steve’, or ‘Stoned Steve’, and that is how trail names work.
‘Little Beee-hind’ from the very beginning hiked much slower than most of the group that we tended to hang with on the trail. I and many of the others would arrive at the next campsite a good one to two hours before ‘Little Beee-hind’ would meander into camp, usually at dusk, causing an unusual amount of worry on my part, for I did not want to go looking for my friend in the dark. I would sit at camp, with everyone else slowly drifting into camp, and I would question them, “Did you see my buddy Rick?” They would always acknowledge they had, usually explaining the general area where they passed him as he was sitting on a log or a rock, resting. This would normally set my mind somewhat at ease, but never totally relaxing until I would see him sauntering into the camp, grinning from ear to ear, looking like a Bluetick Coonhound that had bit into the ass of a Porcupine.
What made matters worse, or almost funny, was that once into camp, he would realize he had left something at the other camp or left a water bottle, or bandanna at one of the many locations he stopped to rest. He would then begin to retrace his steps back on the trail, hiking sometimes one to two miles to retrieve a necessary piece of equipment or gear. There was one incident where I had been waiting on Rick at camp for at least an hour, which I had begun to expect, and like always Rick strolled into camp right at dusk. I had already gathered firewood and was sitting at the fire when he walked up. He sat to rest before beginning to pitch his tent. Another hiker came strolling into camp even after Rick and I was curious as to who it could be. Who could be slower than Rick? I was watching the hiker, not recognizing who he was, but I did notice his cap. I looked at Rick and made a comment that the late hiker, whoever he was, had a hat just like his. Rick, curious as I, watched the lone hiker stroll toward the three sided shelter. The lone hiker removed his cap, waving it in the air, and questioning, “Anybody lose a hat?”
I immediately glanced at Rick. Rick reached for his head, where it was cap less. Rick immediately laid claim to his cap. The lone hiker explained that he had found it sitting on a rock alongside the trail. I was laughing so hard I thought I might have a coronary. Always leaving a little behind.
Don’t think I’m belittling my buddy Rick for hiking slow. This is merely his choice. I tend to be destination oriented, looking forward to reaching my next destination, where Rick enjoys the journey to the destination. He says he likes to stop and smell the roses, which I wished I could be more like. I sometimes hike with blinders on, huffing and puffing, sweating like a race horse, with only one thought, and that is to get to camp and that’s not necessarily right. Point is, over the years we have grown to respect each other’s different approach to hiking and realize there is not necessarily a right way or wrong way, just your way. With all that said, I as well as the others on the trail began to realize that Rick would always be a little behind.
One night sitting around the campfire, as we all discussed trail names, Rick was anointed by the group as being ‘Little Behind’, and me with my Tennessee accent and slow southern speech patterns, the name became ‘Little Beee-hind’.
It’s been several years since Rick was named ‘Little Beee-hind’, but he is still living up to his name. Just this past weekend, Rick and I planned a three day backpack trip to Panthertown Valley in North Carolina. It’s a beautiful valley, which has been called the Yosemite of the East, because of its numerous waterfalls and huge granite cliffs rising on both sides of the valley. It’s truly a beautiful wilderness to explore.
The weather forecast called for a sixty to ninety percent chance of afternoon thundershowers for Friday, Saturday and Sunday, so we were fairly confident that we would see a little rain and maybe a lot of rain. No worries, we’ve been wet before.
Normally I would leave early Friday morning, driving myself, and arriving at the trailhead around noon. I would hike through the valley and climb the southwestern ridgeline of Little Green Mountain where I would set camp in a small pine forest at the top of Little Green. I would be there early enough to set camp, gather firewood, eat one or two meals, and relax on the granite outcroppings of Tranquility Point which proffers tremendous views of the valley below. Rick, ‘Little Beee-hind’ would normally arrive at the trailhead much later, sometimes at dusk, meander his way through the valley, and arrive at camp at dark. This was never a problem, because he had grown accustomed to reaching camp late in the day and hurriedly setting camp and then fall easily into a relaxation mode that night around the campfire brings. I on the other hand require an ample amount of time to organize my camp, arranging my gear, stacking firewood neatly, falling into a rhythm that eventually allows me to relax, reaching that state of mind that Rick can accomplish at a drop of a hat. This particular trip I decided to ride with Rick to the trailhead. Don’t get me wrong, I was a little concerned from the get go, but after questioning Rick when he thought he may be able to leave town, he assured me we could get a way around noon. That would put us at the trailhead around 3:00pm which would still allow me plenty of time to hike in, set camp, and begin to unwind, before dark. What concerned me was the fact that the forecast called for afternoon thundershowers!
‘Little Beee-hind’ picked me up at 2:00pm-running a little behind- and then informed me that he still had to stop by the laundry, the grocery store, and a drug store before we began the three hour drive to the trailhead. The skies were turning dark gray suggesting rain.
We made our necessary stops, and arrived at some of the most congested areas of Forsyth County just in the nick of time to watch everyone leave work- rush hour! I could not help but wonder why they call it rush hour. I never see anyone moving fast as if they were in a rush. Matter of fact, I began to see what it was like to stop and smell the roses! Oh well, at least it’s not dark yet. Was that rain drops I saw on the windshield?
After stopping for gas, then a bathroom break, then a snack, we finally reached the trailhead. There were only two vehicles parked at the trailhead, which was a good sign. At least the valley was not going to be crowded with hikers. Most everyone had more sense than to walk into the wilderness at this time of day, with the aforementioned weather forecast. I couldn’t tell if the clouds were making it so dark or had the sun already started its final descent. Either way, I knew we were running a little behind.
I began to worry. Why? Was it because we only had about one hour of day light left, or was it because I smelled rain and I heard rumbling, thunder, or was that my stomach? Was I worried because I only had about one liter of water in my pack and knew that once at camp, I would have to hike another ½ mile to fill my water bottles, and it seemed I may have to do this in the dark? Hiking down a trail that even in broad day light is snaky. I wondered what it would be like hiking down that trail, through tunnels of Rhododendron, the trail covered with roots that always seemed to resemble serpents, slithering across the dismal trail. Rick interrupted my thoughts, “I think I left my water bottle in the car, hold on,” as he turned to retrace his steps to his car, lifting the back hatch and retrieving his water bottle, grinning, apparently proud of himself for remembering it before he had walked the usual one to two miles. We were definitely getting a little more behind!
Walking through the valley was pleasant, at least there was no sun beating down on us, and the occasional raindrops were a little refreshing or were they depressing? To walk the valley floor, one walks through a huge pine forest, the floor covered with a deep layer of pine needles. The canopy of the surrounding trees sucking what little light was left from the forest floor. The woods deathly still, the only sound were the crickets that seemed to be rejoicing that the weather forecast seemed to be right on. I take that back, the crickets were the only sound when it was not thundering. I told Rick that I was going to stop at Boggy Creek and fill my water bottles before I climbed up the ridge of Little Green. He looked at me as if to question if I was serious. A gallon of water weighs 8.35 pounds. I was carrying about forty five pounds and if I filled all my water containers, that would push my pack weight to close to sixty three pounds. That in itself would not be of great concern, but first I had to stop and take about fifteen minutes to fill my containers, and then lug that extra weight up the steepest part of our climb. I realized I may even have to do this in the dark, as it was getting ever darker, or worse it may finally make the crickets day and rain. I may have to climb it in the dark and rain!
I stopped, filled my water bottles, sending Rick on his way ahead of me, to try to reach camp before it started raining. I carefully filled each container, calculating that with this one effort, I may not need to get anymore water for the weekend, saving myself that dreaded ½ mile hike down to School House Falls to retrieve water, stepping over the serpent roots in the dark. I almost felt like I had outwitted nature, until I tried to pick my pack up. The weight seemed to magically double. Had I mistakenly filled a forty-five gallon drum and placed in my pack unknowingly? It was dark you know!
I shouldered the gargantuan mass of a pack, and started up the mountain. I had climbed maybe one hundred yards and suddenly I felt like I needed to stop to rest, I like to say it was to smell the roses. I continued to climb eighty yards and stop, sixty yards and stop, forty yards and stop; I was getting this Rick thing down pat.
I made the last half mile, across the granite face of Little Green, just as the sun, I think it was the sun, but it may have been lightning slipped behind the mountains to our west. Rick was finishing setting his tent. I hurriedly pitched my tent, throwing my gear into the protected space, keeping what I may immediately need, like a shot of Maker’s Mark Whiskey out and within reach as I plopped down to rest my weary legs. Rick busied himself with gathering firewood.
The rain seemed to pass us, as we sat around the comfort of the campfire, watching strange shadows dance across the wall of trees surrounding us. The Cicadas began their musical arrangement of “Flight of the Bumblebee” in stereo no doubt, drowning out every other noise except the occasional rumble of thunder and the ever so often snap and crackle of the fire as it consumed the carefully cut pieces of timber we had gathered.
Surprisingly, I began to relax, realizing, after all the worry, we were here. Dry and for the most part settled in, even if the rain did come. Darkness now was welcomed, bringing with it a sense of solitude and peace, a blanket of dark comfort, not necessarily hiding me from the world, but the world from me. The Maker’s Mark warming my insides just as the campfire warmed the out.
I was facing west, watching the embers rise from the fire, drifting slowly in the still air. Distant flashes of lightning danced across the western sky. I pointed and told Rick that it was lightning. He assured me it was only ‘heat lightning’, which I immediately questioned, “What’s the difference?”
“I guess it has something to do with the temperature,” he tried to make it sound as if what he said was positively scientific fact, no question about it, absolute, concrete evidence that it was hot and yes it was lightning in the distance.
I had been told by a reputable source that ‘heat lightning’ was a misnomer. Actually the lightning you see is associated with thunderstorms, it’s just off in a distance, and the sound of the thunder is not heard, because it dissipates over the distance, long before the flashes of light do. These distant thunderstorms are frequent in the southern summers when it is so hot, thus it became known as heat lightning. So I knew, regardless of Ricks assurance, that the lightning I was witnessing, even though still far away, was evidence bad weather was still a possibility and possibly moving our way. I listened for the crickets wondering if they were still singing their happy tunes expecting the rain but they could not be heard. It could have been because the Cicadas were so loud that the crickets chirping were drowned out by their cacophony or because the crickets were all ready seeking shelter to prevent being drowned by the oncoming rain.
As we sat trying to solve all of the world’s woes, I could not help myself but brag a little to Rick about the amount of weight I drug up the side of Little Green Mountain. I explained to him that even though it was tough, and physically trying, I would benefit by the fact that I would not have to make the ½ mile hike down to School House Falls for water. He agreed that it was quite a physical feat to drag that amount of water, with a full pack, up the side of the mountain, but he himself was glad to find that there was a steady stream of water, filling a small pool, just twenty yards down the granite bald. He informed me that once he had pitched his tent that he leisurely filled all his water bottles at the small pool and suggested that if I needed more, which he doubted I would, that I use the same source of water.
“Thanks Rick.”
10:00pm and getting a buzz from the Maker’s Mark and beginning to think that the Cicadas had changed melodies and were now singing ‘Wipe Out’, the song by the Surfaris in the 60’s.
Rick went to his tent to retrieve some reading material, I guess my discussion about the heat lightning got too deep, and that’s when it began. It was a sound of wind in the tree tops. A whooshing sound and the Cicadas stopped mid chorus. I listened wondering why the sound of the wind was so evident but was not felt. Then I felt it….. Not wind, but rain. I stood doubting my senses, but only for a second, because within two seconds the bottom fell out of the sky.
Rick, with all his wisdom, rain pouring from the sky, yelled from his tent, “Is that rain?”
“No Rick! It’s just heat rain…. You know like the stuff that comes from heat lightning!” I answered as I was gathering gear running for my tent, which for some stupid reason, I had left open.
The rain was deafening as it pelted our tents. I tried to remember what I may have left out in the elements as I rushed for the confines of my abode. Too late to worry about it now. I fell asleep before even removing my wet clothes dreaming about storms, snakes, drowning and leaving a little something behind.
It rained off and on the whole next day, never allowing me to dry any of my gear. I had wet clothes, wet sleeping bag, wet pack, and wet tent, but still I was having fun. Rick and I sat under a make shift tarp and would laugh as we each brought up stories of our past. We goaded each other about our insecurities, our mistakes in life, and praised each other for each of our successes. You see, once in nature you become part of it. If it rains, you rain, if it is sunny and bright, then you become the sun. This particular trip, I was just a little beee-hind.
Thanks Rick for a great trip. See you on the trail soon!

This trip took place on August 13, 2010 and we returned to Atlanta on August 15, 2010. Camped two nights on top of Little Green Mountain, in Panthertown Valley, located about five miles, North East of Cashiers, North Carolina. It RAINED!

Backpack trip to Nanatahala

I just returned from a four day trip to the Nantahala River Gorge, specifically the Nantahala Outdoor Center, better known as the NOC. It is located in Wesser, North Carolina, and is a popular destination for white water kayakers, mountain bikers, and hikers.
For those who have read my book, “Lost Then Found”, this is the location where much of the story takes place. Since the recent publishing of my book, I felt a need to return to the NOC and share my book with them. I especially felt a need to officially meet ‘Caroline’ (her real name is Emily), who was one of the main characters of the book.
I arrived at the NOC about 3pm on Tuesday and to be honest, I was rather nervous and apprehensive to meet ‘Caroline’ and explain how her character evolved within my imagination. In the book, ‘Caroline’ and I develop a rather emotional but platonic relationship over a period of three days and end up sharing some of the most heart felt emotions about our respective families. In reality, I had only talked with ‘Caroline’ briefly, never even catching her real name, but was touched by her beauty and her seemingly carefree personality, thus when the story began to develop in my mind, I could not help using her as one of the main characters, creating a fictitious relationship that worked within the story’s theme. Now it was time to actually meet this character for real. I was apprehensive because part of me was afraid that she would be nothing like the character I created in my mind or that she might even be offended in someway. Regardless of my fears, I felt a need to introduce myself and thank her. A simple gesture to most but becoming increasingly terrifying for me.
Upon entering the restaurant, I was disappointed that the waitress, which I had named ‘Caroline’ was no where to be seen. I was afraid that she may not even be there any longer, having moved or simply changed jobs, and suddenly my mood changed from apprehension to a sense of despondency, realizing that I may never actually meet ‘Caroline’. My waiter was a guy in his late twenties and was rather friendly, so I took the opportunity to describe ‘Caroline’ to him, explaining the reason for my asking, and asked him if she still worked there. He knew right away who I was talking about and he as well as the other staff of the restaurant became very interested in my book (which I had taken in several copies). He explained to me that her real name was Emily and that she would be in the following morning to work. I finished my meal and left to get a good nights rest, for the next day, not only would I finally meet Emily (Caroline) but I would also hook up with another good friend and hit the trail, hiking from Stecoah Gap back to the NOC, over the next couple of days.
I got to the restaurant the next morning not long after they had opened and still Emily was nowhere around. Tom, my good friend who was planning to hike with me showed up not long after I, and we ordered our breakfast and talked about our backpack trip that we were about to start. I was about to give up on seeing Emily, when finally I saw her standing at the hostess stand, looking just as I remembered her from two years back. Not knowing exactly what to say, I simply called her name, stood and told her I had something to give her. She looked at me cautiously, not remembering me, not knowing what I was talking about. I quickly introduced myself, shaking her hand, explaining I had been there two years previous having come off the Appalachian Trail in a snow storm and ended up staying at the NOC for three days while the weather abated. I explained to her that she would probably not remember me, because if we did talk (I could not remember if I ever actually talked with her) it was only taking my order, but that she was the inspiration of the main character of my book “Lost Then Found”. I explained to her how this character evolved from her (which I knew nothing about) and how as strange as it may seem, I felt a need to actually meet her. She listened to my story with interest. She was friendly and somewhat flattered. I told her I wanted to give her one of the first copies of my book, and handed the copy I had brought in for her. She appeared to be appreciative, still a look of surprise how this all had come about. She thanked me and asked if I would sign it, which I did. We talked briefly about the time I was in two years previous and she said she remembered me, although I think she was just being nice.
Talking with her this past Wednesday, I realized why she had inspired me in the first place. She is a beautiful girl, exotic in a way, yet down to earth. Her eyes as blue as topaz jewels and her trademark do-rag capping her head, giving her an even more distinctive appearance. It was truly a pleasure to finally meet Emily, forever my ‘Caroline’.
My buddy Tom and I took our packs and drove to Stecoah Gap where the Appalachian Trail crosses Hwy 143. It took us about thirty minutes to make the drive and once there, we shouldered our packs and started up the five mile-2,000 ft ascent to Cheoah Bald. The first ½ mile was rather steep, the trail making use of a series of switch backs then leveling out somewhat, even descending a little to Simp Gap. At about 0.9 mile there was a cave, on the right of the trail, cut into the jagged rock face and it appeared to have been used, either by humans, seeking refuge from inclement weather or wild animals using it as a den, for the ground leading into the darkened abyss was well worn.
At Locust Cove Gap, which is about 3.5 miles from Stecoah Gap, there is a side trail that goes down the west side of the trail (about 0.1 mile) to a spring. I took both our water bottles and went to filter our water. The spring was only a small trickle, but I managed to fill our bottles. We ate a little lunch a Locust Cove Gap and began the longest and steepest climb of Cheoah Bald.
We finally reached the top of Cheoah about 1pm and were afforded some grand views of the Nantahala Valley to the east and to the Smokies to the west. It was miserably hot atop the bald and there was a haze due to the high humidity which prevented us from seeing much more than twenty miles in either direction but still it was rather amazing. The east side of the bald is tall grass, variety of shrubs and wild flowers, while the west side was rocky with a few rock outcroppings which afforded some great views. We only spent about fifteen minutes at the top due to the heat and the numerous flying insects which constantly buzzed around us causing us to constantly swat at what appeared to be only air, but then started a rather rapid descent of about 500 ft to Sassafras Gap, where there is a shelter. Neither of us like sleeping in the shelter so we opted to pitch our tents and chose a relatively flat area directly behind the shelter. The small flat area was encased within a mass of Maple-leaf Viburnum which are 4 ft low shrubs, weed like, and even though the area where we placed our tents was flat and relatively clear, the thick mass of weeds (shrubs) on all sides of the area created a very snaky environment but there was not many other choices.
We cooked dinner and gathered fire wood for the night. Before it got dark, we managed to get a fire started and we both sat around the fire talking and enjoying the solitude of the woods around us. We both retired relatively early to our respective tents for the night.
I unzipped the door of my tent, my headlamp on, situating my gear within my small tent when I saw something hop or jump or scamper across the floor of my tent. In the shadows caused by my headlamp, I was unsure at first what it was. I thought it was a frog and I wondered how it could have gotten in my tent. I was gathering my gear, my sleeping bag, trying to find the varmint that had managed its way into my tent. Then I saw it! It was a mouse, small but still very much unwanted in my sleeping quarters. I yelled at Tom, who was in his tent only a few feet away, that there was a mouse in my tent and he could only chuckle. For the next five minutes I chased the tiny mouse around the small 4ft x 8ft tent trying to grab it by the tail to minimize the possibility of being bit and toss it outside. Eventually I managed to flip it through the front door, which I then immediately zipped the door closed and searched the tent well for the possibility of another. Having found none I began to wonder how the mouse had gained entry. I found a small hole, not much bigger than a nickel that the mouse undoubtedly had chewed. Even though having a mouse in my sleeping quarters was a little un-nerving I was more upset that the little bastard chewed a hole in my tent. I took a piece of Duct tape and temporarily repaired the hole and fell into a deep sleep, not waking till 7am the next morning.
A quick breakfast the next morning, we packed our gear and started the 7 mile descent to the Nantahala River. We followed a sharp ridgeline through masses of rhododendron and mountain laurel for about 2 miles before reaching a steep descent and several rock outcroppings affording some grand views. This area is called the Jump-up and we were able to see the Nantahala gorge and the Nantahala River a good mile below us.
We saw several different wildflowers on this trip and I was especially amazed to have seen so many ‘turkish cap Lilys’. These are 1 to 2 inch blossoms, orange and yellow in color, dangling in single blossoms on what appeared to be long single stems.
The rest of the trail, 4 to 5 miles, was steep, and in places followed a narrow ridge line that offered no shade. The sun was unforgiving, baking our heads and necks, as we scrambled over boulder fields, and rock littered trails, testing our balance as well as our endurance as we slowly maneuvered our way ever slowly down to the lower altitude and unfortunately higher humidity and zero breezes.
After about 4 hours of hiking we finally heard and saw the river. We could hear the screams of the kayakers and rafters as they floated down the roaring river and occasionally we could spot a blue or red raft as it bobbed between the boulders and glided over the roaring rapids below. I thought how cold the rafters probably were, being doused by the freezing waters of the Nantahala, while I was sweltering in the jungle like humidity and heat of the adjacent forest and could not help but think of how ironic those two entirely different conditions could exist side by side.
We continued to follow the river for about a mile and eventually the trail emptied onto a gravel path, leading us across railroad tracks and across the gravel parking lot of the NOC.
We were hot, so hot that we both considered removing our packs and jumping in the frigid waters of the Nantahala River, but the area was packed with tourists. Kayakers and people of all ages either loading to begin a rafting trip or exiting a huge raft as their trip had ended. We wondered what would we do, once we were wet and no decent dry clothes to change into, so we opted to go to the River’s End Restaurant, drink a couple of cold beers and relax in the relatively coolness of the establishment.
I again was disappointed to find that Emily (Caroline) was not working but I felt good about my trip. I had finally gotten the opportunity to meet her and thank her and got to share a very memorable backpack trip with my good buddy Tom.
Thanks Tom for sharing this trip with me and thanks to Emily for being so gracious and accepting.
For those who have never been to the Nantahala Outdoor Center, I highly recommend it. Even if you don’t kayak, hike or mountain bike, it is truly exciting to see and watch. It is magical!

I just completed a three day, two night backpack trip with some friends to Panthertown Valley, located in the North Carolina mountains just outside of Cashiers.

It is a 6300-acre valley complex between Sassafras Mountain to the north, Toxaway and Hogback Mountains to the south, Cold Mountain to the east, and Laurel Knob to the west.

Panthertown has been called the Yosemite of the East, not because its cliffs are as tall or dramatic as those seen in the California valley, but because the main valley and its surrounding cliffs suggest a Yosemite-like landscape.

Panthertown is home to hundreds of species of Southern Appalachian trees, shrubs, vines, wildflowers, mosses, ferns and lichens, including many rare species, such as northern beech fern, the climbing fern, and Cuthbert’s turtlehead. Most of the trees consist of white pine, eastern hemlocks(now dying from infestation by the hemlock wooly adelgid) and yellow birches.

We hiked through the valley, with its stands of large white pines, creating a thick blanket of pine needles and mosses on the forest floor, and a feeling of eerie solitude and quiet. Only an occasional song from a robin, finch or sparrow would interrupt the serene quiet.

We passed many creeks, sometimes plunging noisily over rock littered stream beds and then a little further down the trail the creek would flow almost imperceptibly through high mountain bogs, it’s distinctive dark, tea brown color contrasting with white sandbars, and lush green rhododendron that strangled the banks of the stream.

Its cliffs rising majestically on either side of the trail, beckoning us to its summits to gain the view from above, rose in silence all around. We eventually climbed the steep terrain of Little Green Mountain and witnessed an unbelievable sunset from Tranquility Point. The sunset’s ever changing colors, beginning with pale yellows, pinks and blues, with an occasional white, puffy, cumulus cloud drifting across the horizon, separating the rising peaks to the west and the darkening skies above. The clouds changing shapes, lazily, slowly changing colors, hues, as the sun inched its way lower in the sky, eventually to disappear behind Laurel Knob to the west. The colors of the sky were changing to deep reds and purples, with the clouds turning to dark blues and grays, backlit from the setting sun, creating a glowing edge to the ever changing shapes of the clouds. It created a vision of God’s creation and we could only sit in silence and in awe. Each person watching, contemplating within themselves, touched in their own individual way, and witnessing one of nature’s most wondrous gifts to man.

Each trip into nature, alone or with friends, is truly an experience that one can never forget.

New book release "Lost Then Found"

My new book, "Lost Then Found", published June 25, 2010, is now available to order through Authorhouse.com, Barnes and Noble.com and Amazon. com.

ABOUT THE BOOK

Kirk Langner, better known as 'Piece Maker' on the Appalachian Trail, planned a nine-day hike on some of the most rugged parts of the trail in North Carolina and Tennessee, but he had not planned for what would eventually change his life forever.

Kirk spends a lot of time walking the woods, much of this done alone, giving him the opportunity to ponder his ineffectual relationships with his wife and daughter and his increasing lack of faith in God.

He eventurally meets an assortment of personalitities on the trail, resulting in sometimes humorous, somethimes tearful events, and he eventually begins to understand the reason for his seemingly lost relationships with the people he loves the most and why he has begun to lose faith in God.

High in the North Carolina mountains, he befriends an old man who begins to share with him his wisdom about life, relationships, prayer, and faith, enlightening him like never before. The old man explains some of the most difficult concepts of life in some of the simplest ways, and 'Piece Maker', who spiritually and emotionally had been lost, is found.

When fact and fiction are combined, it's not always clear to the reader which is which. All of the characters in this novel are real, but they may have been embellished to make them more interesting to the reader-not that they were not interresting to begin with. It is sife to say that all of the characters are more of a blend of real people whom I have known or met in my life.

Many things that happen in this novel are true, but I will leave it to the reader to try to determine what is real and what is not.