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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
