Mount LeConte

Field Notes II.XLIII: Backpacking and photographing Mt LeConte in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park

Welcome to Field Notes!

For weeks I scour maps, read online reports, and filter through social media posts, growing more and more conflicted as I do so. People are still suffering greatly in the Southern Appalachian Mountains, having lost lives and livelihoods to the unprecedented devastation of Hurricane Helene.

It is unsettling being physically adjacent to such a disaster, but on the absurdly minor periphery of its effects. The entire courses of peoples’ lives were upended, but I am left looking for alternate places to hike. I stay clear of the impacted areas to avoid adding to the chaos. Still, I see invitations to visit the less damaged towns, whose residents need the income.

Towns are not my destinations. I am seeking wild lands, and information about their status is hard to find. This is as it should be. The priority for damage control and repair must be the people. I am left asking myself- if I go, am I part of the problem?

Highway 441, traveling directly through the Great Smoky Mountains National Park has re-opened. Along this road is the Alum Cave Trailhead, leading to the peak of Mt LeConte, in Tennessee. And, at the top of this 6500 ft peak is the Mt LeConte shelter, and it is open for reservations.

Strong warnings of crowds at the Alum Cave Trail and Mt LeConte have deterred me from ever visiting it. I weigh the decision. In a place as heavily regulated as the Smokies, if the trail and shelter are open they must be in good condition. But my date for the trip, October 24, is peak fall leaf color and sure to draw visitors. My hope is that Helene’s dissuasion and a mid week departure will mean smaller crowds.

When I first check the reservation site for the back country shelter on LeConte, which holds 12, three spots are already taken. I arrange for the time off, and when I book my spot the next day 6 other spots have been claimed. Two days later I check again. It is full.

Parking is not guaranteed, even with a reservation and parking passes. Darkness reigns as the wheels on my truck eat the highway miles. Black coffee clears my eyes while my headlights cut through the night.

Dawn arrives just as I pass the Oconaluftee Visitor Center at the entrance to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. A great antlered bull elk, with a herd spread out behind him, lingers in the field not far from the roadway. As expected, a group of onlookers are parked along the shoulder, watching. The parking does not look full, but I bypass the sight to try to beat the crowds to the parking area at my trailhead.

Highway 441 slowly writhes through the mountains. The growing daylight reveals the warm splendor of Autumn, radiating yellow and orange as the sun’s rays touch the treetops. The hues convey a light sense to the spirit, indescribable in words. It is the feeling of being at the apex of something; an awareness of the present moment being a brief golden age before the coming cold and darkness of winter dominate. Though there is a steady stream of traffic, I notice vacant parking spots as I crest the Smokies at Newfound Gap and begin the downward slide into Tennessee.

My hope falls, though, as I close in on the Alum Cave Trailhead. Frequent pull offs along the road are now choked with vehicles. I continue on to the trailhead parking lot for the chance of finding a lucky spot. It is overflowing with brand new SUV’s and trucks equipped with expensive overlanding equipment- shiny, clean, and unused. A shuttle bus from nearby Gatlinburg is dropping off sight seers. The impression of these people wandering everywhere shocks me with a self consciousness and guilt. Is this activity in any way honoring the mountains, or just a hedonistic spectacle? But I am one of these people.

I backtrack more than a mile up the roadway before I find a place to leave my truck for the night. A mile that I have to hike back, just to reach the trailhead. As the journey begins I quickly become absorbed in the surrounding vibrancy. Leaves fall softly through the forest like golden rain. The trail is an easy walk following a gentle, boulder strewn stream. This immersive experience is the essence of Autumn, and clearly the reason for this area’s popularity. The upcoming hike will be steep, but not long. I am not rushed, and so stop to capture photos.

Congestion on the trail is a rare experience in the areas I have traveled. Here, though, it is an ever present condition. I have difficulty setting down my GoPro camera due to people following behind. While I am stopped I am passed by a group with a number of small girls, probably 5 to 6 years old. I smile to see them experiencing nature on this day. But, as I start moving again I quickly catch up and must wait to pass them. Then I stop for another photo and they pass me again. And so it goes, repeatedly.

The trail turns from the stream and begins a steady climb up the shoulders of LeConte. Before long I arrive at the iconic Arch Rock. Here a bridge leads to a tunnel bored through a rock cliff. The trail pierces through it along a twisting spiral of stairs. I step to the side to take a photograph here, but every other passing hiker stops on the bridge or stairs to take their own cell phone selfies. I must wait for the gaps in the line to press the shutter button. Frustration rises in me, but I remind myself that I am one of them.

As I linger at Arch Rock a large group of middle aged Japanese hikers arrive. Even laden with my pack of camping and camera gear, my pace is much faster than theirs. They are a spread out along the trail and talking loudly. Talking almost incessantly. So, they do not realize that I wait behind them. I make my way past them, but again find myself in a situation in which every time I stop to photograph at least part of this group passes me. I am caught in a noisy train of humans trudging up the mountain. I get ahead once more and this time try to stay ahead, but this puts me in a position of being chased along the trail.

The air is crisp in the mountains, but sweat builds as I push myself. The sky is cloudless and intensely blue, leaving deep shadows in the valleys. Trees nestled amongst them glow like jewels in fire light. Gaps in the forest reveal receding textured mountains fading into the distance. Out there, away from the trail, danger and death lurk beneath the beauty. Those who embrace both are initiated into a kinship with the natural world. Here, it is too easy.

My vision and my thoughts draw back from the distances. I have reached Alum Cave Bluff. This almost-a-cave is a recessed sandy slope on the mountainside underneath a huge cliff overhang. It is about lunchtime by now and smaller groups of people are scattered around this spot, taking their respite.

I opt to continue on. I have never stayed at a back country shelter before and want to see what I have gotten into. The shelter is an open space for sleeping with no separate rooms or living areas. I am concerned about being stuck sleeping in the midst of strangers on either side of me, and in the Smokies tent camping is not allowed outside of the shelter. I should be able to get there in the early afternoon. Maybe I can pick my spot. Then I will rest.

Beyond Alum Cave the crowds are noticeably thinner. The trail also becomes steeper, often cut into the stone on the side of the mountain with metal cables for hand rails. Still, there are people of all sorts hiking here. I pass ladies with purses smelling of fragrant lotion from 20 yards away. If this trail were less populated I would be honestly concerned about them attracting bears. Some men wear premium brand expedition clothing more appropriate for glacier traverse. Others wear tight blue jeans and flannel. I cross paths with hikers carrying full size canisters of bear spray while others wear bells, jingling like envoys from Christmas. The variety of people is incredible. And I am one of these people.

At the higher elevations approaching the top of Mt LeConte the ecosystem changes. Primarily deciduous forests transition into one dominated by spruce and fir. The path unfolds quietly through these shady trees. A sharp chill clings to the shadows up here and the clarified scent of evergreen pervades the air.

The LeConte Lodge arises to the left. This is not my destination. Rather, this is a very pricey lodging that must be booked months, if not years in advance. Its small cabins are clustered around a dining hall and gift shop. Interestingly, the lodge is stocked with supplies 3 times per week by a train of llamas led up the Trillium Gap Trail. Unfortunately they are not here this day.

I top off my water supply at a spring nearby. Then, I continue on a short distance until I come to my residence for the night, the LeConte Shelter. The shelter is a 3 sided building of stone and wood with a large overhanging roof. Inside, a wooden platform provides a surface for sleeping, with a second level bunk platform accessible by a small ladder.

Luck is with me. Stakes are claimed here by leaving sleeping bags on one’s chosen spot. Two sleeping bags on sleeping pads occupy the bottom 2 spots on the right side of the shelter, but beyond that it is vacant. My spot will be on the bottom platform on the left side next to the stone wall. I leave my bedding, along with my extra water and trekking poles, trusting that no one wants to walk off with a 20 year old sleeping bag.

Cliff Tops overlook is not far. This rocky prominence juts out from the trees to offer panoramic views of the sprawling Appalachians, and today is capped by a dome of pure azure and a hot, unflinching sun. The rocky opening is not large. A few other individuals are seated around the clearing, but I find a place of my own to sit, rest, and eat.

This is the spot where I planned to watch the sunset. However, as I sit and eat I realize how little shade there is here. The afternoon sun is punishing, even in the cool air, and there are still 4 hours before the sun dips down.

I gather my stuff and start towards Myrtle Point to scout how it looks. This is a separate ridge and peak on the other side of LeConte’s apex, and where I anticipate watching the sunrise. Along the way I pass the shelter again. A young couple has arrived and are setting up their spots, but I don’t stop to talk.

The trail continues through more dense evergreen forest to the peak of Mt LeConte, marked by a large cairn of stones. Beyond that, the trail follows the crest of a narrow ridgeline leading to Myrtle Point. Vistas open to the north between the trees showing a mosaic of red, orange, and gold foliage, like I have never before seen. These are the sacred vibrant colors man has transposed into stained glass church windows.

Myrtle Point is another rocky outcrop, smaller than Cliff Top and a bit more remote. For a while I am the only one there. In the distance I hear the faint croak of a raven. I check the direction of the sunrise for the morning, 105 degrees to the east, to see what view will be available. I consider remaining here for the sunset this evening and linger for a while, simply enjoy the openness and the enveloping landscape.

With 2 hours before sunset I decide that the angle of the descending sun is better from Cliff Top. Its not far, just a hassle, but I gather my pack once more and step off in that direction.

As I arrive once more at Cliff Top only two other people are there. It is the young couple from the shelter. They recognize me and introduce themselves as Kai and PJ. We talk and all decide to cook our dinners here as the evening approaches.

The sun is low when a curious group of males approach. They are dressed in all black, making them look like a misplaced clique from a nightclub. Friendly, though. They speak loudly and all begin taking selfie pics with the mountains as a backdrop. Kai offers to take photos for their group. As I watch him do so, I notice Glock pistols tucked into 2 of the males’ waistbands. They let us know that they came here on a whim. It took 3 hours to hike up LeConte and now they intended on going back down. We feel obligated to tell them they have only about 45 minutes of daylight left, depending on the side of the mountain they are on, but they do not seem concerned. 10 minutes after arriving they leave. Curious group. Perhaps they earned this brief moment through the effort of their climb.

Sunset is not far off now. I set up a time lapse with my GoPro and begin taking photos in the golden hour light. Then, people begin to arrive. It is the residents of the LeConte Lodge, also here for the sunset. More come as the sun dips until a crowd of 30 people surround me on this small point on the mountain. I feel a strong aversion to this crowd at first, as if I am caught up in some profane spectacle. Yet here I am, and I am one of these people.

Voices remain respectfully low. This phenomenon of the earth rotating in space takes place every day, without fail. Why is this so different now than any other day? We all sit and watch it happening before us in sacred observance. Reverence grips us as shadows deepen and the orange sun sinks silently below the far off peaks.

Back at the shelter another couple has arrived and set up, along with Kai and PJ, on the upper platform. Strangely, it is now well past dark and there are 5 vacant spots here. I can only speculate why those people have not shown up. One guess would be that they couldn’t find a parking spot at the trailhead. In any case, this worked out well for the rest of us, giving us room to separate into our different areas.

Campfires are prohibited and this prevents any social gathering into the night. Instead, everyone prepares for an early bed. My headlamp is the last one shining faintly as I scribble into my journal in the darkness.

I toss and turn on the hard floor overnight. Someone’s sleeping pad crinkles like cellophane each time they turn. I wake around my normal time, which is very early to say the least. Getting up now would mean waking everyone else, so I continue to slumber. More fitful tossing and at last, I hear the sound of others stirring. I begin packing and soon we are all awake.

While the others still stir around the shelter, I grab my pack and hike off alone in the darkness towards Myrtle Point. There is a distinct chill in the air, but October has been unusually warm. Even at this high elevation, it is not cold. Sunrise is still an hour away, but I can clearly see its orange glow already burning on the horizon. At the point, I am the only one here. I pick my spots and plan my photo compositions. Then I brew a coffee and I wait.

Sunrise is imminent as I hear other hikers loudly approaching. “Fuck LeConte! We kicked its ass!” yells a male voice. This group of 5 spreads out on the rocks, talking obnoxiously loudly about how tired they all are after arriving at the trailhead at 3:30 am to hike here solely for the sunrise. I sit in silence and they do not seem to notice my presence. Maybe I am invisible. I am here, but more aligned with wild things in the shadows than with these people. I am not one of them.

A few more hikers come behind them, having also hiked up in the dark. With the arrival of the extra people the first group tones down their voices just a little bit.

The sun’s arrival is smooth and graceful, drawing my focus to the exclusion of all else. Though I have had my share of adventures this past year, it has been too long since I’ve sat on a mountain top to bear witness to the dawn’s arrival over the dark lands below. The experience is metaphorical- a renewal of the world, a renewal of the spirit, a renewal of life itself. The cost of attendance at these events is usually steep in both effort and risk. Often I am the only one to bear it, but today I am joined by others.

Another day without clouds allows the sun’s light to shine too harshly too soon, so it is time to head back. I leave these sleepy hikers at Myrtle Point. Passing the shelter, Kai and PJ and everyone else are gone. I should have said goodbye. I, too, was one of the people who shared this humble abode this night.

The hike down LeConte is an easy downhill, virtually the entire way. It is Friday morning and the stream of hikers on their way up is steady and growing. The roar of traffic on highway 441 is loud as vehicles cruise through the park. Large street legal 4 wheelers, rented specifically for sight seeing, rev their engines in the curves while music blares. Civilized people, wearing clothing inappropriate for wild lands, arrive here easily, effortlessly, to see the magical show that is Autumn in the Smokies.

I cannot deny that on this day I am one of these people. But, I am at the same time completely dismayed by the spectacle of it all. I don’t know what the answer is. The entire premise of my artistic photography is to highlight this natural wonder and inspire the veneration of it. Shouldn’t I feel glad that others are participating in it?

Perhaps my sense of offense comes from the irreverence of the crowds. It is like witnessing a circus inside of a cathedral. A cathedral who’s columns of ancient trees and damp moss covered floors beg for soft footsteps and silence.

Civilization is rapidly ruining the raw beauty of nature everywhere else with urban and suburban sprawl. Is it too easy for those engaged wholeheartedly in that destructive world to come to this one for amusement? Everything worthwhile, everything that holds lasting value, and everything that molds us into the highest version of ourselves requires significant effort and sacrifice to achieve. There should be a price of admission, paid in sweat, blood, and fear. These are, after all, hallowed grounds.

I am one of these people, easily accessing the Great Smoky Mountains at the height of October leaf color. I take my photographs, make my film, and absorb the magnificence of it all, just like everyone else. Buy my affinity is not with them.

Could I be more akin to the dark beastly things hiding in tree stumps or the feral creatures looking out with suspicion from the deep and silent woods? The venerable power of these mountains echoes in my bones. The wild feels like home, and as I look back out I see an evolving world rapidly leaving me behind.

Perhaps I just want this sacred space all to myself. Or, maybe I want the crowds to recognize the importance of this place and act appropriately. And for that, maybe people need to be touched by the grandeur of it all; to see that we belong to it, just as the wild forms a key piece of our ancestral souls. Maybe then we will begin to realize that we can do much better in living our lives in a manner faithful to Nature.

Thank you all for taking the time to read this essay and view my photographs. As I stated in the beginning… its very conflicting. I’d really like to hear your thoughts on crowds in the wild. Should we be happy for people visiting? Am I adding to the overuse of these areas by sharing my experiences? There are no easy answers, but I want to learn from your ideas, so drop me a comment-

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