Emily Takes a Hike

October 22, 2019

Hiking Underground at Mammoth Cave National Park

In the South, there’s no better time for an underground hike than the middle of summer. When August temperatures above ground make even the most heavily shaded trails feel like saunas, Tennessee and Kentucky offer several optimal underground hiking alternatives. None of these is more well known than Mammoth Cave National Park, easily accessible by a ninety-minute drive north from Nashville. As the only national park that’s justifiable as a day trip from my home in the Music City, the fact that I didn’t explore this place sooner completely baffles me. However, I couldn’t have picked a better opportunity to reunite with one of my favorite hiking partners and beat the heat by taking this chapter in the second iteration of my New Year’s Resolution underground.

Megan and I in a low-quality photo from a high-quality underground hike at Mammoth Cave. NPS strictly prohibits camera flashes inside the cave, so this is the best shot my iPhone could manage to produce.

Naturally, Mammoth Cave has been high on my “unexplored hiking destinations within a couple of hours of Nashville” bucket list (yes, I’ve got one of those) since the beginning of this journey in January of 2018. But this local climate that’s nothing short of smoldering for about eight months every year, as I’ve since learned, significantly changes beneath the earth’s surface. My hike at Mammoth Cave with Megan, a close friend who I’ve hiked with more times than maybe anyone, felt different than any other hike I’ve ever taken, and not just because of temperature differential below ground. I’ll admit that part felt so refreshing, because I can’t think of another summertime activity (outdoors and out of water) this close to home that gives me the chills, in the best way.

The entirety of the four-mile trail that Megan and I hiked lay beneath the ground. However, I’d describe this trail as generously moderate, for a number of reasons. First and foremost, the National Park Service does not allow mere mortals to explore Mammoth Cave without a guide. I respect this, since Mammoth Cave is the world’s largest known cave system. The cave encompasses more than 400 miles of explored passages, only 14 of which are accessible to the general public, and many experts believe that at least half of the Mammoth Cave system has yet to be discovered. To the federal government, that translates to countless opportunities for unaccompanied and inexperienced tourists to get lost in the dark. As if NPS needs an additional reason to require Mammoth Cave visitors to enter the cave with a guide, it’s also extremely hazardous for the cave’s internal ecosystem to endure the human impact associated with unmitigated foot traffic.

Stalactites hang from the ceiling in several places in Mammoth Cave. Formed by mineral deposits on the limestone surface of the cave, stalactites grow at a rate of 10 cm per thousand years.

Accompanied by two park rangers and sixty other cave visitors, Megan and I descended into Mammoth Cave and embarked on the Grand Avenue Tour, the longest and most strenuous option available that doesn’t require caving equipment or experience. If you’re planning to visit Mammoth Cave, check out their website to learn about your tour options, as many (including Grand Avenue) are only offered seasonally. Megan and I were lucky to snag two of the last remaining spots on our tour about a week in advance. All tours require check-in at the Visitor Center prior to departure via shuttle to one of a handful of cave entrances.

Soon after entering the cave, I began reaching into my backpack for my pullover jacket, as the temperatures inside the cave felt at least forty degrees cooler than those above ground. Besides the chill in the air, the first thing I noticed was the infrastructure built within the cave, thoughtfully designed to accommodate crowds who don’t spend much time underground. The trail was smooth and even, and actually paved with a concrete mixture made from loose rubble cleared from the cave’s passages that are now accessible to visitors. The cave also had electricity, powered by generators along the trail that the enabled the rangers to turn lights on and off as we moved from one area to the next. Ladies and gentlemen, this cave even had bathrooms, and not the portable kind. These toilets flushed.

NPS strategically places small spotlights within the cave that allow visitors to see into the recesses along the trail without obstructing the path or the view.

All things considered, this might be the most civilized hike I’ve ever taken. It’s certainly the largest group I’ve ever hiked with, and the first guided hike I’ve taken since I started this journey. Although part of me feels disheartened about the manmade modifications to such an astounding natural wonder, another part of me appreciates that the National Park Service has made it possible for people like me to safely explore a place that would otherwise be inaccessible. This managed approach grants access to a limited number of guests and only in predetermined areas, all for a price. The controlled nature of this organized system, and the revenue that it generates, helps to preserve the cave for future generations of explorers.

Many of my photos turned out blurry as my phone struggled to focus in the dim light. However, some of these blurry photos, like this one of Megan, appropriately reflect the cave’s mysterious ambiance.

Ranger Steve, the NPS officer who led our journey, provided detailed historical and speleological anecdotes as we moved through the caverns. Speleology is the term that defines the study of caves, and I learned the name of this ancient science through a wise sage called Google. While most of the passages that we moved through didn’t feel cramped at all, this journey included a few spaces that would make a claustrophobe sweat, even in the cool subterranean climate. The rock formations changed as we moved through the cave, and Ranger Steve provided an excellent translation of the story that unfolded through the intricate patterns on those limestone walls. Mammoth Cave developed over the course of hundreds of millions of years, and it’s still a magnificent work in progress.

As my first underground hike, this one will always stand out in my memory as a completely unique experience, and one that I’m so grateful to have shared with my favorite Kentucky native, Megan. Not surprisingly, hiking through dark spaces beneath the earth’s surface produces sub-optimal lighting for photos, and NPS has a strict policy against flash photography in the cave, due to its harmful impact on bats, spiders, and the other species that call Mammoth Cave home. If you’re looking for a hike that will produce an array of likable photos to post on Instagram, this destination isn’t for you. I think that’s part of the appeal. Mammoth Cave presents a rare opportunity for the average tourist to explore one of the world’s most impressive natural phenomenons. There are no mountain vistas or breathtaking waterfalls inside this cave, but that doesn’t compromise the beauty of this enigmatic landscape.

As the downward pattern suggests, a waterfall formerly flowed over this rock face inside the cave. Darkness shrouds the bottom of the cavern below, making its depth impossible to define from the trail above.

Caves feel so personal to me, because of the closeness of the surrounding landscape, both comforting and intimidating at the same time. Despite the fact that I hiked through Mammoth Cave as a member of a large tour group, parts of this experience felt incredibly intimate. I salute NPS for this. While I still prefer adventures above ground, I foresee additional cave hikes in my future, and I’m lucky to live in an area that provides plenty of subterranean options.

This view shows the ceiling in what’s known as the Drapery Room, where stalactites and stalagmites create a curtain effect that dominates nearly every inch of this beautiful space.

September 23, 2019September 23, 2019

Hope Lake Trail: Telluride, Colorado

I’m sure I’ve referred to at least half of the trails I’ve hiked and written about as “one of my favorites” for some reason or another. While I do have many favorites, I’d never encountered a trail that unequivocally topped them all. I never expected to, because the landscapes I’ve hiked through are as diverse as they are beautiful. It’s impossible to compare hiking in Alaska to hiking at the Grand Canyon or in the cavernous backwoods of Tennessee. Each wild and wonderful place holds its own unique appeal, and every hiking experience is different, even when revisiting a familiar trail. This is why the concept of having a single favorite hike had always eluded me, and I was perfectly content with that. I’m sure you’ve sniffed out the upcoming plot twist by now, but here it is: I was wrong to think I couldn’t possibly have a favorite hike; I just didn’t have one yet. Not until I hiked Hope Lake Trail with my new husband, less than twenty-four hours after I married him. Now, I can say without a doubt that of all the hikes I’ve ever taken, anywhere and with anyone, this one’s my favorite.

Marriage, Day 1: the greatest, most beautiful hike I’ve ever experienced, on Hope Lake Trail near Telluride, CO

I’m specifically referring to this as my favorite hike, not my favorite trail (although it may be my favorite trail too, I’d have to hike it again to be sure), because multiple hiking experiences on the same trail can drastically vary depending on factors like time of year, weather, who you’re hiking with, traffic from other hikers, etc. Those influencing factors can be internal too, like your mood or current physical condition. I’m not sure what I did to deserve a hike with perfect conditions across the board, in one of the most magnificent places I’ve ever seen, the day after my wedding. As crazy as this sounds, I feel like Mother Nature watched God send me the perfect husband and the perfect wedding day, and not to be outdone, rolled her eyes and said, “OK, hold my beer”.

This magnificent view, from just above the tree line on Hope Lake Trail, includes the sparkling waters of Trout Lake (center) and the high peaks behind it that form the Wilson group, which includes three of Colorado’s most challenging fourteeners.

There’s no way that words and pictures could even come close to capturing this perfect hike, and maybe that’s why it’s taken me two months to compose this post. I know I’ve often overused the “words/pictures don’t do it justice” cliche in the past, and while all of my hikes feel deeply personal, none has ever impacted me quite like this one, not even mine and Andy’s Mount Elbert summit hike last year on my 30th birthday. I’ve thought about this hike to Hope Lake every day since, in an attempt to keep the memory whole and vivid for as long as I can. I could go on and on about the significance of such an incredible journey through the wilderness on our first day of marriage and create an elaborate metaphor about marriage as an adventure, but I’ll spare y’all from all that. It feels wrong to let a metaphor overshadow or filter a hike like this one. Besides, I’ve got the rest of my life to draw comparisons between my hiking adventures and my marriage, if I ever choose to go down that path.

The majestic San Juan Mountains, still freckled with thinning patches of snow, towered above an enchanting evergreen forest with a floor full of colorful wildflower blossoms. This was our view as we drove slowly up the bumpy, unpaved road to the trailhead. Although there’s a chance we’d have eventually made it up the mountain in a car, I was grateful that we were in a 4WD SUV with some ground clearance. We’d spent the middle part of the day kayaking at nearby Trout Lake (highly recommend, it’s gorgeous and wasn’t crowded at all when we visited on a Saturday morning in July), so we got a later start than we otherwise would have on this moderate 5-mile hike. There were only a couple of other cars in the parking area, which worried me. This part of Colorado endured heavy snow much later in the year than usual, and I’d read mixed reviews on AllTrails about whether or not the lake was currently accessible without the use of crampons or an ice ax, which we didn’t have. Andy had forgotten to put his hiking shoes in the car and was wearing running shoes, but we decided to give it a shot, knowing we could turn around and hike back out if trail conditions forced us to do so.

Trout Lake, quiet and surrounded by mountains and summer wildflowers, lies only a few miles from the trailhead

Hope Lake Trail offers epic views of the San Juan Mountains throughout the hike. However, the thing about this trek that I enjoyed most was the opportunity to see this gorgeous space during a time of transition. We witnessed the breathtaking visual contrast between competing seasons during the small handful of days when snow still decorates the mountains, but just enough has melted to make the trail navigable all the way up to the thawing alpine lake. Our timing felt perfect. If we’d tried to hike this trail a week earlier, the snow accumulation may have prevented us from reaching the lake. A week later, enough snow may have melted to attract a larger crowd to the area, diminishing the peaceful solitude that’s a rare gift on a trail as beautiful and relatively accessible as this one.

stunning view of Vermilion Peak, a thirteener renowned for its radiant colors, as viewed from the top of Hope Lake Trail

The trailhead rests at 10,750 feet, high above Trout Lake and the valleys of Lizard Head Wilderness. The first mile or so gently ascends through an evergreen forest and crosses a couple of shallow streams, likely byproducts of melting snow flowing down from the surrounding peaks. At this altitude, the forest is thick enough to provide shade, but thin enough to offer frequent and far-reaching visibility across the vibrant mountain landscape. We encountered our first unavoidable patch of snow at the Poverty Gulch creek crossing, about 0.3 miles into the hike. We briefly lost the trail beneath the snow, and at that point, I wasn’t feeling optimistic that we’d make it up to the lake, having encountered a significant snowy section before we’d gained any meaningful elevation.

Andy, still in his kayaking attire, looking up at Vermilion Peak from the creek crossing in Poverty Gulch. Despite the presence of snow on the ground, the temperatures on the trail, even at Hope Lake, never felt cooler than fifty degrees.

As the trail climbs and the distance between trees increases, the views expand, until the tree line fades into the background below, opening up to reveal the brushy, colorful landscape of the mountain range’s upper slopes. As you may suspect, we encountered larger and more frequent patches of snow as we gained elevation. While below the tree line, we could easily navigate around most of them by taking brief detours from the trail, moving cautiously to avoid disrupting the fragile landscape around us (and admittedly, to avoid losing the trail again). Despite extended lines of sight above the tree line, snow covered much more of the terrain, and detours on dry ground weren’t always an option. Staying on the buried trail became increasingly difficult, so when available, we followed footprints left behind in the snow by other hikers. Fortunately, the snow fields were never more than a few inches deep, and soft enough to keep us upright.

High above the tree line at nearly 11,700 feet (according to My Altitude, a brilliantly simple app that I use frequently on mountain hikes), we encountered a large snow field that covered the crest of a ridge. We knew we must be getting close to Hope Lake because of our elevation, but we couldn’t see it yet. We couldn’t see where the snow field ended either, but a clear line of footprints provided enough evidence to assure us that we were still moving in the right direction. Since I was wearing waterproof hiking shoes, I went ahead of Andy to assess trail conditions on the other side of the ridge. I trudged upward through the snow, silently praying that I’d be able to see the lake from the top of the ridge, or at least an identifiable trail. Luckily, I found both.

*Hope Lake, the main attraction, as viewed from the other side of the snowy ridge and sparkling at nearly 12,000 feet as it thaws in the July sun*

It took me a minute to catch my breath. I’m not sure if it was the magnificent view of Hope Lake or the slow trudge up the ridge at that altitude (probably both). I’d never seen anything like Hope Lake, half frozen and looking absolutely radiant as it reflected images of the surrounding mountains in fragments between its thawing patches of ice. The colors of the lake encompassed almost every imaginable shade of blue, from pale and powdery in places where the ice on the surface had melted to the point of translucence to deep aqua in places where the ice had already vanished. These spaces between the ice shimmered with the dark grey reflection of the high peaks that rose above it, and the beautiful variation of colors and textures on the lake’s surface made me feel like I was looking into a giant still frame from a kaleidoscope.

All of the beautiful views along the trail would have made the hike worthwhile, but Hope Lake against that mountain backdrop, in the thawing alpine wilderness, might be the most beautiful sight I’ve ever encountered on any hike.

Aside from a couple of marmots, we were completely, perfectly alone at Hope Lake. As incredible as the views were, the fact that we had the rare opportunity to witness this place in its most native form felt so refreshing and exhilarating. We explored the rugged landscape along the lake’s northern shore, the only side that wasn’t thoroughly buried in snow. We stayed beside the lake for as long as we could, considering our late start on the trail and that we’d need to allow plenty of time to hike back to the car and then navigate down the precarious mountain road before sunset. We could have planned to spend the entire day at Hope Lake, and that still wouldn’t have been long enough to enjoy those gorgeous alpine views.

In the weeks since this hike, I’ve done more research on the trail and its surrounding mountains. I’ve learned that the trail actually continues along the lake’s eastern edge and leads up to an unnamed pass. The pass provides access to the ridge line that connects the magnificent string of thirteeners that dominate the scenery surrounding Hope Lake. We didn’t realize that the trail continued up to the pass, because it lay hidden beneath the snow and wasn’t part of the map we’d been using on AllTrails. I’ve discovered a couple of accounts from other hikers who have headed west from the pass and traversed the ridge line to summit these spectacular peaks that separate Hope Lake from the much more popular alpine lakes of Ice Lake Basin. On our next trip to Telluride, hiking this extended route tops my to do list, as long as the ground is free from snow, of course.

Vermilion (left) and Fuller (right) peaks are part of a series of six thirteeners connected by a ridge accessible from Hope Lake Trail

During our week in Telluride, I developed an enchantment for the area that I haven’t felt for a place since Andy and I went to Alaska two years ago. I’ve loved so many things about each of the wild places I’ve seen, but this one was truly exceptional. We had some initial reservations about planning a wedding in a place we’d never visited before, but looking back, experiencing a place like that for the first time, especially during such a monumental event in our lives, made us appreciate the time we spent there even more. I left feeling grateful for and humbled by the opportunity to have this adventure, and excited for the unlimited possibilities that the future holds for Andy and me.

Andy and I were married on July 19, 2019, surrounded by a small circle of family and close friends, in a valley beneath the San Juan Mountains in Telluride, CO.

August 7, 2019

Big South Fork: Honey Creek Loop Trail

We’re halfway through another trip around the sun, and I’m halfway through the second year of my resolution to explore at least one new hiking trail every month. Through the first half of 2019, I explored eight new trails across four states, and nine adventure loving friends joined me on one or more of these hikes. I’ve experienced some overwhelmingly beautiful and diverse wild places over the past six months, from the snow-capped peaks of the Sierra Nevada Mountains in California to the wildflower-spotted forests of Alabama. However, the memories that stand out to me the most aren’t about the scenery, but about exploring those magnificent wild places for the first time with so many wonderful people. Hiking alone challenges me, especially on strenuous trails (like Fiery Gizzard, one of my favorites that can be hiked as a day trip from my home in Nashville), but hiking with friends presents a totally different and equally meaningful kind of gratification.

Carley, Lexi, Anne, me, and Megan, hiking through the cavernous woodlands of Honey Creek Loop at Big South Fork in Tennessee

Over the last weekend in June, I rented a cabin with friends at Big South Fork National Recreation Area and hiked Honey Creek Loop, an enigmatic trail that felt more remote and unpredictable than anything I’ve encountered yet in my home state, maybe anywhere. I think this deserves some back story. I travel out west as often as I can because a panoramic view from the upper slopes of a big mountain takes my breath away every time I look up from the trail. It’s a powerful thing to feel so small and humble yet so triumphant and infinite in the same moment. My first immersive experience in a mountainous wilderness was on a trip to Alaska with Andy just two years ago. After my first summit hike, to the top of Mount Healy in Denali National Park, I knew with unflinching certainty that I’d always love big mountains and the man who introduced them to me.

Andy and me, near the summit of Mount Healy in Denali National Park in Alaska

I say all of this to illustrate the unlikely balance between the trails I travel to and the trails that I call home. My passion for one is idealistic and ambitious, and my passion for the other feels familiar and comfortable. It’s a union between branches and roots, and a tree needs both in order to thrive. As much as I love the expansive beauty of mountains, the allure of the deep woods and canyons surrounding the Cumberland Plateau in Tennessee feels so immensely personal. Hiking these trails in summer months guarantees dense woodlands with limited lines of sight, hidden waterfalls and caves, the incessant sounds of nearby wildlife – seen and unseen, and an invigorating sense that you’re enveloped on all sides by your immediate surroundings.

My experience on Honey Creek Loop represents the pinnacle of everything I love about hiking in Tennessee: the mystery and anticipation of what lies beyond my immediate surroundings while immersed below the thick canopy of the forest, and the refreshing inhalation of open air that accompanies a seat on the edge of an exposed cliff that really wasn’t visible until it was only a few feet in front of you. Honey Creek Loop includes a whole lot of the former and very little of the latter. Then again, it’s likely that we overlooked many of this trail’s hidden gems because the path itself was so difficult to follow. My friends and I accidentally wandered off the trail more times than I can recall. Although we were never really lost, I got the sense that we missed things, and that this alluringly complex trail needs to be hiked a few times before it can really be appreciated, and certainly before it can be properly navigated.

Much of the trail ran in a narrow line alongside the bottom of large, cavernous cliff formations, shrouded beneath a dense woodland canopy

All five of us who hiked Honey Creek Loop together lost phone service long before we arrived at the trailhead, and we didn’t regain it once while on the trail. After studying the topographic trail map and reviews from other hikers on AllTrails, we decided to hike the loop counter-clockwise. The map of the route in the AllTrails listing is accurate, but the length is incorrectly listed at four miles, when the full loop (including the spur to the overlook – which is totally worth a short detour), is realistically almost six miles. As advised by signs at the trailhead, hikers should plan for one hour per mile on this strenuous trail. This strategy allows extra time to scout and navigate (and backtrack after a wrong turn) when the correct path forward isn’t apparent, which happens often. It also accounts for the trail’s many boulder scrambles and slow traverses across uneven, unpredictable terrain. Overall, the trail’s elevation gain and length may seem modest, but trust me, neither of those are accurate indicators of what hikers will actually encounter here.

We turned off the main trail (on purpose this time) and climbed a series of long ladders to reach the overlook, and the views were definitely worth the effort.

Over the first mile or so, the trail steadily descends into a canyon, with the surrounding vegetation encroaching more and more on our group as we approached Honey Creek at the bottom. To make a mediocre attempt at a poetic nature metaphor (or simile, I forget the rules), the descent into the increasing density of the surrounding woodlands feels like slowly wrapping yourself up in a blanket. Although it’s a magnificent blanket, at a certain point its closeness becomes constrictive, so you keep moving in hopes that you’ll regain a comfortable balance between immersion and flexibility. And we hadn’t even reached the caves yet.

I vividly remember the caves surrounding this trail and the high cliffs rising above them. Their daunting beauty was impossible to miss, and our imaginations ran wild trying to envision the mysteries that their shadows obscured. As I mentioned earlier, hiking through the canyons along the Cumberland Plateau is not a quiet endeavor, at least not in the warm months (in Tennessee, that’s about nine of them). The sounds of water, wind, and wildlife moving through these spaces is ever present, and there’s not always a visual explanation to accompany the varied sounds along the trail. The ambiguous relationship between sound and sight on trails like this one can’t be taken for granted, and it always keeps you guessing. After the initial descent into the canyon, trail conditions intensified. Suddenly, we were no longer hiking alongside dark and obscure caverns, but through them.

If there’s a graceful way to travel through a cave, I haven’t learned that trick yet. Also, if you look on the right side of this photo, you’ll notice a trail marker on the tree outside of the cave, a rare sight in these woods.

None of the caves or rock formations that we hiked through or scrambled over were individually extensive, but they were frequent enough to stand out as a defining feature on the trail. A simple wrong turn within the cavernous void often led us to believe that as long as we emerged back into the light, we were headed in the right direction. However, these short-lived perceptions frequently ended with resounding confirmation of our inadequate navigation skills. The most straightforward path wasn’t always the trail. Even when we weren’t passing through rocky dens or boulder fields, the overgrown forest often obscured the trail or created an illusion that led us astray. Needless to say, we relied heavily on the GPS function within the map on AllTrails, but when you’re buried so deep in the wilderness, location accuracy is only an approximation. We usually didn’t realize we’d ventured off the trail until we moved far enough in the wrong direction to create a distinguishable distance between us and the trail on the digital map.

Lexi and Megan search for the trail as Maggie observes. As we learned after trial and error, the trail does not move upward past Megan on the right side of this photo. It actually runs through the narrow opening between the boulders on the left.

In a way, the constant need to focus on navigation created some blind spots. In places where we felt uncertain of the right path forward, we weren’t paying as much attention to the pristine beauty surrounding us. While passing along a narrow section of trail through a particularly rugged boulder field, maybe a mile and a half into the hike, I was walking ahead of our group and so focused on my footing that I didn’t notice a massive snake until I was only a few feet away from it. At least five feet long and sprawled across a rock immediately on my left, the snake was already staring at me as I became of aware of its presence. Despite instantly realizing that this was a common king snake, nonvenomous and nonviolent, I froze, shocked by the sight of something so glaringly present that I’d somehow overlooked.

I took this photo only a few feet ahead of where I was standing on the trail when I first noticed the snake, still and quietly watching me become of aware of its presence.

Although we didn’t encounter any other snakes on this hike (none that we saw, anyways), that experience makes me wonder what else we missed. To be clear, this trail definitely doesn’t lack excitement or up close and personal views of the gorgeous Tennessee wilderness. And as has been my experience on similarly remote and challenging trails in my home state (Savage Gulf comes to mind), we saw only a small handful of other hikers, all in groups. The absence of solo hikers didn’t cross my mind at the time, but it’s a rare thing to witness and a testament to the enigmatic nature of the trail. If I’d hiked this one alone, never having been there before, I’d probably still be out there, utterly lost and resigned to my new life as a modern day cave dweller.

The trail passed beside this ominous cave, not through it. The mysterious presence of the ladder, however, piqued our curiosity. Unfortunately, the ladder was incredible unstable, and putting weight on the upper rungs would have caused it to fall apart.

Speaking of cave dwellers, I experienced my first ever bear encounter near the end of Honey Creek Loop. With only a mile or so remaining between us and the sacred air conditioning of our car, we started to feel the increasing the weight of physical exhaustion. This realization, in addition to growing concern over the waning daylight hours as afternoon turned into evening, motivated us to move at a quick pace on this last stretch of our journey. The trail became easier to distinguish (finally) as it ascended away from the jagged canyon floor and the creek. As we passed what may have been the final cave that we saw on the trail, about thirty yards to our right and on the opposite side of a shallow creek, I heard a short, low, rumbling sound. The sound was faint and far enough away to make me question whether or not I’d really heard it, but when I heard it again less than a minute later, I knew. That sound was coming from a bear, and that bear wanted us to know we were hiking through its territory.

We never saw the bear, but we didn’t linger in the area or get any closer to the cave to investigate. We didn’t even acknowledge it until we got back to the car, but we all knew in that moment what the dark depths of that cave obscured. I think none of us wanted to create a sense of panic among the group, and there wasn’t much we could do about it anyways, except to keep moving and hope that the bear would remain in its cave. We discussed it at length later that evening over beer and pizza, relieved that the moment had passed without confrontation, but thrilled to have had the experience.

I’ll scale snake-infested boulder fields for a good photo op.

Those sentiments about the bear encounter apply to our overall experience with Honey Creek Loop as well. Please brace yourself for the following emotional ramblings of another basic white girl who went outside and had a nice time (because the world needs more of that, right?). The significance that I took away from my hike through this magnificent, untamed space was this: In the wild and in life, we’re not meant to see everything. Because of our limited capacity as humans, we’ll inevitably miss many extraordinarily beautiful things, dangerous things, and things that are painfully both. We’ll have faith in the reality of things we cannot see, and we’ll often overlook or take for granted things that lie in plain sight. We’ll stray from our rightful paths and move through dark places, and we’ll rely on friends for guidance when we can’t seem to find a way to move forward. As we approach the end of the trail, maybe we’ll find peace in knowing that we’ve already conquered our greatest challenges, and hopefully we’ll feel fulfilled and grateful for the beauty we’ve been blessed to encounter along the way.

Maggie, the true leader of our party and the fiercest animal in the forest

June 28, 2019

South Lake Tahoe: Eagle Lake Trail

Hiking and bachelorette party don’t often end up in the same sentence. If I drew a Venn diagram and asked the next hundred people I saw to tell me the first word that came to mind when they thought of each activity, I doubt there’d be any overlap in responses. Maybe “wild”, but that word would probably carry different implications depending on the event it’s associated with. I’ve been to about a dozen bachelorette parties, and I think the most crucial element to a successful one is creating an experience that celebrates each unique bride in a way that’s special to her, without compromising the rest of the group’s potential to have a good time. Easy, right? Just kidding, obviously. All ladies of a certain age know how much work (and time, money, coordination, etc.) goes into this, and as the time for my own bachelorette party approached, my friends prepared a more incredible weekend than I could have ever imagined. Because they know and love me so well, those plans included a hike. I’m not surprised that this amazing group of women created the perfect celebration for me, because they inspire me constantly just by being themselves, but that bachelorette party just gives me one more reason to love every one of them.

my friends and I at Vista Point off the main trail (from left to right, bottom row: Elizabeth, Morgan, me; top row: Megan, Katie, Lexi, Shellie)

Lake Tahoe is loaded with gorgeous trails and breathtaking scenery, but realistically, we knew we’d only have time for one hike. To maximize our hiking experience and still allow time for the other activities we had planned, we narrowed down our pool of options to those relatively close to South Lake Tahoe, where we were staying, and short-ish trails that we could complete in half a day or less. Naturally, we also wanted to find a trail with a reputation for expansive views of the lake and the mountains. Considering all of these criteria, we decided to hike Eagle Lake Trail, a popular two-mile out-and-back trail located in Desolation Wilderness, about a twenty-minute drive from South Lake Tahoe.

We left our cabin around 9:30, ascending along a winding road that provided stunning views of the scenery around us. Acutely aware of the road’s sharp curves and its very close proximity to the high, jagged edge of a mountain, we drove with caution, slowing down enough to ensure our safety while taking in the magnificent views. As we approached the trailhead, we quickly realized that parking was going to be a challenge. None of us had been to this trail before, and although we expected a crowd, we didn’t expect to spend nearly half an hour searching for a place to park. Then again, it was mid-morning on a gorgeous Saturday. Relieved to have found a spot on the side of the road, we piled out of the car and headed toward the trailhead.

panoramic view of Emerald Bay, an alcove of Lake Tahoe, from a scenic overlook close to Eagle Lake trailhead

Across the road from the Eagle Lake trailhead, a short path leads to a scenic overlook at the top of a beautiful waterfall, Eagle Falls. Before we embarked on the trail, we decided to take a detour to explore this area, and we definitely didn’t regret it. The overlook is spacious and easily accessible for visitors of all ages and ability levels, with many ideal spots for taking photos. Looking east, we could see for miles and miles across Emerald Bay, on the southwest corner of Lake Tahoe. Beyond that, the mountains of the Sierra Nevada surrounding the lake towered above the horizon, their peaks still covered in snow in early May. While there’s no trail from this point that leads down to the bottom of Eagle Falls, the water was shallow and flowing lightly enough in places to allow us to walk across boulders for a close-up view of the cascades from above.

Megan and Elizabeth near the top of Eagle Falls, at the overlook across the street from Eagle Lake Trail

After we’d captured all the photos at the overlook that our hearts desired, we made our way across the road and uphill through the still-packed parking lot to the Eagle Lake trailhead. At an elevation of over 6,500 feet, the area surrounding us still displayed many patches of snow and ice. We expected to have to navigate through this while on the trail and were uncertain about whether or not we’d be able to hike all the way to Eagle Lake. Recent reviews on AllTrails indicated that the final section of the trail would be impassable without proper gear for hiking through ice and snow, but we proceeded with optimism since the pretty white patches on the ground were shrinking more and more with each passing day. Candidly, the views from the overlook were some of the best that we saw all weekend, and even if Eagle Lake trail had been entirely closed, those views would have been well worth the drive up the mountain.

Eagle Lake Trail offers many breathtaking views like this one, and while thinning patches of snow still cover the ground in early May, the temperatures are mild and pleasant

The first section of the trail includes a half-mile loop with several short spurs. As the trail moves over the mountainous landscape, scattered clusters of large evergreen trees dominate the area. Unlike the dense forests that I hike through at home in Tennessee, however, the trees are sparse enough to leave large sections of the trail exposed, which gave us plentiful views of the snow-capped peaks above us and Lake Tahoe below. Although we did cross a few unavoidable snowy patches on the trail, most of snow around the loop section had melted. Overall, the terrain was moderate and under good conditions, the trail would be suitable for hikers at any skill level, even kids. Although I believe that challenging hikes are generally more rewarding, there are certainly exceptions. Eagle Lake Trail offers beautiful views for minimal effort, and I love the opportunity that trails like this present to those who don’t have the time, desire, or ability to endure a more challenging hike. It’s nature’s manifestation of having your cake and eating it too.

We hiked all of the spur trails that we encountered (I think there were three of them), each leading to a magnificent vista overlooking our surroundings. None of the spurs presented a detour of more than a quarter of a mile round trip, so again, minimal effort to achieve high reward. Unfortunately, we were unable to hike out to Eagle Lake, due to impassable snow and ice on the ground beyond the bridge over Eagle Creek, just as the AllTrails reviews had suggested. On the bright side, this allowed plenty of time to stop often and enjoy the scenery at a leisurely pace. In total, I think we covered about a mile of distance, making this one of the shortest new hiking experiences I’ve had on this journey yet. What this one lacked in distance, however, was repaid a hundred times over in magnificent views and most importantly, the magnificent friends I shared them with.

Elizabeth, Shellie, and me on the bridge over Eagle Creek

In the wake of a perfect weekend with my favorite ladies, I’ve spent a significant amount of time reflecting on my relationships with others, past and present. I’ve come to realize that there’s a long list of people who’ve significantly impacted my life, for better or for worse. Conversely, my actions have impacted the lives of others too. I’d like to think I’ve made some better, and I’m certain I’ve made some worse. Relationships are complicated like that. I can only hope that the positive influences in my life, like these women, continue to inspire me to be better, stronger, braver, and more loyal in all of my relationships, with people and with the wild places I’ve grown to love so much. An unquenchable thirst for adventure motivates me to explore as often as I can, but I wouldn’t really be able to appreciate these experiences if I didn’t have the love and support of family and friends who teach me how to live with maximum intent and minimal limits.

This one’s not from our hike, but it’s too cute to not share. After our hike, we went to a lakefront resort for lunch, cocktails, and relaxation with a view. (Lexi, me, Katie)

I usually try to avoid using the words of others to tell my stories, but in this case, it feels appropriate to close this post with a quote from my favorite nature-loving transcendentalist, Walt Whitman: “I no doubt deserved my enemies, but I don’t believe I deserved my friends”.

Amen, Walt. Amen.

Elizabeth, me, Megan, Shellie, and Morgan; enjoying the views along the trail

May 31, 2019

Beaman Park: A Wild and Often Overlooked Hiking Destination in Nashville

I can’t really pin it on one thing, but for a collection of small reasons, last month I came closer to failing to fulfill my monthly new hike than I have since this journey began sixteen months ago. Each of these reasons would have been individually insignificant (until they started to pile up), and I found myself staring down the final weekend in April and hadn’t made any plans for a new hike. To complicate matters, I’d already booked a flight to New Orleans that weekend to visit my parents and attend a concert with my dad for his birthday (We saw Van Morrison at Jazz Fest, and in case you were wondering, Van’s still got it). While New Orleans is an outstanding destination for music and culture, it’s not a great destination for hiking. I took an early flight back to Nashville on the final day of April, praying for no delays, and started looking into the few trails I hadn’t yet hiked within a dozen or so miles of the city.

Henry Hollow Loop at Beaman Park in Nashville, TN

I decided to visit a 5.5 mile loop trail at Beaman Park, a place I’d heard very little about. Despite the park’s relatively close proximity to Nashville (about half an hour’s drive from downtown), the area feels much more remote. Soon after leaving the city limits behind me, I noticed that the landscape changed quickly. The buildings started getting smaller as the spaces between them grew bigger. After only a few minutes, the buildings nearly faded away all together as the road twisted through rolling hills and dense woods toward Beaman Park.

When I arrived at the parking lot near the Creekside trailhead, there was only one other car in sight. Even at 3:30 PM on a muggy Tuesday, this surprised me. I frequently hike at Percy Warner and Radnor Lake, where the trails stay packed, regardless of time of day or week. I suspected that Beaman Park, as a smaller park further away from the city center, would be less crowded than the other two, but this place was eerily, and delightfully, deserted. Eager to explore this park in its most natural, undisturbed state, I made a brief stop at the information sign to plan my route before hitting the trail.

views from the Creekside trailhead at Beaman Park

I hiked a combination of Henry Hollow Loop and Ridgetop Trail. I’m naturally inclined to hike loop trails in clockwise direction, unless there’s a compelling reason why I shouldn’t. With no one around to suggest otherwise, I followed my instincts and veered to the left as I started to make my way around Henry Hollow Loop. The initial stretch of Henry Hollow Loop runs roughly parallel to Henry Creek, a scenic, quiet creek with patches of wildflowers sprouting from its banks during my visit in late spring. After about a mile, the trail splits, with the left fork leading across a bridge over the creek and uphill toward the Nature Center. Working with a limited amount of remaining daylight, I declined this detour and followed the right fork as it twisted upward toward the intersection with Ridgetop Trail.

Henry Creek, slowly flowing alongside Henry Hollow Loop

The trail narrows as it climbs the ridge, but the elevation gain is moderate. The dense forest completely envelops the scenery along the trail and creates a tunnel-like effect, a constant reminder that I was completely alone on this trail. A year ago, this would have made me feel apprehensive and vulnerable, but I’ve since learned to appreciate these rare moments of solitude on hiking trails, especially those so close to Nashville. I only passed one other hiker after turning onto Ridgetop Trail, an out-and-back tangent off of Henry Hollow Loop that contributes about two thirds of the total distance covered by the combined trails. Ridgetop Trail ends abruptly in the middle of the forest, in a clearing with a few primitive benches. The trees are too dense to allow any view across the surrounding area, but the clearing provides a quiet space to rest (and take a selfie, maybe) before turning around to head back to Henry Hollow Loop.

the clearing that abruptly ends Ridgetop Trail

Lightly trafficked trails generally offer a better opportunity to see snakes. I’m always looking out for snakes on my hikes, but I usually don’t see any. As strange as it may sound, I think snakes are fascinating and beautiful, when viewed from a safe distance (that part is critical to an enjoyable snake sighting). I’d seen a photo of a rattlesnake on the information sign at the trailhead, and I was hoping I’d see one on my hike (again, from a safe distance, I can’t stress this enough). I regret to report that I didn’t see any rattlesnakes, but I did see a small, harmless brown snake slithering across the trail and out the way of my approaching footsteps.

the small, non-venomous brown snake that I encountered on the trail

The snake sighting occurred close to the end of my hike, after I’d returned to Henry Hollow Loop from Ridgetop Trail. This part of the loop covers mild terrain, but the trail remains narrow and heavily covered by a thick canopy of trees. The sounds of birds frequently interrupted the quiet. I’m not sure if this park has an abnormally high concentration of birds compared to other parks in the area, or if I was just more aware of the birds because there wasn’t really any other noise in the park. No noise from other hikers or cars, no noise from water rushing over rocks, just the birds and the occasional squirrel rustling through the leaves on the forest floor.

Throughout the 5.5-mile hike, I only saw four other people on the trail. I’m sure it’s busier on weekends, but I rarely have the opportunity to hike on weekdays due to my job. It only worked out for me to hike at Beaman Park on a Tuesday afternoon because I’d taken the day off to travel back to Nashville from New Orleans. I’m so grateful to have experienced this park for the first time on such a quiet day. I think many people would feel underwhelmed by this park, because there aren’t any scenic overlooks or so-called attractions like waterfalls or caves along the trail. However, the first word that pops into my mind when I think back to my hike here is “solitude”. It’s a rare thing to find so close to Nashville, and it stays with you after its gone. I find spiritual peace and comfort in these moments, and think of them often when the daily grind of my indoor obligations, like work and laundry, starts to wear me down.

naturally, pausing for a quick wilderness selfie in the clearing at the end of Ridgetop Trail

Places like Beaman Park are a big part of why I wanted to continue this New Year’s Resolution in 2019. This one wasn’t even on my radar last year, totally obscured by more well known trails and parks. It makes me wonder what I’ll discover if (let’s be real, it’s a matter of when not if) I continue on this adventure in 2020. I’m hopeful about what else is out there and can’t imagine that I’ll run out of unknown places to explore any time soon.

April 30, 2019April 30, 2019

Walls of Jericho Trail in Alabama

Events beyond my control interrupted my hiking plans many times in 2018, either by forcing me to choose a different date for the new trail I wanted to hike that month or forcing me to choose another trail all together. I learned so much about exploring the great outdoors last year, but one of my most significant learnings was to always have a back up plan. And that back-up plan should include two critical elements: a date and a location. You may not need both, but I needed at least one on about half of my new hikes in 2018.

In 2019, the back-up plan trend continues. In January, a government shutdown and roads closed due to snow prevented my friends and I from accessing any trail at Mount Rainier National Park beyond the first trail that we encountered after entering the park, Paul Peak Trail. Throughout February, Tennessee endured record-breaking rainfall and flooding that resulted in trail closures across the state. Also, I had to wait three weeks into the already short month before experiencing a weekend day without heavy rain. This brings me to March, and one of the most bittersweet instances of ruined plans since this journey began fifteen months ago.

Walls of Jericho: the most beautiful hike that I almost didn’t take

At the beginning of March, the company that I work for sent me to a brand marketing conference in San Diego. Sounds terrible, right? After a long winter filled with business trips to places like New York, Chicago, and Detroit, I pounced on this all-expenses-paid opportunity for networking and professional development in sunny, beautiful southern California. Additionally, I decided to extend my trip through the weekend following the conference and convinced my fiancé, Andy, to fly out and join me (he barely blinked before accepting that offer). I’d researched potential hiking destinations around San Diego and had my heart set on a network of stunning cliffside trails overlooking the Pacific Ocean at Torrey Pines State Park. Despite my anticipation and planning, however, a rare thing happened in San Diego in the days leading up to this adventure: rain. Enough rain to cause erosion and close all of the trails in the park.

Because of the rain, we’d waited until our final day in San Diego to attempt this hike, so when it didn’t work out, I knew I wouldn’t have another opportunity to hike there before going home. I shouldn’t have been disappointed by this, because regardless of the botched hiking plans, I enjoyed every single minute of my time in San Diego. When I returned to Nashville, I knew I’d need to start over and find a new hike close to home. At the time, I had little faith that I could possibly find a trail that would live up to the expectations I had for the hike I missed out on in San Diego. I’m happy to admit that I was wrong.

Black’s Beach in San Diego, this stunning beach lies below the cliffs of Torrey Pines State Park (it’s also a nude beach, as Andy and I discovered soon after our arrival)

Walls of Jericho, an impressive natural amphitheater, lies barely north of the state line between Tennessee and Alabama and can be accessed by two different trailheads, one in each state. According to local folklore, Davy Crockett explored the area in the 1700s, and a minister who performed baptisms there in the 1800s gave the canyon its biblical name. I’ve had this trail on my radar for a long time, but it was never really high enough on my list to become a priority over other trails that I thought would be more scenic or challenging. Now that I’ve seen the breathtakingly beautiful Walls of Jericho in person, and endured a grueling seven-mile hike in the process, I regret that I didn’t explore this place as soon as I learned it existed. I’ve hiked so many gorgeous trails within a day trip of Nashville, and while there’s not a single one I wouldn’t revisit, I think I’ve found a new favorite Walls of Jericho.

This photo was taken above the waterfall at the entrance to Walls of Jericho, as we made our way toward an upper corner of the canyon.

The trailhead in Tennessee and the trailhead in Alabama are connected by a strenuous seven-mile trail, and Walls of Jericho lies around this trail’s half-way point. The Alabama side of trail is more popular due to its reputation as the more beautiful and dynamic section, although I’ve also read positive reviews about the Tennessee side too. When my friend, Anne, and I arrived at the small parking lot for the Alabama trailhead, shortly before 9:00 AM on a warm and sunny Saturday, we pulled into one of the last remaining spots available. Throughout our journey along the trail, we passed many other hikers, but the traffic was spread out pretty evenly and wasn’t significant enough to lessen the experience or slow us down.

From the trailhead, we descended into the canyon as the trail weaved through a heavily wooded area with scattered large rock formations. The forest was showing early signs of spring, as green leaf buds dotted the trees around us and countless wildflowers poked their tiny blossoms through the fading layer of dead, fallen leaves on the ground. The wildflowers displayed an array of colors from red to purple to bright blue and yellow, changing as we hiked through the canyon’s layers. At the bottom of the canyon, we passed a small, primitive campground before crossing a narrow wooden bridge over Turkey Creek, the same creek that flows between the Walls of Jericho and slowly carved them out of the earth over time.

the trail to Walls of Jericho, with Turkey Creek flowing along one side and tiny blue wildflowers dotting the landscape on the other

After a stretch of flat and mild terrain, plus one more creek crossing, we passed two more camping areas along Turkey Creek before the trail narrowed and began climbing towards its namesake feature. As the canyon walls grew higher and the space between them narrowed, Anne and I slowed our pace enough to allow us to take in the beauty of our changing surroundings. To the left of us, a high canyon wall sloped upward about a hundred feet above us, and on our right, beyond the trail’s narrow ledge, Turkey Creek rushed over the rocky riverbed far below us. On the other side of the creek, the opposite canyon wall towered above the floor of the canyon. We knew that we must be getting close to Walls of Jericho, and when the trees opened up to reveal the trail’s main attraction, we had no idea that the incredible view before us was only the beginning of a unique and impressive space unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

the magnificent entrance to Walls of Jericho, and the first of three waterfalls flowing through the canyon

Our initial view included a stunning bowl-shaped depression in the canyon, occupied by a wide, shallow pool at the bottom of a small waterfall cascading over the edge of a rock face that blocked our view of the upper sections of the Walls of Jericho. The trail descends into the bowl and ends at the edge of Turkey Creek, which at this point covers what’s left of the gap between the canyon walls. We crossed a string of barely submerged rocks to reach a raised, dry section of the creek bed. From there, we had a closer view of the waterfall and a better vantage point from which to determine the best route up and over the edge of the rock wall. Admittedly, we just followed a couple of other hikers who seemed familiar with the area, but even without anyone else present, we would have been able to find it eventually (I’d like to think we would have, anyways).

We continued this strategy as we climbed up and over the series of rock walls that led further up and back into the recesses of the canyon, which extended across a lot more space than either of us expected. After heavy rainfall, I’m sure this part of the canyon can become inaccessible, but part of the creek that carved out Walls of Jericho actually flows through tunnels in the walls. This creates a collection of seemingly random holes in the walls with water flowing out of them, downward toward the bottom of the canyon. The visual effect is whimsical and stunning, but the practical implications benefit hikers because this creates plenty of dry space to explore above ground.

Anne on one of the canyon’s upper levels, above the first two waterfalls

At the far end of the canyon, a small but mighty waterfall flows from the rim down into a pocket in the walls. The only way to access the bottom of this pocket is by descending about thirty vertical feet of precariously steep rock wall. While there’s a rope available to assist with a descent for those who are bold enough to try it, I chose an alternative route that wasn’t as steep, finding hand and foot holds in the rock to lower myself down into the pit. (Side note for all my fellow Parks and Rec fans out there: I had Mouse Rat’s smash hit “The Pit” playing on repeat in my mind throughout my journey into this pit, but I’m proud to say that I did not actually fall in.)

the third and final waterfall, at the upper end of the canyon

Anne and I lingered at Walls of Jericho for as long as we could before returning to the trail, and I’d advise anyone who endures the hike in and out of this place to plan on spending at least an hour here, although it’d be easy to find reasons to stay longer. Also worth noting, the camp sites along the trail offer magnificent views of Turkey Creek and the canyon walls. As we passed these again on our way out of the canyon, I was still riding the high of the exhilarating views at Walls of Jericho. So much so that I forgot about the trail’s steep descent into the canyon, which translates into a steep (and much more difficult) ascent on the way out. As is usually the case, the trail didn’t seem nearly as precipitous on the way down as it did on the way up.

Before Anne and I resurfaced at the trailhead, we’d already started making plans to return to this area for an overnight camping trip along the trail. As beautiful as this place looked in early spring, with the wildflowers and the high volume of water rushing through the creek, I can only imagine how gorgeous the hike would be in the fall, when rusty orange and yellow leaves replace the bright green of spring. Regardless, I hope I don’t have to wait until fall before returning to this trail.

the view from one of the camping areas at the bottom of the canyon

One thing that didn’t cross my mind during this hike: the disappointment I’d felt over the missed opportunity to hike along the high cliffs over the Pacific Ocean in San Diego. Discovering a gorgeous trail that’s close to home is always a humbling experience, and a reminder of how easy it can be to overlook an amazing opportunity simply because it’s the one that’s right in front of you. This definitely translates into my life outside of my outdoor adventures. The allure of exploring wild places far away from home is so attractive to me, and I know that my greatest adventures still lie in front of me. It’s a powerful feeling, and one of my greatest sources of motivation (that and Nick Saban, roll tide). Despite all of my big dreams and bucket list hikes, branching out into the world wouldn’t bring me much joy if I neglected opportunities to deepen my roots close to home. I think each makes the other more meaningful, and I have no plans to slow down on either front any time soon.

one more photo from the bottom of the pit, the precarious journey to the bottom was well worth the effort

March 31, 2019April 30, 2019

Short Springs State Natural Area

Although I knew long before the end of 2018 that I wanted to keep my resolution to explore more going into 2019, one hesitation lingered in the back of my mind: Will I run out of new trails that I can access and hike as a day trip from Nashville? I travel frequently, both for work and for fun, so about half of my new hikes have occurred away from Tennessee. Aside from the obvious joys of discovering new places far away from home, regular travel makes this resolution more practical. I hate to say it like that, because Tennessee is home to many outstanding trails, and I’ve revisited most of the new ones I’ve discovered over the past year simply because I loved them and wanted to go back, regardless of my New Year’s resolution. However, time and geography absolutely impose limitations on how long I can reasonably continue this resolution, considering my other obligations (like paid employment and a dog, for example).

Machine Falls, the main attraction at Short Springs Natural Area

Finding new trails within relative proximity to Nashville hasn’t been much of a challenge yet, and I can say with relative confidence that if anything stops me from completing this resolution in 2019, it’s not going to be a lack of convenient trails. Sure, I’ll continue to have opportunities to hike while traveling, but even if those don’t work out (I try not to think about the remote possibility that I encounter a torrential downpour on every day of every vacation I take for the rest of the year… Yikes!), I still feel like I’ve barely scratched the surface on trails close to home. And that’s an amazing feeling.

At the beginning of February, I decided I’d take advantage of the first weekend day without rain in the forecast as my opportunity to explore a new trail. I had to wait three weeks into the month for this, and despite record-breaking rainfall and flooding across middle Tennessee that closed many of our state parks and trails, I discovered Short Springs Natural Area and Machine Falls Loop Trail. Located about seventy miles southeast of Nashville, the interconnected trails at Short Springs traverse sections of easy to moderate terrain. A couple of signature waterfalls are easily accessible from the main trailhead, but multiple spur trails off the main loop provide options to extend the journey for those who want to see more.

Bobo Creek, as viewed from a bridge a few dozen feet upstream from Busby Falls

I learned about this trail through AllTrails, and what the site define as Machine Falls Loop actually includes Bobo Creek Trail as well. Bobo Creek Trail leads past Busby Falls and forms a horseshoe shape that connects with Machine Falls Loop on both ends. Roundtrip, this is about a 2.3 mile hike. Off of Bobo Creek Trail, just past Busby Falls, there’s another loop trail called Laurel Bluff that extends the hike by about a mile and a half. I took this detour, and although most of the trail winds through a dense forest, the section that runs close to the edge of the bluff exposes idyllic views of the creek and several small waterfalls from above. While Machine Falls is certainly the main attraction and can be accessed by a quick 1.6 mile roundtrip trek, Bobo Creek and Laurel Bluff trails are certainly worth exploring too.

views of Bobo Creek from above on Laurel Bluff Trail

I hiked these trails on a Monday, President’s Day (I’m not sure how this qualifies as a holiday at the marketing technology company where I work, but some questions are better left not asked. I’ll take a work holiday however I can get one.). I ran into very few other hikers, and only on Machine Falls Loop. I ended up hiking most of this trail with a mother/daughter pair of hikers who live in the area. The daughter had visited all of the trails at Short Springs before and provided some insightful tips that helped confirm my decision to hike Bobo Creek and Laurel Bluff after Machine Falls Loop, instead of hiking a nearby trail at Old Stone Fort State Park. I’ll save that one for another month.

Although relatively short, Machine Falls Loop contains a couple of moderately challenging sections. I hiked this loop clockwise, because I intended to hike to Busby Falls via Bobo Creek Trail on the way to Machine Falls, saving the bigger waterfall for the last part of my journey. The trails at Short Springs are well marked, but because the trail map in AllTrails is inaccurate, I ended up hiking straight to Machine Falls, bypassing Bobo Creek Trail. Because of this, I hiked a short section at the beginning of Machine Falls Loop twice in order to circle back around to Bobo Creek Trail. In hindsight, this also allowed me to knock out the toughest pieces of my hike earlier on, as Bobo Creek and Laurel Bluff are both relatively mild trails.

beautiful view of the creek from Machine Falls Loop

About a quarter of a mile from Machine Falls, the trail sharply descends down a steep bluff, with stairs and even handrails in some places in order to provide extra support. The sun was out in full force on the day of my hike, but I proceeded with caution through this section because the trail was still slick and muddy from previous days of rain. After reaching the bottom of the gulf, the trail leads across a wooden bridge over Bobo Creek, downstream of Machine Falls. At this point, Machine Falls isn’t visible around a bend in the creek, and reaching the falls requires a short journey over slippery rocks along the edge of the creek. There’s not a trail, but the path forward is pretty apparent, and a close-up view of this magnificent waterfall is totally worth the extra effort.

As is always the case with loop trails, what goes down must come back up, and vice versa. When hiking the loop clockwise, the journey out of the gulf isn’t as steep as the way down, but there’s still several hundred feet of elevation gain over about a third of a mile. This section of trail runs along the edge of a bluff, overlooking a wider section of Bobo Creek that flows into the Machine Falls Branch of Normandy Lake. After curving away from the edge of the bluff, the trail loops back around the other side of Machine Falls, past an overlook that offers a beautiful view of the waterfall from above.

Although my hike at Short Springs wasn’t as long or as challenging as most of the new hikes I’ve taken since I started this journey, I never set out on a mission to complete the most strenuous new trail I could find every month. Difficult hikes generally lead to more rewarding scenery, because significant elevation change often means big views from high points overlooking expansive spaces. Longer hikes allow deeper access into wild and pristine spaces, which often results in lower foot traffic and the opportunity to enjoy some peaceful time alone on the trail. However, the trails I hiked at Short Springs are a perfect example of why it’s unfair to overlook easy hikes. There are so many things worth seeing in the wild that really don’t require much effort.

all smiles for this close up view of the Machine Falls

February 24, 2019April 30, 2019

Hiking at Mount Rainier National Park in Winter

New year, same resolution. If you kept up with my journey in 2018, you already know that I decided months ago to keep this resolution, to hike a trail I’ve never explored before at least once a month, going into 2019. It was an easy decision, and although the resolution hasn’t changed, the journey will be completely different as I experience at least twelve more trails for the first time. Living in Nashville, I don’t have quick access to as many trails as I would if I lived in a place like Denver, but I’m not worried about running out of options any time soon. Plus, with travel plans between now and July that include two trips to California and one to Colorado (for my wedding!), I’ll have plenty of opportunities for new adventures in wild and beautiful spaces away from home. If my first new hike of 2019, at Mount Rainier National Park, was any indication of what’s to come in this new year, this spectacular adventure’s only getting better with time.

taking a break from the trail to stop and take in a magnificent view of mount Rainier peaking through a gap in the evergreens

At the end of last month, I spent a week in Washington, including a few days with my aunt and uncle (and their sweet golden retriever) in Port Angeles and a few days in Seattle with a friend who recently moved there from Nashville. January is about as far as it gets from peak hiking season in Washington, but I wanted to be there for my friend’s thirtieth birthday on the 27th. While the opportunities for exploring new trails are limited at this time of year, that wasn’t the purpose of this vacation. Regardless, I was fortunate enough to enjoy a perfect balance of indoor and outdoor activities with people who mean much more to me than my pursuit of adventures in the wild.

Surprisingly, the weather in Port Angeles and Seattle was milder than the weather in Nashville during my visit. Of course, that statement only applies to the coastal areas where I spent my time during this trip. Wintry road conditions kept me close to sea level and away from significantly colder temperatures at higher altitudes. The snow capped peaks of the Olympic and Cascade mountain ranges dominated the skyline above these coastal cities, a constant reminder of the extreme variation in geography that makes this region so beautiful.

Although it’s obviously not from my hike, this photo of Mount Rainier and the city skyline at sunset (taken from inside Seattle’s famous Space Needle) illustrates the magnitude of the peak, towering over the horizon from more than sixty miles away

Heavy snow essentially eliminates access to most of the interior of Mount Rainier National Park in January, but our options were further limited by the longest federal government shutdown in U.S. history. Even in winter, the National Park Service operates snow plows on roads in and out of the park to provide year-round access to certain areas that visitors can safely explore in the offseason. However, employees of the National Park Service are also employees of the federal government, deemed “nonessential” and therefore unable to work during the shutdown. With nobody around to plow the roads or update park websites to provide reliable information on park conditions, national parks succumb to the whims of nature during a shutdown. With this in mind, we honestly didn’t know what to expect when we drove out to Mount Rainier National Park from Seattle.

We approached Mount Rainier National Park via Highway 165, south of the Carbon River entrance in the northwest corner of the park. We left the pavement behind us about twelve or fifteen miles before we entered the park, and the road was ripe with potholes, so this journey consumed a lot more time than we’d expected. The scenery, however, was certainly worth it. As the road climbs upward towards the park boundary, there are countless overlooks and breathtaking views of the park’s namesake attraction, Mount Rainier, which towers over everything else in the park. Although Mount Rainier measures a few dozen feet shorter than Mount Elbert in Colorado, the peak that Andy and I climbed on my thirtieth birthday last September, its appearance is much more imposing. Whereas Mount Elbert is surrounded on all sides by dozens of mountains whose peaks rest within several hundred feet of its own, Mount Rainier stands more than 2,200 feet taller than the next highest mountain in the region. The severe contrast creates a stunning visual impact.

expansive view of Mount Rainier from the unpaved highway leading into the park

Highway 165 becomes Mowich Lake Road after entering the park and eventually leads to the trailhead for the Tolmie Peak Trail, widely regarded as one of the most scenic trails at Mount Rainier National Park. During the winter months, however, this road is closed to vehicle traffic shortly after it enters the park. We took the road as far as we could, and it led us to the trailhead for the Paul Peak Trail, so that’s the trail we hiked.

This out-and-back trail covers 6.3 miles, round trip, leading down into a canyon through a gorgeous forest of massive pine and cedar trees. There wasn’t any snow or ice on the trail, making this one a solid option if you’re looking for a trail inside the park that’s easily accessible as a day trip from Seattle in January. Throughout the first two miles of the hike, the dense evergreen forest obscures any view of Mount Rainier. In fact, we couldn’t see anything beyond the trees for most of the hike, which admittedly, felt really discouraging. Since none of us knew anything about this trail prior to our hike, we eventually accepted the fact that this one may not lead us past any substantial overlooks with views of the mountains or valley below.

The dense forest along the Paul Peak Trail, although beautiful, blocked any mountain views for the majority of the hike.

About a mile away from our turn around point, where the Paul Peak Trail feeds into the Wonderland Trail (an epic 93-mile loop around Mount Rainier), the trees began to open up enough every now and then to expose brilliant views of Mount Rainier and the valley floor below us. Every time we reached one of these spots, we stopped to stare in awe at the magnitude of the mountain before us. It’s a difficult thing to describe, almost like seeing Denali in Alaska for the first time. Witnessing a mountain like that at relatively close range, a mountain that makes all of its surrounding mountains look like ant hills, is a spiritual experience (for me, anyways). It’s a humbling reminder that those of us lucky enough to have the opportunity to explore this planet won’t ever really understand how big it is. As humans, we’re not supposed to understand it. However, that enchanting mystery of experiencing something wild and unfamiliar drives our innate desire to see as much of this world as we can while we’re here.

In conclusion, there are things I loved about the Paul Peak Trail and things that would make me hesitant to recommend it to others. I loved that this trail was easily accessible from Seattle and provided views of Mount Rainier, in the middle of winter AND during a government shutdown. I’m not sure if any other trail in the park checks all of those boxes. Also, I loved hiking here with close friends who’d also never experienced this trail before. When you’re not sure what to expect on a trail, knowing that you’ll at least have good company makes all the difference.

This trail was a perfect option for us, all things considered, but I’m certain that it’s far from the best one that Mount Rainier National Park has to offer. Of course, I can’t speak from experience. Although this wasn’t my first trip to Washington, I’d never been to Mount Rainier National Park before. Based on the very little I saw of the place, I know I want to go back under circumstances that will allow me to travel deeper into the park and spend more time there. I’ve read dozens of articles and reviews on the best trails to explore in the park, and Paul Peak Trail isn’t on any of them. Again, it’s a gorgeous trail, but pictures and reviews of other trails in the park leave me with little doubt that I’ve yet to see the best of what the park has to offer.

my friends, Anne and Katie, and me posing in front of Mount Rainier like the basic white girls in the woods that we are #blessed

Needless to say, this first new adventure of 2019 fills me with hope and excitement about what’s to come this year, and I can’t wait to see what else is out there.

January 31, 2019April 30, 2019

My 2018 New Year’s Resolution: The Final Chapter

One year ago, I had this tiny impulse to take a hike on a trail I’d never visited before. Honestly, this idea didn’t begin as a New Year’s Resolution. I’d never followed through on a New Year’s Resolution before, so as 2018 approached, I had little incentive to make that annual empty promise to become “better” in the coming year. I was burnt out on resolutions, and I didn’t want to deal with the subsequent self-loathing of failing to achieve a goal set with good intentions, even with the knowledge that success was never very realistic to begin with. The timing of this idea that evolved into my New Year’s Resolution was purely coincidental, a thought born out of boredom and a nagging desire to fill the cold post-holiday void known as January. My journey didn’t really begin until I realized that hiking this one trail I’d been wanting to explore for a while might only be the first chapter of a much bigger adventure.

Big Laurel Falls, one of many stunning sights along the hike to Virgin Falls in Tennessee, the trail where my 2018 New Year’s Resolution began

There’s no comprehensive way to quantify my hiking experience over the past twelve months, but I’ll give it my best shot: twenty-five previously unexplored trails, seven states, five mountain summits, dozens of waterfalls, a handful of caves, a few snakes, twenty or so alligators (yep, that happened), plus five incredible humans and two dogs who accompanied me on these assorted journeys. And that list barely scratches the surface.

Words and numbers can’t capture the countless views that took my breath away, or the heart-pounding moments of intense exposure and narrow ledges that forced me to make a choice: confront my fear of heights and press on, or turn around and go home. I’m so grateful for every minute of this adventure and the value it added to my life in 2018, and one of my biggest triumphs is the fact that when presented with that choice, I never turned around and went home. I came close a few times, and there are a couple of hikes that I know I couldn’t have completed without support from my trail companions.

My friend, Megan, gave me the courage to shimmy across the smooth, vertical rock wall that led to the top of Cloud Splitter at Red River Gorge (and she went first to prove it wasn’t a death trap). Andy climbed the tallest peak in the Rocky Mountains with me, and for me, just because it was my birthday and I wanted to do it (one of many reasons why I’m marrying him). On my first new hike of 2018 at Virgin Falls, I was alone and slipped on a patch of ice, which sent me tumbling down a drop-off from the trail and into the dry creek bed below. A nameless stranger went out of his way to help me climb out and make sure I wasn’t seriously injured. Without that act of kindness, I may have abandoned this entire journey before it even began. I could go on and on about the support that’s carried me throughout this grand adventure.

the distant peaks of Rocky Mountain National Park, as viewed from the top of Green Mountain (8,150 ft) in Boulder, Colorado. I hiked to the top of this mountain in September 2018 via the Green Mountain West Trail

All of this brings me to the final chapter of my 2018 New Year’s Resolution. I didn’t climb a mountain or plan a trip to some remote wilderness on the other side of the country. I drove to Prentice Cooper State Forest, two hours southeast of Nashville and a short distance from Chattanooga. I didn’t learn about the trail to Snooper’s Rock until after Christmas, so not much planning went into my decision. But to be fair, not much planning went into my decision to start this journey in the first place, so it seems kind of appropriate.

The Cumberland Trail combines more than 200 miles of disjointed trail segments along the eastern border of Tennessee. My journey to and from Snooper’s Rock totaled 6 miles, though the namesake attraction is more easily accessible from a separate half-mile trail attached to a nearby parking lot. The section of trail that I hiked stretches along a high bluff, hundreds of feet above the Tennessee River, the same Tennessee River that runs through other parts of Tennessee, Alabama, and Kentucky before flowing into the Ohio River and eventually the Mississippi. For the most part, the trail runs close enough to the sharp edge of the bluff to expose panoramic views of the river below.

views across the Tennessee River Gorge from the Cumberland Trail approaching the overlook at Snooper’s Rock

There are many things that I enjoy about hiking in Tennessee during the colder months. Fewer people on the trails, much milder winter weather than the oppressive heat and humidity of summer, waterfalls and high rock walls adorned with hundreds of massive icicles, and enhanced visibility along trails due to the naked trees. My hike to Snooper’s Rock in late December checked all of these boxes. When I arrived at the small parking area beside the trailhead, there couldn’t have been more than five other cars in the lot. About half a mile into the journey, the trail descends through a staircase built into a crevice of a massive rock, which reminded me of the Stone Door at Savage Gulf (read more about that here), where I hiked in August 2018. Beyond this point, I only passed about six or eight other hikers on my way to Snooper’s Rock. Upon my arrival, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that I had the place all to myself, at least for a few minutes until two other people showed up.

the magnificent view from Snooper’s Rock, high above the Tennessee River Gorge and absolutely stunning, even on a cloudy day in December

Snooper’s Rock extends like a peninsula from the edge of the bluff, providing panoramic views of the Tennessee River Gorge below. The rock area is large, flat, and treeless, with ample space in the middle for visitors who want to keep a safe distance from the edge without diminishing the impact of the view. Of course, if you’re like me and prefer the adrenaline rush of standing inches from the edge of a high cliff (sorry, mom), there’s plenty of room for that as well.

Every time I have the opportunity to confront my innate fear of heights, I take it. I understand the risk, but in my lifetime, I know I’ll only explore a microscopic fraction of this world’s wild and beautiful places. Time, resources, and access all create barriers beyond my control. But a fear of heights? That’s internal, and it’s one of the few things I can control. Conquering this fear significantly increases my limited opportunity to see places that I’d otherwise never even consider. It’s not easy, but I’m overcoming it a step (closer to the edge) at a time. It takes practice, plus a willingness to accept overwhelming vulnerability and then fight to find comfort in it, while exercising extreme caution and common sense, of course. Sure, challenging my fear of heights could lead me to an early death, or it could lead me down a path that ends with climbing Mount Everest one day. Neither scenario is very likely, so odds are quite high that I’ll land somewhere in between, happy and blessed.

Yes, those feet are mine, extended over the edge of Snooper’s Rock, a few hundred feet about the bottom of the gorge. This is how I practice a thing I refer to as “heights tolerance”.

I knew long before this final new hike of 2018 that I’d carry this resolution over into 2019. This journey means more than an annual promise to me, and while I’m so proud of how it all unfolded last year, I’m even more excited about what the future holds. As I write this, on the last day of the first month of the new year (another delayed post, something I’ll do my best to improve on in 2019), I’ve already completed my first hike of the new year, at Mount Rainier National Park in Washington. This place is mesmerizing, even in January during a government shutdown, and I can’t wait to share that experience. I’ve got plenty of other big plans for new hikes in 2019, including San Diego for an extended business trip in March and Telluride for our wedding in July. Side note: Ecstatic doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel about marrying Andy in front of a small group of people we love and a big mountain backdrop.

the summit of Penobscot Mountain in Acadia National Park in Maine, May 2018, one of my favorite new hikes last year AND one of my favorite vacations yet with my soon-to-be husband

As I move into the next phase of this adventure, one thing remains abundantly clear: This journey is not about checking off locations on a map. It’s about setting aside time at least once a month to do something I love, something I can experience either by myself or with others who share my curiosity about nature. It’s less about the actual trails and more about the thrill of seeing something beautiful for the first time. That’s what inspired me in 2018, and it’s the fuel that’s keeping this fire burning in 2019.

So, cheers to 2019! if last year was any indication, this one’s going to be WILD .

January 1, 2019April 30, 2019

Percy Warner Park: Warner Woods Trail

It’s been a while since my new hike for November, so this post is long overdue. It’s New Year’s Day, and since Thanksgiving, I took three business trips and two weekend trips with friends, in addition to spending a week in New Orleans with my family over Christmas. In the middle of all of this, the best thing among so many other good things happened: I got engaged. In a sweet, private, beautiful moment, Andy created the most perfect and humbling reminder that my passion for adventure pales in comparison to the passion I have for the people who I call home.

Among the people who I call home, there’s also a dog (or two, maybe all of them). In November, for the first time since I began this journey, my very own fluffy companion joined me on a hike. Zoey, a husky/border collie mix, was active and energetic for the first several years of her life. In a heartbreaking stroke of bad luck, this otherwise healthy dog developed medical problems at age five and lost her sight as a result. Naturally, her personality has become much more cautious since then, and extended hikes on trails with rugged terrain would bring her more stress than joy. We still enjoy walks on the paved and mostly flat surfaces of our neighborhood, but finding a hiking trail that’s compatible with a blind dog isn’t easy. It’s not something that pulls up a lot of search results on Google (trust me, I tried), but we found a perfect gem in the Warner Woods trail at Percy Warner Park, conveniently located right here in Nashville.

my sweet Zoey, loving life on the Warner Woods trail in Nashville

I’ve visited Percy Warner Park many times, but prior to last month, the only trail I’d ever hiked there was the Mossy Ridge trail (pleasant scenery and an amazing workout for your thighs and glutes). The Warner Woods trail has been on my radar for a while, but it wasn’t a high priority until I realized that this could be an ideal opportunity to find a trail that Zoey and I might be able to enjoy on a regular basis.

The trail begins with a classic Nashville backdrop, one of few that doesn’t involve neon signs or generic murals. The expansive stone staircase climbing uphill through a canopy of trees to the trailhead attracts a lot of attention, because if there’s one thing both locals and visitors to Nashville love, it’s a good photo op. If you’re a blind dog, however, stairs are your kryptonite. Going up is easy after you figure out what’s happening, but going down requires some emotional support and coaching from your seeing eye human. Luckily, these stairs are broken into sections, separated by flat areas with grassy slopes on either side.

the old stone staircase that climbs the hill leading up to the Warner Woods trailhead

After ascending the staircase and reaching the trailhead, we started hiking counter clockwise along the Warner Woods trail, which forms a mild 2.5 mile loop through the scenic woodlands of Percy Warner Park. Aside from a few moderate slopes, the trail is mostly flat, wide, and appropriate for human and canine hikers across all fitness levels. Zoey and I hiked this trail on a cloudy Sunday afternoon and encountered many other hikers, but we still enjoyed plenty of moments of solitude, so the trail didn’t feel overcrowded. Zoey acted skeptical about the trail at first, frequently pushing her paw out into the air to ensure that we weren’t still climbing the stairs. She gradually gained confidence, and it didn’t take long for her to adapt to the unfamiliar surroundings.

Only a few leaves remained on the trees surrounding the Warner Woods trail in late November when we hiked here.

To be honest, I wasn’t sure how Zoey would react to the trail, and I was prepared to turn around and abort the mission at any time if the journey became more challenging than fun for her. That never happened. Zoey loved it, and I was one proud dog mama. We didn’t encounter many obstacles on the trail, like loose rock or roots that could make her trip, but when we did, we slowed down enough to allow her to test her footing and adjust accordingly.

In November, the weather was cool but not cold, which made hiking conditions ideal for both of us. The trees provide enough cover to convince me that this short trail wouldn’t be so bad in the summer months either. The trail’s natural beauty matches that of its more popular neighbor in Percy Warner Park, the Mossy Ridge trail, but provides a less physically demanding alternative for hikers who want to enjoy the park’s idyllic scenery without much effort.

holding onto my sweet girl who’s too distracted by the scents of nature to sit still for a photo

Although the Warner Woods trail doesn’t lead to a towering waterfall or expansive overlook, I’m more excited to revisit this one than any of the new hikes I’ve discovered this year. The Mossy Ridge trail’s rugged terrain would be too much for Zoey, and dogs aren’t allowed on the unpaved sections of trail at Radnor Lake. While there are many worthwhile paved trails throughout Nashville, Zoey and I prefer the raw feel of dirt beneath our feet. I’m so happy to have found a trail that we can enjoy together.

Since we’re already a day into 2019 (and I’m just now getting around to posting about my new hike from a month and a half ago), I’m excited to announce that I successfully completed my New Year’s Resolution for 2018. I won’t wait another month and half to share my experience on my final new hike of 2018, and it was a fantastic finish. I can confidently say that this journey has been one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. I’ll discuss the significance of this experience in more detail in my next post, but I decided a long time ago that this resolution was worth keeping for 2019. So, cheers to a new year full of new adventures, and I’m so very grateful for 2018 and all of its blessings.