The Pulse of Autumn: Bartram Trail Day 2

Field Notes III.XLIII: Backpacking and photography. Mile 14 thru 33. Warwoman Dell and Rabun Bald.

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The Pulse of Autumn: Bartram Trail Day 1

WPHEWW! WPHEWW!

My eyes snap open in the dark. Dreams scatter like startled birds.

WPHEWW!

What is that?! I struggle to associate the noise with anything familiar. I’ve heard bucks blow like that when they are suspicious, just before they bolt away with white tails held high. But their forceful exhales aren’t regular or frequent like this.

WPHEWW. Its coming from right where I hung my food bag. WPHEWW. That has to be a bear. As soon as that thought arises I can picture it perfectly in my mind- the bear standing directly under my food bag but unable to reach it. Sniff, sniff, sniff, followed by a forceful WPHEWW.

I reach for my headlamp and turn it on, trying to see under the gap below the vestibule. All it does is illuminate the inside of my tent. I sit up. Do I call out to it? I don’t like that idea when I’m still zipped up in the tent and can’t try to maneuver away. So do I try to get out?

I twist around and contort myself for a view as I consider what to do. Likely, the bear hears me moving and sees my light. Wpheww. A little more distant. wpheww… wpheww…… and even more distant….. wpheww.

Then silence. I wait. Many minutes pass. Nothing. Now I have to piss, so I slowly emerge from tent. My headlamp reveals the closest trees and my food bag, with blackness beyond. I see nothing more. I pee near my tent as a deterrent and crawl back in. It is 3:45 am.

Forceful gusts of wind thrash the dark tree canopy above, but my tent is oddly quiet and still. The contrast is unsettling.

My alarm rings at 5:30. It’s cold and underneath my quilt is deliciously warm. My entire body is sore from yesterday’s walking. When I next wake it is nearly 6.

The sleeping quilt becomes my vestment as the stove roars, boiling water for coffee in the lee of the tent. Dawn is still distant. I make a double.

It was too dark to see any tracks or sign of the bear. Now that I’m up, the memory of the almost-encounter grows ephemeral, as if the creature was an apparition now in retreat towards the shadows of the past.

Have I been lucky? I was fortunate to be allowed to park yesterday, an oversight that nearly derailed the beginning of this trip. Was it also luck that eased the bear away last night? I am left wondering if I am a part of this natural world, or simply passing through it? Stoic philosophy asserts that Nature is rational and benevolent. Yet, here in the wild survival is an imminent and visceral question that must be answered hour by hour. Not just by me, but by Brother Bear as well. How can Nature be anything but impartial? I feel the connection, but does Nature herself welcome me here?

Hiking under the wan illumination of the lowest setting on the headlamp is doable, so long as I go slow. The trail itself is often covered in newly fallen leaves, but the linear depression of it in the ground is easily recognizable. For the most part. There are still times that I stop to seek out the yellow blazes of the Bartram Trail on trees, or check my GPS dot’s alignment to the line on the map. When vision is limited like this I can smell the richness of the earth and savor the complex fragrance of slowly decaying leaf matter infused in the darkness.

I skipped breakfast in order to eat after the sun has risen, but now I’m getting hungry. The light of day is ever gradually growing, though. Color begins to return to the forest and I stash the headlamp. Maybe I can wait to eat until I reach Warwoman Dell. I know there are tables there, and perhaps a bin for my trash.

A side quest to Rainy Mountain is of interest, as I’ve read that there is an overlook with a view there. The problem is that the GPS map shows two Rainy Mountains, one spelled ‘Rainey’. Rainy was south of the trail, very near where I camped, but no connecting trail led in that direction. Rainey lies ahead to the north, but weirdly the marker for the peak on the map is offset from any peak of concentric contour lines.

Walking is now a steady progression through undulating hills. The trail crosses a dirt road of some sort. Strange, because that is not shown on the map. Thoughts of a view on this beautiful crisp morning fill my imagination. I am already planning my camera settings as I continue downhill.

A side trail branches off to the right. This is shown on my map, and leads to the “peak” of Rainey. It is a wide but disused old road bed, progressing uphill almost back in the direction I came from. It doesn’t exactly follow the trail indicated on the map. I persist, though. Every bend in the path holds a tantalizing possibility of opening up into the first view of the broader surrounding landscape on this journey.

The path ahead comes to an intersection of a trail. Wait… I’ve seen this! This is the same dirt road that the Bartram Trail crossed a little while ago! I’ve just made a loop that has cost me at least 20 minutes of uphill walking. Well, I cannot change this now. This is all the time I can spare for exploring. Rainey Mountain has eluded me and I still have a long way to go today.

I don’t know the history of Warwoman Dell. There are a couple of legends that could have been the origin of its name. I do know that it is a small day use recreational area. Improvements were made here in the Great Depression era by the Civilian Conservation Corps. Now there are picnic benches under a roofed awning and a privy.

My breakfast and gear splays across the tabletop as I sit for a late morning meal and second coffee. Warwoman serves as a great place to re-group and re-organize. The day is still early, but I know that a lot of climbing lies ahead. I want to get at least to the top of Rabun Bald by the day’s end.

A steep climb rises from Warwoman Dell, soon coming to the small cascade of Becky Branch Falls. The sun is getting high and the clarion blue skies do nothing to temper the light striking the falling water. I make the attempt to photograph it, but won’t know if I am successful until I review the images many days from now.

Past Becky Branch, the Bartram reaches Martin Creek and follows its course upstream through a fern matted valley. A group of four lady backpackers, who look like they could span four sequential generations, passes by on their way out. We smile and nod, but do not speak.

A short boardwalk leads up to the larger waterfall of Martin Creek Falls. After several hours of steady hiking, this seems like a great spot to drop my pack for a while. I explore around the base of the wooden platform, searching out interesting compositions for photos and carefully selecting perches for my tripod. The process is all engrossing and I can easily lose track of the time spent here, so I keep my choices and actions limited. Still, by the time I prepare to move on it’s already 11:30.

More climbing after Martin Creek Falls. I’ve done this stretch of trail before and don’t remember this segment being so long. By the time I reach a side trail to the left leading to Pinnacle Knob I’m feeling tired but somehow restless, as if I haven’t made the progress I hoped for today.

William Bartram likely passed through this exact area. The Cherokee people undoubtedly frequented it. Now I see my own quiet history stitched into the landscape as memories of my past visit here arise. Things change so fast. Though that was only a few years ago, I’m a different person now.

I was interested in Pinnacle as another side quest. It has a great view from the peak. At mid day, though, with cloudless skies the light is harsh and unflattering. Not worth the long, steep diversion to get there. It is the second opportunity for a view I bypass.

The path dips through Courthouse Gap and gently ascends the side of Hogback, contouring around both it and Raven Knob. The air is dry and cool. My shoes have dried from yesterday’s soaking and the tape I placed on the blister on my foot is holding. Walking feels remarkably good. Invigorating, even.

Climbing begins in earnest again on a ridge line leading up the side of Rock Mountain. Yet even thought the pace slows, progress is steady and frequent switchbacks control the intensity. THUMP and a rustle! Approaching the crest of this ridge, something moves ahead to my right, just over the apex. Did I see a dark flapping of wings by that tree? The thump sounded big. Bear? But the wing flapping makes me thing maybe turkey or grouse. I continue walking about 20 yards more when another great rustling erupts in the under brush off to the left. This time it sounds like feathers, but I still can’t see whatever it is. It will remain a mystery.

The forest becomes drier amongst these higher hills. Hickory decorated in gold mingles with the tulip trees and now some oak. An entire spectrum of yellow dominates this arboretum, accented here and there with the brilliant red of crooked sourwood trees and some maple.

After some recent backpacking trips I’ve tried to carry the clarity of mind I experience on trail back into the day-to-day. To do this, I’ve dabbled with short breath focused meditation. I had intended to continue that practice on this trip. Now though, I find myself walking to a steady cadence of crisp leaves crunching underfoot, matching my rhythmic inspirations. Meditation at camp is superfluous. Out here the practice is woven into every moment of being. My thoughts are already clearing.

I see whorls of expansive leaves of the Fraser magnolia my thoughts return to William Bartram. As he walked very nearly this same route he ‘discovered’ this tree in this exact area near Rabun Bald in 1775. However, by some accounts, John Fraser found a specimen in South Carolina years later and though he and Bartram knew one another, Fraser was credited with the name when it was first included in an official publication. It is an interesting history, but does not amount to much significance. This tree and these lands were intimately familiar to the Cherokee, a knowledge and history now tragically lost, for many generations prior to being ‘discovered’ by explorers or settlers.

I’ve only carried one liter of water with me since Martin Creek Falls and I start to grow concerned. A near-drought has lingered since the start of September and now several marked streams or springs since the creek have been dry. I continue through Windy Gap and around yet another knob, descending towards Wilson Gap. Two possible stream lay ahead.

The first stream is a trickle, but it is flowing. My level of thirst was unrealized until I begin drinking. But almost instantly, I chug down close to the full liter of water I carried. It takes a very long time, but I manage to capture another liter from the meager flow from the mountainside. It is taking too long, so I do not gather more.

Around the corner is the second stream. This one flows quite freely, burbling and gurgling along cheerfully. Now I regret stopping at the first stream, but I could not have known. Cameling up is the term for chugging water at each re-fill, and this is exactly what I do. Again. With a sloshing bellyfull, I then fill three liters of water to carry. Its going to be heavy, but I can’t rely on any water sources coming up before tomorrow.

The added weight of the water comes just in time for more climbing. After snaking around Double Knob, the trail climbs steeply up the side of Flat Top. This must be the start of the climb of Rabun Bald, I think. But, no. The trail skirts around and plummets back down through Saltrock Gap.

Shadows lengthen. The coolness of the shade bites my skin, leaving me grateful for the afternoon sunlight. Finally, the big climb up the second highest peak in Georgia begins.

Progress becomes a slow grind. After a point I can no longer keep a steady pace. Not even a slow one. That leaning tree 25 yards ahead becomes the goal. My legs drive me higher with each slow extension until I reach it. Then I wait while my lungs billow.

The wind gusts through treetops, scattering brittle leaves, as my pulse slowly recovers. Crickets sing from the shade of the forest. Scanning ahead, I pick another tree as the next goal. And the process repeats again. And again, and again.

Finally a view! Through a gap in the trees I look back across the mountain range I’ve traversed. The peaks rise beneath the trees like bony processes of the spine of the earth, as if the land is some massive prostrate living thing. I can almost see it flex with inhaled breaths and feel its heartbeat with my feet.

The distant sprawling terrain is a relief for my eyes, which have become so accustomed to viewing the proximal trees. There is still more climbing ahead, though. I turn back toward the green rhododendron tunnel.

It is 5:30 in the afternoon when the lookout tower on top of Rabun Bald comes into view. The big climb of the day is done and I can rest for a little while.

Resting is a relative term, though. The tripod comes out as soon as I drop my pack and I start considering views and compositions for photos. The top of the tower offers a vast panorama of mountainscapes undulating into the far distance in every direction.

The pale blue dome of the sky overhead is unbroken by any clouds. So, my photos are dictated by the light and the angle of the sinking sun. The southerly vista stands out as the unrivaled choice.

Earlier in the day I had considered camping atop Rabun this night. I thought of sunset and of the pristine night sky for astrophotography and of sunrise the next day. There are even nice campsites very near the top. But now I see that will not happen.

Without clouds the actual sunset is of limited photography interest. Even though Rabun is only a 4700ft peak, it is very cold at this elevation. For a photography oriented trip yes, but now I do not see myself staying up late in the night and in the cold for photos of the stars. And, in the morning, I would have to be on the move before the sunrise.

There is still time for hiking in the day, so I bid Rabun Bald farewell. A long descent follows. It should be easy going, but I begin to feel a pain along the shin of my left lower leg, just above the ankle. It slows me. Darkness falls as I arrive in Beegum Gap.

On the map this looked like a good spot to camp. It is even designated on the map as a campground. I find a large sign at the intersection of trails here, but after searching back and forth cannot locate any spot to pitch a tent.

There is another possible place just a little bit further down the trail. With no other choice, I head to it. This one is expansive and flat. After pitching the tent and eating in the dark I find a place to hang my food far enough from camp to ease my mind.

My body sinks into the sleeping pad under my quilt. I feel as if exhaustion is is liquifying my musculature, leaving my bones to settle into a heap. I stare up at the tent wall in the darkness. Far off I hear people speaking. After last night it’s a comforting sound, but soon the voices grow quiet. Then a coyote howls in the distance. And later owls talk softly back and forth. The night is alive.

A bear in my camp at night! That was a first for me (that I know of)! Late October is the time of year they are fattening up in preparation for winter hibernation. All he wanted was my food, but its still unnerving.

Yesterday’s wet dried out and I packed in a lot of miles this day. I’m pushing hard at this point because of the timing of the day ahead. I have to get as close as possible to the Franklin road walk by the end of day 3 so that I can then get through Franklin on day 4, without having to stop in town for a night. You guys think I can do it?

Read the next episode here-

The Pulse of Autumn: Bartram Trail Day 3

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