Tag: adventure

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Mount LeConte: Hiking the Most Iconic Trail in the Smokies

When I hiked to the top of Mount LeConte via the Alum Cave trail in December, I achieved a milestone just as meaningful as completing the third iteration of my New Year’s resolution to explore a new trail every month. I feel immensely grateful for and humbled by the fortune I’ve had, to have been able to stick with this commitment for 36 straight months, and I’ve grown so much along the way, as a hiker and as a human. Every month, the new trail itself is a meaningful first, but I’ve accomplished other bucket list items that I never could have imagined possible when I started this journey. It took me all year to build up the courage, but with this grand finale hike of 2020, I crossed another milestone off my list. The night before my hike, for the first time ever, I camped alone.

views from the trail to the top of Mount LeConte via Alum Cave trailhead

I won’t spend too much time discussing the details of my first solo camping experience, but I’ll share a few key takeaways, in case anyone reading this is considering camping alone for the first time too. I’m certainly not an expert camper, as you’ll soon realize, which is why I rigorously vetted my campground options a couple of months in advance of the hike. I chose Greenbrier, a developed campground on the outskirts of Great Smoky Mountains National Park, with amenities like electricity and indoor plumbing, to help me ease into the experience of sleeping alone in a tent. Familiar comforts can provide a sense of security that soothes the inevitable feelings of vulnerability when you’re trying something new for the first time, especially when you’re doing it alone. Before my trip, I practiced the things I’d need to do alone at the campground, like assembling my tent and building a fire. I received this advice from a much more experienced member of my Middle Tennessee hiking community, and it’s proven to be one of the best pieces of camping advice I’ve ever heard. Doing something as a part of a group and doing the same thing alone can be very different experiences, and you need to be really confident in your ability to produce shelter and warmth on your own before you’re in a situation that requires it.

My tent assembly practice paid off, but I really should have invested more time and effort into my fire building skills. Outside of the Pacific Northwest, nowhere in the country receives more rain than the Smokies, which presents a real challenge for aspiring fire builders. I’d practiced building and maintaining a fire in the iron fire pit in my backyard in Nashville, but this experience didn’t exactly translate into success when trying to build a fire in a forest that stays damp 350 days a year. So, to make a long story short, I struggled to produce a meaningful fire and may or may not have taken some toilet paper from the campground bathroom to use as fire starter when my logs couldn’t sustain the flame. While one hand was feeding stolen toilet paper to my lackluster fire, the other was shoveling pasta salad into my mouth because I forgot to bring eating utensils. Camping alone certainly has its learning curves.

low quality tent selfie from a high quality (ish) first attempt at solo camping

Despite these obstacles and sub-freezing temperatures, I slept rather comfortably in my tent, tucked into my sleeping bag with my Grand Canyon camping blanket on top for an added layer of warmth (and security, if we’re being honest). I woke up feeling really optimistic about the hike ahead of me, undoubtedly fueled by the confidence of surviving my first night alone in the semi-wild. After packing up my camping gear, I headed off to the Alum Cave trailhead, located about 30 minutes away from the campground. Although there wasn’t snow on the ground where I camped, I knew there’d be snow on higher ground as I ascended the trail. I’d called the ranger station the previous day to ask about trail conditions (always a good idea when hiking a new trail, especially if you’ll be hiking alone) and learned that snow and ice covered the upper sections of the trail, but not enough to require additional gear like microspikes or an ice axe. This was good news, because I’d otherwise have had to call an audible and find a new trail. I don’t have enough experience hiking in true winter conditions to feel safe doing it alone, not yet anyways.

dreamy glimpses of the Smoky Mountains through the canopy of the evergreen forest

Unlike most other national parks, Great Smoky Mountains doesn’t charge an admission fee. I’d like to think that the reason for this has its roots in some rare act of altruism by the federal government, but that’s not exactly why admission to the Smokies will probably always remain free. I could create an entirely separate blog post on the pros and cons of free admission to America’s most-visited national park, but for now, I’ll link this article that covers the basics. Like many national parks, regardless of whether or not they charge admission, Great Smoky Mountains relies heavily on funding and volunteer efforts supplied by non-profit organizations. If you want to get involved, this list serves as a great resource, although there are plenty of other wonderful organizations that support this truly incredible park.

The hike to the summit of Mount LeConte from the Alum Cave trailhead traverses 11 miles roundtrip and includes nearly 3,000 feet of elevation gain. Despite the strenuous nature of the trail, it’s an incredibly popular one, and for good reason. If you search the AllTrails database for the best trails in the United States, this one currently holds the sixth place ranking. AllTrails rankings should be taken with a big chunk of salt, for the record, but they can be a telling indicator of the amount of foot traffic you’ll encounter. I’d intentionally waited to hike this trail until I could do it on a weekday in winter, hoping to avoid the congestion I’ve read about. I still saw dozens of other hikers, but I think my decision paid off because the trail never felt crowded. Also, I loved seeing the splendor of the Smokies covered in snow, but more on that later.

I had no trouble finding a parking spot at the trailhead at 8:00 AM on a frigid Friday in the middle of December. I’ve heard horror stories of cars parked along the road for a mile in either direction on weekends during warmer months, so go very early if you don’t go when it’s very cold. A half-empty trailhead parking lot in the Smokies should never be taken for granted though, so I embarked on my hike feeling too exuberant to be cold. The lower portion of the trail moves through a classically beautiful Smoky Mountains landscape of big trees and rushing water. In winter, patches of iridescent white adorn the numerous nooks and crannies that remain permanently shaded by the immense cover of the forest in winter. Icicles embellish the rocky outcroppings along the rugged mountain landscape. I absolutely adore hiking alone in winter in Tennessee. The vegetation that’s so thick in warmer months, despite its lush green beauty, often obscures dangers I don’t want to face by myself, like bears or copperheads, so I find comfort in the sparse and barren landscape of winter. God knew what He was doing when he decided which species would hibernate, and that’s a blessing worth counting twice.

the creek beside the lower section of the trail

The trail meanders across a primitive wooden bridge over a creek and up a spiraling path through the rock face of the mountain before it continues to climb along a more exposed ridge that offers stunning views of the rolling peaks of the Smokies. After two or so miles, the trail arrives at Alum Cave Bluff, which feels a lot more like a bluff than a cave. The towering rocky overhang provides a concave shelter with gorgeous views across the mountains. There’s plenty of space to accommodate social distancing on a quiet day, which I love because I always want at least six feet between myself and other hikers on the trail, and that has nothing to do with the pandemic. I stopped here for a snack and some water before tackling the next two-mile section, which proved to be the steepest part of the hike to the top of the mountain. As I climbed, the trail narrowed and the views expanded. Also, the patches of snow and ice on the trail that had been pretty sparse between the trailhead and Alum Cave Bluff became much more frequent and eventually swallowed the trail entirely. For the last couple of miles before the summit, I hiked carefully across a slick white blanket, relying heavily on the cables drilled into the mountainside on narrow and exposed sections to avoid slipping into the beautiful void of the pristine winter wonderland below.

Alum Cave Bluff

I so rarely get to hike through true winter conditions in my home state, and I can’t overstate the joy of seeing a landscape that resembles a tropical rainforest for most of the year under a smooth layer of white. It’s an absolutely surreal experience, and the views on the upper portion of the trail are widely considered to be some of the best in the entire park, in any season. About a mile from the true summit of Mount LeConte, the trail rambles back into the cover of the woods as the elevation gain tapers off. The fragments of sunlight that penetrated the shroud of the forest created a glitter-like effect on the snow covered trail, and I could have turned around there and been satisfied with this dazzling end to a truly special hike. It’s a rare moment on a trail that feels so exhilarating that pressing on almost feels risky and makes you question whether or not the allure of the unknown is worth the effort when the hike has already exceeded your expectations. I rolled the dice and trudged onward, too intrigued by the opportunity to see the illustrious LeConte Lodge to turn back yet.

This primitive lodge near the summit of Mount LeConte accepts reservations through a lottery system. Guests can only reach the lodge by foot, and those seeking a coveted reservation must enter the lottery fifteen months in advance. LeConte Lodge is a community of rugged cabins surrounding a simple dining hall, and luxuries like electricity and showers aren’t available at this famed mountaintop oasis. They’ve got wine though, so keep that in mind on the long hike to the top if you’re lucky enough to secure a reservation. The lodge was closed when I hiked Mount LeConte, maybe due to COVID or maybe due to winter conditions, but spending a night or two here will remain at the top of my Smoky Mountains bucket list until I’m lucky enough to win the reservation lottery.

LeConte Lodge

Mount LeConte’s true summit lies half a mile beyond the lodge. To my surprise, the summit didn’t offer the expansive views that I’d expected of this famous peak. Upon reaching the true summit, I encountered an alcove ensconced by trees, and in the center, there’s a massive cairn that invites hikers to add a stone to contribute to the height of the mountain. This established tradition doesn’t really make the mountain taller, but it does instill a sense of pride and loyalty amongst those who have visited this sacred place. Adding a stone signifies a dedication to the preservation of the mountain and a hope that future generations will have the same opportunity to add to its story.

If you don’t take a summit selfie, can you really say you made it to the top?

Heading back towards the lodge, I noticed a spur trail I hadn’t seen on the hike in. Enticingly named “Cliff Tops”, this spur seemed like a route worth exploring before heading back down the mountain. Until this point, I felt somewhat bewildered by the fact that the views at LeConte Lodge and the true summit weren’t nearly as spectacular as what I’d seen along the trail on the way up. Then I reached Cliff Tops. Less than half a mile from the spur at LeConte Lodge, this tangental journey is an absolute must for anyone who’s already hiked that far up the mountain. The view from Cliff Tops in winter is one of the most breathtaking sights I’ve seen on any hike, and in that moment, I felt so grateful to live in a state that hosts this kind of raw beauty that’s often unfairly overshadowed by bigger mountains out west. It feels so intimate, to experience a place like this in a season when it’s so rarely visited. The Smokies certainly aren’t a secret to anyone, but I think the heavy foot traffic depreciates its reputation within national and global communities of hiking enthusiasts. It’s sad, because this place has so much more to offer than most people give it credit for, but at the same time, I get it. Nobody goes into the wild in search of civilization.

I guess the point I’m trying to make is that seasons are short and time is powerful, in nature among other things. The definition of growth is expansion into new territory, whether that uncharted space is physical or just a change of perspective. That’s why, after 36 months (and counting, because eight months have passed since this Mount LeConte hike that I’m just now getting around to writing about, oops…), I’m still committed to my 2018 New Year’s resolution to hike a previously unexplored trail every month. It’s a familiar concept at this point, but the adventure changes and evolves with every new hike. Additionally, no two hikes along a single trail are really ever the same. Time and experience shape the journey in a gloriously serendipitous way that thrives on momentum. I’ll never be able to explore every trail on my bucket list, and that’s not the point. I’m just grateful for the opportunity to chase a destination that I hope I never reach.

breathtaking views from Cliff Tops
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Cheaha State Park: McDill Point via the Pinhoti Trail

Alabama’s got a reputation for exceptionalism in many areas (college football, barbecue, mega churches, reality dating show contestants, etc.), but hiking trails isn’t one of them. This isn’t because the state lacks incredible trails. They’re just more sparse and off the beaten path than their more popular Southeastern neighbors in Tennessee, Georgia, and North Carolina. Alabama hosts a handful of spectacular trails that will make you ask yourself the question that’s every hiker’s greatest joy or most horrifying nightmare when hiking a new trail: “Where am I?” Context is everything, of course, and I’m constantly amazed by the immense beauty I encounter on trails in seemingly ordinary locations.

If you’ve ever wondered why the state’s unofficial motto is “Alabama the beautiful”, hike the Pinhoti Trail to McDill Point.

While visiting my brother and his wife in Birmingham, I decided to make the 90-min. drive to Cheaha State Park and hike to McDill Point via the Pinhoti Trail. The Pinhoti Trail traverses 335 miles across northern parts of Alabama and Georgia. This includes a section that runs through Cheaha State Park, home to Alabama’s highest peak, Cheaha Mountain (2,411 ft). Before embarking on my hike, I drove to the summit of Cheaha Mountain, because that’s possible and only a couple of miles from my intended trailhead. Candidly, I have nothing positive to say about visiting Alabama’s highest point. There’s no overlook at the top of Cheaha Mountain, only a musty lookout tower and equally decrepit information center. The tower isn’t even taller than the surrounding trees, so there’s nothing you can see from this obsolete structure that you can’t see from the parking lot. I visited on a Tuesday in November, and I’m not sure whether facilities were closed for the winter season or due to COVID, but I think there’s a fee for accessing the highest point in Alabama when facilities are open. Unless you just feel compelled to visit the highest point in the state, save your time and money and skip this underwhelming destination. However, there are bathrooms (permanent ones, not the portable kind) near the summit, and these were open when I visited, so maybe the side trip wasn’t a complete waste of time.

After the disappointment of visiting the Cheaha Mountain summit, I honestly didn’t have high hopes for the Pinhoti Trail to McDill Point. However, those reservations quickly faded after I began this gorgeous trek. The hike was more challenging than I expected, but this one packs in some incredible scenery over a short distance, making the effort entirely worthwhile. The section I hiked covers about 2.5 miles (one way), and although there’s only about 1,000 feet of elevation gain, exposed roots and loose rock dominate the terrain of this rugged trail, so allow more time than you think you’ll need based on the distance and elevation gain alone. Also, the trail can be difficult to follow in certain spots, so I’d highly recommend bringing a map that doesn’t rely on a cell signal. The AllTrails route (linked here) is accurate, but keep in mind that you’ll need the Pro subscription to download the map for use without cell service, and I had none from start to finish on this hike.

I love a rugged trail, so I had no complaints about this one’s rocky and rooty terrain, but it’s not for everyone. I recommend shoes with good grip and ankle support for this trail.

I expected an impressive overlook at McDill Point, but I didn’t expect so many smaller ones with incredible views along the way. The trail traverses a ridge up and over the summit of Hernandez Peak (Alabama’s 4th highest point at 2,307 ft) and then dips slightly before the final ascent to McDill Point, accessible via a short spur off the Pinhoti Trail. Several of the magnificent viewpoints along the ridge have primitive campsites as well. Because views from these campsites extend for miles and miles to the west over a luscious sea of green forests below, I’m sure the sunset views are spectacular.

I haven’t seen many campsites with views like this, and this spot’s only a mile or so from the trailhead.

Just before the split to McDill Point, I encountered a very narrow and brushy section that was covered in down trees and limbs. Navigating through this wasn’t difficult, but it slowed me down. In warmer months, I’d have been extra cautious about snakes, but I saw none on this breezy day in early November. After emerging from the brush, the trail flattens and widens, and the remaining stretch to McDill Point (less than half a mile) is the easiest section of the hike. At the split, I saw something unusual that I’ve never seen on any hike: airplane wreckage. I’d read about debris from a fatal flight that lay scattered throughout Cheaha State Park, but I didn’t expect to see so much of it so close to the trail. The wreckage can be found in two areas along the trail. The first includes several large pieces of debris off the trail to the left of the split between the Pinhoti Trail and the spur to McDill Point. There’s even more debris, including the decaying metal frame of the body of the plane, easily noticeable from the spur to McDill Point, just before a small collection of primitive campsites adjacent to the overlook. After some research, I’ve since learned that the wreckage includes the remains of a small single-engine plane that crashed on the day after Christmas in 1972. The only victim was the pilot, a man flying alone from Texas to Atlanta before the journey abruptly ended in Cheaha State Park due to low visibility and bad weather.

wreckage as viewed from a short stint of off-trail hiking from the split between the Pinhoti Trail and the spur to McDill Point
the body of the plane that crashed into Cheaha State Park, visible from the spur trail to McDill Point

The many unique sights along the trail to McDill Point make this hike worthwhile, but the overlook at the end completely shattered my expectations. The expansive views from McDill Point rival those from my beloved overlooks in South Cumberland State Park in Tennessee. If you’ve been following my journey and know how enamored I am by the beauty of South Cumberland State Park, I hope that puts McDill Point into perspective. This overlook (which is actually two overlooks separated by about 100 yards of trail) drops the mic hard. I was lucky enough to experience this place with only a few other people present since I was hiking in the middle of the week, but I’m sure it’s packed on weekends. Photos really don’t capture the magnitude of the views, which extend so far that they eventually just fade into the horizon.

big views over Alabama from McDill Point

I enjoyed a leisurely lunch of tuna and almonds at McDill Point and basked in the warm sunshine, immensely happy to have had the opportunity to experience this place on an uncommon day off work in the middle of the week. I remember thinking, “This is what they call a mental health day”, and pledging to take more of these in the future. I’d traveled to Birmingham to visit my brother and his wife, and I’d been working remotely from their house throughout my visit. I spent quality time with them the previous weekend and in the evenings after work, and I’m so grateful for our time together. I always welcome a change of scenery and time with family, but nothing makes me feel as refreshed and invigorated as time alone on a beautiful trail, and the Pinhoti Trail to McDill Point provided a stunning addition to my time well spent in Alabama.

views for miles and miles from McDill Point

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Georgia Day Hikes: Cloudland Canyon State Park

In January of 2020, when I began the third iteration of my New Year’s Resolution to explore a new hiking trail every month, I never thought I’d have to factor a global pandemic into my plans. The truth is that we’ve all experienced interruptions to our lives and routines due to COVID-19, and we’re all struggling to maintain a sense of normalcy despite these (cue the trendiest phrase of 2020) unprecedented times. Over the past few months, it’s been difficult to prioritize personal goals and comforts while our global community battles a health crisis that requires all hands on deck. Time passes like a fly through molasses these days, which has given me ample opportunity to think about balance. I’ve questioned my role in protecting the health and well-being of others and felt the overwhelming absence of previously mundane activities like going to the gym or making small talk in the elevator with other people who work in my office building. We all miss the routines we took for granted when the year began, and as a result, we’re desperate to find ways to enjoy the things we loved, only in a new format that’s more appropriate for the world we’re living in right now.

views of the beautiful Cloudland Canyon from the West Rim Loop trailhead

Nature is my greatest source of comfort and vitality. Hiking a new trail every month means more to me than maintaining a sense of normalcy, and despite the very abnormal current circumstances, I wanted to find a way to keep my routine alive, legally and with minimal risk to myself or others. Towards the end of March, Tennessee and most other states closed their parks indefinitely, and distant travel wasn’t a realistic or responsible alternative. Through extensive research, I learned that Georgia’s state parks remained open in April, at limited capacity and with an increase in park ranger presence to manage social distancing on popular trails. I carefully considered the potential risks of hiking during a pandemic. Ultimately, I concluded that by holding myself accountable and trusting the park rangers, I wouldn’t have to sacrifice my favorite routine just yet.

enjoying the views from above the rim, dreaming of the views below the trees

This led me to Cloudland Canyon State Park, a magnificent place a few miles south of the border between Tennessee and Georgia, close to Chattanooga and about two and a half hours southeast of Nashville. Under normal circumstances, I rule out day hikes (when departing from and returning to Nashville in the same day) that require more time in the car than time on the trail. However, I think we can all agree that 2020 has wholeheartedly failed to provide us with normal circumstances. Also, I had plenty of time to kill and a good friend that I hadn’t seen in a while who volunteered to chase waterfalls and overlooks with me at a park that’s been on my bucket list for a while.

Cameron and I left Nashville early, hoping to beat the crowds to the popular waterfall trail segment off the West Rim Loop Trail at Cloudland Canyon State Park. Prior to visiting, I’d read that rangers were restricting access to the trails to the bottom of Cherokee and Hemlock Falls to ten parties at a time. I called the ranger station a few days before our hike to ask for advice on how early we should arrive and what to expect from a COVID management standpoint (Should we wear masks? Are the bathrooms open?) Admittedly, I call the local ranger station before most of my remote hikes, regardless of whether I’ve been there or not, to check on trail conditions. I know it’s overly cautious and nerdy, but I also hike by myself and/or on unfamiliar and lightly trafficked trails often. Calling the ranger station helps me plan my hikes and manage my expectations. Also, my mom feels more comfortable with my adventures when I can say in advance, “It’s fine, the park ranger said so”.

Cherokee Falls, stunning and well worth the journey into the canyon

We followed the advice of a park ranger named Austin and arrived early, around 9:00 AM. We parked in the shade, threw some hand sanitizer into our backpacks, and headed down the waterfall trail segment before hitting the West Rim Loop. Honestly, the waterfall segment was the most difficult part of our entire seven-mile journey, consisting of an endless sea of switchbacks and stairs that traversed the steep canyon walls surrounding Cherokee and Hemlock falls. We arrived at Cherokee Falls first, a beautiful waterfall that I’d imagine makes a great swimming hole during warmer and more carefree months. As we’d expected, a vigilant park ranger monitored the area, ensuring that each hiking party remained a safe distance from the next. Luckily, the base of Cherokee Falls offers plentiful views from many angles, which allows visitors to easily separate themselves without compromising their waterfall viewing experience.

Hemlock Falls lies less the a quarter of a mile downstream from Cherokee Falls, but the trail between the two is not a direct route. If you’ve hiked down to Cherokee Falls, you should also take the spur to Hemlock Falls. It adds about a mile roundtrip to the journey, but the scenery along the way is beautiful, and the ups and downs are great for the glutes. Hemlock Falls isn’t as visually appealing as its upstream neighbor, and there’s no direct access to the bottom. Regardless, I’d advise making the most of your time in the canyon by visiting both waterfalls. The inner canyon views are thoroughly gorgeous, and you’ll want to remember those images while you’re climbing out, to remind you that the effort was worth the journey.

the most magical place to enjoy the creek views between Cherokee and Hemlock falls

Aside from the waterfall segment, the West Rim Loop is probably the most popular trail in the park, and after hiking there during absolutely perfect weather conditions, I can understand why. The five-mile loop (measured from the access trailhead, not the beginning of the actual loop) traverses moderate terrain and majestic views overlooking the canyon below. This trail at Cloudland Canyon reminds me of my beloved trails in South Cumberland State Parkin Tennessee, because the enchanting views from above obscure layers of equally impressive scenery below, scenery that can only be appreciated by those who put in the effort to pursue it.

West Rim Loop offers easy access to multiple rocky outcroppings overlooking the canyon. Cameron and I had no trouble finding a scenic spot to break for lunch that provided plenty of social distance from the other hikers on the trail. We explored the trail at a leisurely pace, because the views were incredible and we didn’t have any other obligations. We enjoyed the time we had together, catching up on life and embracing the freedom of a day without other plans. When we returned to the trailhead, after hiking the five-mile loop and the two-mile detour to explore the waterfalls, I felt like we’d only been gone for a few minutes instead of a couple of hours. I love that feeling, the one where time stands still because the circumstances of the present outweigh the obligations to be elsewhere.

Views like this one from the West Rim Loop are plentiful along this amazing trail in northern Georgia.

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Appalachian Mountain Trails: Burnsville, North Carolina

President’s Day is a special day when we put our political differences aside to celebrate a universal American joy: a Monday without work. Nobody crushes work-free Mondays like America, and I’m here for it. I’m especially here for it when it presents an opportunity for me to travel without burning vacation days. Andy and I had been talking about hiking in the Appalachian Mountains of North Carolina for years, but we never made it a priority. The mountains of North Carolina are just far enough away to make a weekend trip seem like a stretch without taking off a day or two on either side, but we also tend to save our precious PTO days for longer trips to places further away that we don’t have a chance to visit as often. The long weekend presented the perfect conditions for a quick getaway to Burnsville, North Carolina, a remote and sleepy town nestled deep in the Appalachian Mountain wilderness.

Andy and I enjoying views from the summit of Mount Craig, the second highest peak in the eastern United States

Andy and I had both been to North Carolina many times, but we’d only been there together once, and I’d never been to Burnsville or the majestic wilderness areas surrounding the town. Burnsville offers quick access to many gorgeous hiking trails and a wide array of other outdoor activities in the middle of a seemingly endless sea of brilliant blue mountains and dense evergreen forests. Located less than an hour’s drive north of Asheville, Burnsville provides a quieter alternative and a more immersive experience in the mountain wilderness than what we’d have found in one of North Carolina’s more popular mountain destinations. Asheville is an amazing and incredibly worthwhile place to visit, and I’d recommend it to anyone considering a trip to North Carolina. However, we wanted to go somewhere where there’s not much to do unless you’re outside exploring, and Burnsville is the kind of place that has one grocery store and zero restaurants open after 7:00 PM in the off season. In our twenties, we’d have been bored, but in our (very, very, somewhat early) thirties, we were in heaven.

views from the summit of Hawksbill Mountain, the exhilarating sunset hike that Andy and I took shortly after arriving in North Carolina

We explored two mountain trails in two days on this trip to North Carolina, but we could have spent two months in Burnsville without running out of new and beautiful hiking trails. After driving into our Appalachian Mountain destination on Saturday morning, we settled into our Airbnb on the outskirts of Burnsville, a surprisingly charming basement apartment below a retired couple’s gorgeous mountain cabin. Over the past couple of years, I’ve become increasingly impressed with retired couples who convert their basements into chic one bedroom apartments and rent them out on Airbnb. It’s a genius move, and when Andy and I retire to Telluride, CO in 2055, maybe we’ll have the opportunity to play host to future generations of weekend adventurers.

By the time we’d unloaded at the Airbnb made a quick grocery run, we only had a few hours of daylight left. I spent most of my time in the car on the way to North Carolina that morning researching hiking trails in the area and weighing our options against the estimated amount of daylight we’d have by the time we arrived at the trailhead and the amount of time I thought it’d take to hike the trail. I call this “geographic math”, which apparently means something different to real mathematicians. However, I often use this technique to choose hiking trails when scenery, seasonality, and level of difficulty aren’t enough to narrow down my options. I like to maximize my experience on hiking trails, especially when traveling, and that usually requires some planning in advance.

Watching the sunset form this peak felt so special and so unique. The vibrant colors reflecting off the mountains seemed so enchanting in this pre-dusk time.

Hawksbill Mountain Trail

Ultimately, Andy and I opted for a sunset hike to the summit of Hawksbill Mountain, and I’m so happy that we did. Sunset hikes, especially in the mountains, can be difficult to find and execute safely. Watching a sunset from the top of a mountain, breathless after a steep climb, offers tremendous reward for your efforts. The experience feels much more meaningful and satisfying than watching a sunset from a mountaintop or overlook that can be reached by car. The tricky part, however, is hiking back down in the dark. Luckily, daylight isn’t like a light switch that’s either on or off and never anywhere in between, and going down usually takes less time than going up. With all of this in mind, it’s important to select a sunset hike that suits your comfort level, and when in doubt, choose a short one.

The hike to the summit of Hawksbill Mountain, aptly named for the outline of its peak (or should I say… beak?! OK, that’s my only attempt at a pun this time, I promise) is only two miles, roundtrip. As you may suspect, the trail is steep, entirely and without exception. It’s manageable though, and we saw several small children and smaller dogs on our way to the top. Because we hiked here on a Saturday, and at sunset, we certainly weren’t alone on the trail, but the summit is a sprawling and craggy space that provides 360 degree views of the surrounding Linville Gorge Wilderness in Pisgah National Forest. Hawksbill Mountain measures 4,009 feet, which may not sound like much compared to the thousands of peaks two or three times as high in the western United States. The Appalachian Mountains hold a different kind of beauty, a pastoral simplicity that manifests itself in peaks that resemble ocean waves, both in color and texture. Having a front row seat to this rare landscape, at sunset nonetheless, provided a humbling reminder that unique and breathtaking mountain scenery exists much closer to our home in Nashville, TN than some might think.

gorgeous sunset views from the summit of Hawksbill Mountain

Mount Mitchell: Deep Gap Trail

On our second day in Burnsville, we decided to take the one hour drive from our Airbnb to Mount Mitchell State Park, home to America’s highest peak east of the Mississippi River. Although it’s possible to hike to the top of Mount Mitchell (6,683 ft) via several different trails, this summit is also accessible by car. The parking lot rests about 200 vertical feet below the peak, and a short walk up a wide paved path completes the easiest route to the top.

I know I just gushed over the rewards of a summit hike, so the fact that we drove to the top of Mount Mitchell may seem to contradict everything I said earlier about the significance of a summit that’s earned on foot and not gifted by a paved road. I wholeheartedly stand by that. However, I also have mixed emotions about putting in the effort to climb a mountain, reach the summit, and then share the views with toddlers and tour buses. It doesn’t diminish the view from the top, but it does compromise the purpose of the climb, for me anyways. My philosophy is this: If I can drive to the top, I will do that with gratitude, and I will reserve the limited time and energy that I have for summit hikes to the peaks that can’t be reached by car.

Appalachian Mountain views from the cold and windy summit of Mount Mitchell in February

We drove the the top of Mount Mitchell to visit the highest peak in the eastern United States, but the summit also served as our starting point for a breathtaking hike along the ridge line that connects Mount Mitchell to neighboring peaks including Mount Craig, the second highest peak in the eastern United States. Black Mountain Crest Trail, also known as Deep Gap Trail, extends more than eleven miles (one way) north from the summit of Mount Mitchell, ascending and descending as it traverses a string of some of the highest peaks in the Appalachian Mountain range. We hiked out to Cattail Peak (6,584 ft), which lies only three miles from the trailhead near the top of Mount Mitchell but crosses three additional summits in between. In the order of their appearance on the trail, these mountains include: Mount Craig (6,647 ft), Big Tom (6,581 ft), and Balsam Cone (6,611 ft). Although the summits of Mount Craig and Big Tom provided more expansive views across the rugged mountain wilderness than Balsam Cone and Cattail Peak, I enjoyed the evergreen canopy that shrouded the latter two peaks. Partially due to altitude and mostly due to hot, wet Southern air, the mountains around Burnsville don’t have tree lines. The dense woodland blanket that covers the Appalachian Mountain range from top to bottom is part of what makes these mountains so visually stunning.

Appalachian scenery form the summit of Mount Craig resembles a vast ocean of rolling hills and peaks across the surrounding wilderness.

Have you ever wondered why these mountains look so smooth and brilliantly blue? Brace yourselves for some sweet nature science, y’all. When viewed from afar, the mountains of the southern Appalachian range, including the Smokies and the Blue Ridge mountains, appear to be blue because of a hydrocarbon released by the trees covering these slopes: isoprene. Some trees emit more isoprene than others, and oak trees, abundant in the southeastern United States, release isoprene like Michael Scott releases “that’s what she said” one-liners. These isoprene molecules react with other molecules in the moisture-heavy air surrounding these mountains to create that alluring haze that blurs lines between peaks. When light from the sun hits this haze, it reflects a rainbow of colors, literally, because sunlight reflecting off moisture in the air creates actual rainbows. The human eye interprets blue more easily than almost any other color found in nature (it’s not a coincidence that skies and oceans are also blue), especially from a distance. Therefore, we see blue mountains. It’s amazing, right? You’re welcome.

Science is neat, but that’s not what I was thinking about during mine and Andy’s blissful long weekend in North Carolina. I kept thinking, why did it take us so long to do this, and when can we come back? North Carolina provided a wonderful combination of the intimacy and seclusion of my favorite close to home in Tennessee and the immense and imposing beauty of mountain landscapes I’ve hiked through in the western United States. Hiking these trails felt comfortable and exotic at the same time, and I can’t wait to return and explore more of this mountain paradise.

perhaps the most magnificent sunset I’ve ever seen
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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.
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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.
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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
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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.

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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.

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Fiery Gizzard Trail to Raven’s Point

As much as I enjoy hiking with the people I love, there’s something empowering about tackling a new and challenging trail by myself. I frequently hike alone on trails I’m familiar with (Radnor Lake and Percy Warner Park offer access to amazing trails within the Nashville city limits), but I rarely embark on a solo hike on a previously unexplored trail. I’m not afraid to be by myself in the wild; I just usually prefer to have some company and love sharing new adventures with others who appreciate the experience as much as I do. Prior to last month’s hike at Fiery Gizzard, however, I’d only been alone on a new trail twice in 2018, and my bravery was at its peak after climbing Mount Elbert in September (pun intended, sorry about it).

Raven’s Point is the most expansive overlook on the trail, and luckily, I met another hiker here who was willing to take a photo of me.

The origins of Fiery Gizzard’s unique name are ambiguous and contested amongst Tennesseans, but locals unanimously agree on the trail’s status as one of the state’s most pristine hiking destinations. Located in South Cumberland State Park, the Fiery Gizzard Trail runs through a gorge only a dozen or so miles away from Savage Gulf, where I hiked in August. If you read that post, you may remember it as the place with all the snakes. Needless to say, I was acutely aware of this as I embarked on my hike at Fiery Gizzard, all by myself.

All things considered, I’d been looking forward to this trail for months, and I’d patiently waited to hike here until fall. I wanted to witness firsthand the accounts I’d heard about the magnificent colors of the changing leaves. Understandably, one rumor about the origins of Fiery Gizzard’s name credits the blazing fall colors. I planned this hike a week or so in advance, hoping that fall had arrived more quickly in the deep backwoods of southeast Tennessee than it had in Nashville. Unfortunately, it hadn’t. Despite this, I was grateful for the cooler temperatures and quickly realized that even without fall colors, every inch of this place radiates limitless natural beauty. 

the aptly named Blue Hole Falls, as viewed from the Grundy Day Loop

The route that I hiked, Fiery Gizzard to Raven’s Point, forms a double loop, starting with the Grundy Day Loop. From the Grundy Forest trailhead, the journey covers nearly ten miles of mostly strenuous hiking. As it was at Savage Gulf, the trail through the bottom of the gorge at Fiery Gizzard is extremely rocky and uneven, but the final stretch (before the trail reconnects with the Grundy Day Loop) runs along a mostly flat three-mile section of trail along the upper rim. In contrast with my hike at Savage Gulf, however, I saw many other hikers at Fiery Gizzard, on all sections of the trail. I passed other hikers frequently enough to feel like I wasn’t completely alone on the trail, but not often enough to lose the sense of blissful solitude that I’d intended to find.

The trail begins its descent quickly, leading down into the gorge and past enormous rock walls and several small waterfalls. Despite fairly dry weather in the days prior to my hike, plenty of water flowed through the creek, dancing around boulders and rushing over rock edges as it traveled down into the lower section of the gulf. The trail leads over a couple of wooden bridges, crossing a few smaller streams that eventually converge to form Fiery Gizzard Creek. Throughout the hike along the bottom of the gorge, Fiery Gizzard Creek flows parallel to the trail.

Fiery Gizzard Creek (flowing lightly on the right) runs parallel to the trail (moving upward on the left)

The most challenging portion of the trail stretches four miles from the intersection of the Grundy Day Loop and Fiery Gizzard Trail through the climb out of the gulf. This section resembles a game of connect the dots, where the uneven and often vaguely marked dirt path connects numerous boulder fields that hikers must scramble across in order to find the trail again. These boulder fields reminded me of the rocky terrain at the bottom of Savage Gulf, but more numerous and slightly more difficult to traverse. Because many of the rocks are loose, I often had to pause to evaluate the safest route forward or test my footing before putting my full weight on the next stone.

one of many extensive boulder fields along the bottom of Fiery Gizzard

Due to the constantly changing levels across the boulder fields, the next trail marker isn’t always clearly visible, so it’s easy to take a few steps in the wrong direction and end up exiting a boulder field with no trail in sight. I accidentally ventured away from the trail countless times, and then had to back track across the boulder field and start again. I never felt truly lost, luckily, and always managed to find my way again within a few minutes. One of the many advantages of hiking with a partner: Two sets of eyes looking from even marginally different angles are more likely spot a trail marker than a single set of eyes limited to one perspective. I wasn’t in a hurry, however, and I appreciate obscure trail markers because they aren’t a distraction from their unspoiled natural surroundings.

As with any hike through a gulf, getting out is tougher than getting in. After the final boulder field, the trail starts to rise and venture away from its comforting proximity to Fiery Gizzard Creek. A merciless series of switchbacks traverse upward and out of the gulf, but much to my surprise, I didn’t feel nearly as breathless on this part of the journey as I did during the very similar climb out of Savage Gulf. To be clear, it wasn’t easy – don’t underestimate this stretch if you ever find yourself on the Fiery Gizzard Trail. I exclusively credit my experience here to timing – the cooler October temperatures (compared to the blistering heat when I visited Savage Gulf in August) and my leftover strength after a rigorous training routine in preparation for Mount Elbert a month earlier. Regardless, when I reached the top of the gulf, my muscles ached but I didn’t need to stop and rest.

the final glimpse of Fiery Gizzard creek before the trail begins to climb out of the gulf

The dense forest along the short spur to Raven’s Point blocks any view of the gulf below until the trail abruptly ends at the overlook. The point extends sharply into the gulf, providing views from above across miles and miles of the gorgeous wilderness below. The views from Raven’s Point rival any I’ve seen on my various hikes along some of the most beautiful trails in Tennessee. The trees at the trail’s end provide enough cover to shade hikers from the sun’s glare, but they’re sparse enough to offer unobstructed views of the gulf on three sides. There’s no shortcut or alternative route that bypasses the tougher parts of the trail. Even the return trail along the rim becomes steep and difficult for a stretch before it reconnects with the Grundy Day Loop. As is usually the case though, the journey is worth the effort.

the panoramic view across the gorge from Raven’s Point

Although Savage Gulf and Fiery Gizzard each offer distinctly different and unique charms, it’s difficult to avoid comparing the two. Their close proximity to each other, the similarities in the terrain and level of difficulty, and the length of each trail are only a few of many reasons why hikers consider these to be similar hiking destinations. Only having hiked each trail once, Savage Gulf seemed more difficult to me, but again, this could be attributed to timing. Also, the return route along the rim at Savage Gulf offered more opportunities to take in views across the gorge than the one at Fiery Gizzard, which ventured through a dense woodland with few overlooks. In my humble opinion, however, the trail through the bottom of Fiery Gizzard, with the creek rushing alongside the trail, offers more aesthetic appeal than the section of trail running through the bottom of the Savage Gulf (and not just because I didn’t see any snakes at Fiery Gizzard).

In short, I’d encourage anyone who’s able to hike both trails and form their own opinions. As my mom would say when my brother and I would argue about which one of us was the “favorite” growing up, it’s not a competition. That’s one of the many things I love about exploring out in nature: even when presented with very similar options, no two places are exactly alike.

one more photo of the lush wilderness at the bottom of Fiery Gizzard