Amid the current circumstances with COVID, I’ve been embracing the opportunity to spend more time on trails close to home. Now more than ever, I feel very lucky to live in a place with close access to many beautiful hiking destinations. I think it’s still so important to spend time outside, while taking the recommended precautions, and that sunshine and sweat are inherently good for physical and mental health.
This mentality led me to Barfield Crescent Park in Murfreesboro, TN. From Nashville, the drive to this lovely park takes about 35 or 40 minutes, and the journey is worth it for those who want to avoid the crowds commonly found at Nashville parks like Percy Warner and Radnor Lake. I love those two Nashville parks, by the way, but sometimes the heavy foot traffic deflates the experience. I certainly wasn’t alone on the trail at Barfield Crescent Park, but when hiking the extended loop on a beautiful Sunday in late May, I encountered very few people beyond the first section of trail that leads to the swimming hole at Stones River. Despite its location in the middle of a sprawling suburban landscape, Barfield Crescent Park often feels surprisingly remote, and social distancing wasn’t difficult at all during my hike here. As is the case with many heavily trafficked urban or suburban parks, the paved sections of trail close to the parking lots and trailheads are wide enough to comfortably accommodate two-way foot traffic, even during a pandemic. Beyond that, more rugged trail options provide an escape from the crowds.
views of Stones River from the trail
Hiking the loop counter clockwise, I stopped briefly at the Stones River swimming hole (located about three quarters of a mile from the trailhead), which is little more than an easily accessible section of creek that’s deep enough for swimming. If you’re expecting to find a swimming hole in Murfreesboro like what you’d find at Cummins Falls or Foster Falls, prepare to be disappointed. There’s no waterfall on this hike. On a hot day, however, the calm and relatively shallow waters provide a safe and refreshing environment for swimmers and sunbathers of all ages. When I visited on a bright and sunny Sunday afternoon in late May, I was surprised to find myself in the company of less than twenty people at the swimming hole.
my secluded corner of the swimming hole
I opted out of swimming and continued to work my way around the loop. The trail beyond the swimming hole is unpaved and very narrow, providing access to an immersive experience in a woodland oasis secluded from its neighboring subdivisions and outlet malls. The main trail, Marshall Knobs Trail, forms a 2.5 mile loop (including the paved section that leads to the swimming hole), but visitors can stretch this loop into a 4.5 mile hike with the addition of two horseshoe shaped spur trails, Valley View and Rocky Path. Although the trail is uneven and rugged in many places, there’s little elevation gain, making this an easy and pleasant journey for hikers of all ages and fitness levels. I encountered fewer than ten other hikers on the unpaved parts of the trail, which has never happened on any of the dozens of hikes I’ve taken at Percy Warner Park or Radnor Lake in Nashville, not even on winter days with subfreezing temperatures or summer days with triple a digit heat index from sunrise to sunset.
The trail continues to run parallel to Stones River past the swimming hole before turning inland about 1.3 miles into the hike. From here, the trail passes through a unique landscape littered with dozens of mysterious sinkholes. I’m sure everyone reading this has extensive knowledge of Tennessee’s geological history (jokes, I checked my facts on Google before posting this). However, in case you aren’t familiar with sinkholes or why Tennessee has so many of them, here’s a brief overview. Tennessee’s foundation is loaded with limestone, a notoriously soft rock that erodes more quickly than most other types of rock found below the earth’s surface. Water causes erosion, and Tennessee’s humid subtropical climate delivers a high volume of rainfall. Rain drips into the foundation below the soil and erodes the limestone beneath the earth’s surface over time, creating our state’s vast network of underground caverns and rivers. Eventually, erosion can strip away more limestone from the foundation than what’s needed to bear the weight of the ground above it, causing the surface layer to collapse into a hollow space in the earth formerly occupied by rock. This, ladies and gents, is where sinkholes come from.
one of many sinkholes alongside the trail at Barfield Crescent Park
Barfield Crescent Park is loaded with sinkholes, which might be why this land became a park instead of a residential or commercial development. Regardless, I’ve never seen more sinkholes so close together on any hike I’ve ever taken. It’s fair to assume, however, that most sinkholes in the forest go unnoticed unless you’re looking for them, and I’m usually not. Sinkholes aren’t particularly cute, unless they mature and evolve into caves, which is common in Tennessee but obviously not something that happens quickly enough to notice during a single lifetime.
On this hike, the sinkholes are hard to miss because they’re literally everywhere, dotting the densely wooded landscape like little craters with vein-like roots and vines climbing their smooth limestone walls. Because sinkholes are delicate micro ecosystems, avoid climbing down into them. Also, sinkholes are inherently cool, dark, and damp pits, which makes them prime real estate for snakes. In this park, you’ll have ample opportunity to admire sinkholes from them trail without disrupting their fragility or putting your own safety at risk.
Hiking at Barfield Crescent Park feels like an escape, not a stroll through the neighborhood.
You’ll likely have cell service throughout this hike, and I’d recommend using the AllTrails map for the Barfield Wilderness Trail Loop after the trail turns away from the river. You won’t get truly lost in this park, but the network of intersecting trails can be difficult to navigate, and there aren’t many signs. I accidentally ended up on the bike trail at one point, and I encountered another hiker who was hiking in the opposite direction along his intended course after getting turned around when reconnecting with the main trail after following one of the spurs.
As I completed the loop and returned to the parking lot, where a visitor center and its adjoining bathrooms were locked due to COVID (just an FYI, if you plan to visit soon), I felt pleasantly surprised by this trail. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting much, considering the location. I’d originally planned to hike at Old Stone Fort on this particular day, but that parking lot was full when I arrived, and TN State Parks isn’t allowing parking outside of designated spaces right now, as a measure to increase safety by limiting foot traffic on trails. Barfield Crescent Park was my back-up plan, but the accessibility from Nashville and light foot traffic made the experience very worthwhile nonetheless.
scenic views along the trail at Barfield Crescent 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.
In the beginning of 2018, I made a New Year’s Resolution to explore at least one new hiking trail every month. Nearly two and a half years later, I’m still committed to this adventure. Every new hike presents an opportunity to do something I’ve never done before, and I’ve experienced so many firsts throughout this journey. I hiked alone for the first time ever on my first new hike of 2018, and that magical winter hike to Virgin Falls in Tennessee has influenced every new hike I’ve taken since. In September of 2018, I visited Colorado for the first time in my life and climbed the highest mountain in the state, my first fourteener. A year later, I made my first successful solo ascent of a fourteener, and then summited an adjacent fourteener on the same day, also by myself. I’ve had my first bear encounter, my first rattlesnake encounter, my first buffalo encounter, and a million other firsts not related to animal encounters. In the early morning hours of my wedding day, before make up and mimosas, I explored a new hiking trail with my maid of honor. Then on my first day of marriage, I hiked another new trail with my new husband. These firsts have significantly influenced my life on and off trails, and in March, I added another incredibly meaningful milestone to this journey: my first overnight backpacking trip.
Located less than a mile into this sixteen-mile hike, Suter Falls provided a stunning backdrop as we began a two-day journey through Collins Gulf.
I’d been waiting for the right opportunity to venture into the world of backpacking for a while. I’d accepted the fact that I should be a relatively experienced hiker before transitioning into overnight backpacking, but also that no amount of experience would really prepare me for the impact that a 25-lb backpack has on a long, remote, and difficult trail. As much as I planned and prepared, this trip taught me countless lessons about the do’s and don’t’s of backpacking that can only be taught by experience. I won’t share them all here. It’s too much, and call me crazy, but I genuinely enjoyed the roller coaster of emotions that I experienced on this hike, and I’d hate to ruin that ride for other wannabe backpackers who might be reading this.
My friend, Megan, and I decided to hike the Collins Gulf loop in South Cumberland State Park. If you’ve been following my adventures, you know that I’m no stranger to this state park. In my humble opinion, it’s the best hiking destination in Tennessee. While most of the trails in this park can be hiked in a day, several require a little more time and ambition. Collins Gulf and Collins Rim trails meet at both ends to form a very strenuous fourteen mile loop (sixteen miles if you include the added distance to and from the Stagecoach Road campground, where Megan and I camped) that traverses the most magnificent scenery I’ve witnessed on any trail in Tennessee. This hike combines all of the features that define my love for exploring the deeply intimate and enchanting wild spaces in my home state. The trail passes secluded but mighty waterfalls, high cliff walls that form canopies over rocky trails, caves so subtle you’ll miss them unless you’re looking from the right angle, creeks that seamlessly flow above and below ground to carve out rugged and captivating boulder formations, and stunning overlooks high above it all where views of a breathtaking sea of velvety green tree tops obscure these wonderful things from the distant eye. I just threw a lot of adjectives at y’all, but I cannot contain my excitement about this Tennessee gem that receives little recognition and even less foot traffic. Regardless, words and photos don’t adequately capture the magic of this trail or the thrill of having my first backpacking experience there.
sunset views on the rim of the gulf after a long first day on the trail (celebratory wine not pictured)
Megan and I didn’t have all of the appropriate supplies for backpacking, but between the two of us, we had enough of what we really needed: large backpacks, a tent, sleeping bags, matches, a water filtration system, headlamps, ramen noodles, wine, and an iPad with previously downloaded episodes of Parks & Recreation. Obviously, we brought other things too, but in hindsight, those are the ones that added the most value to our experience. Our first mistake was not packing and weighing our backpacks until 10 PM the night before we drove from my house in Nashville to the trailhead. Walking from my guest bedroom to the end of my driveway with a loaded backpack is one thing. Carrying that backpack sixteen miles down, through, up, and around an isolated and rugged canyon in the backwoods of Tennessee is a different game all together.
Another mistake, one that I take full credit for, was hiking the trail clockwise, descending into the gulf and hiking back up to the rim before taking the spur trail to our campground, on the first day. I’d made a foolish assumption that this route would ensure a relatively easy hike along the rim of the gulf on our second day. In my experience with trails in this area (in this park nonetheless, at Fiery Gizzard and Big Creek Gulf), it’s easier to hike through the gulf first, and then return along the rim. I’ve since come to learn that this is not true of the Collins Gulf loop. The elevation gain hits different (as people younger and cooler than me would say) when hiking clockwise at Collins Gulf because the ascents are steeper and more frequent than the descents.
Although we certainly (and accidentally) made this strenuous trail even more challenging by hiking clockwise, this gave us the opportunity to witness two of the trail’s most beautiful features within the first three miles of our hike. After less than a mile of following the loop access trail and descending into the gulf, we began hiking under a concave cliff wall that formed a hook-shaped arch above the trail. This part of the trail runs parallel to Collins River, which flows mightily downstream of Suter Falls, an absolutely secluded and stunning waterfall that’s only visible when you’re already in front of it. This is what I love about hiking in Tennessee: the intimacy of experiencing a place that cannot be seen without effort and close proximity.
Suter Falls, located on Rocky Mountain Creek, just before it joins Collins River, the enigmatic river that flows both above and below ground at the bottom of the gulf
Horsepound Falls lies only two miles beyond Suter Falls, accessible via a very worthwhile and short spur off the main trail. Hiking to Horsepound Falls and back from the Collins West trailhead only covers about 4.5 miles. Many day hikers seeking gorgeous views opt for this journey, and I must admit that the magnificent scenery at each of these waterfalls would have provided a glorious finale to mine and Megan’s extended hike, if we’d hiked the loop counterclockwise. Regardless, both of these waterfalls are among the most dazzling I’ve seen in Tennessee, and whether you take the long or the short journey to them, you’re likely to encounter very few (if any) other hikers at either destination. I can’t say that about any other significant waterfalls in the area that I’ve hiked to, and that makes these two even more special.
A short and clearly marked spur off the main trail provides access to Horsepound Falls, a mighty waterfall that flows downstream of Suter Falls
Beyond Horsepound Falls, the trail runs along the bottom of Collins Gulf for a couple of miles. The only other hikers we encountered were boy scouts with leaf blowers, charged with clearing the trails for the annual Savage Gulf Marathon. Yes, this is a thing. I’ve hiked most of the terrain that the marathon covers, and even as a relatively fit young-ish adult with a resting heart rate that hovers around 60 BPM, I do not understand how anyone can run 26.2 miles over this extreme terrain in a single day. I certainly admire these mythical creatures. I haven’t met a single person who’s actually run this marathon, but I have faith that they exist.
Anyways, Megan and I continued onward across multiple creek crossings and countless boulder fields at the bottom of Collins Gulf, feeling the weight of our backpacks more and more with each step. The scenery was breathtaking, even more extravagantly wild and elusive than what I’d previously experienced on other trails int he area. As much as I wanted to focus exclusively on the scenery, my body and mind suffered beneath the weight of my backpack. I expected to feel the burden of the weight mostly in my upper body, but honestly, this hike hurt everywhere. My lower body ached from the added pressure of carrying much more than my own body weight through the elevation changes along the trail. My core had to work harder to balance a top-heavy load when crossing rugged boulder fields or slippery creek beds. Previous hiking experience on other challenging trails, combined with a moderately strenuous indoor fitness routine (I take boxing classes about four or five times per week), did not prepare me for the rigors of Collins Gulf. To put it lightly, I struggled, consistently and sometimes tearfully, on this trail.
The section of Collins River that flows through the gulf usually appears dry, but this is one of several rivers in the area that primarily flows underground.
The greatest challenge of day one arrived about six or seven miles into the nine miles of hiking we’d planned before settling into our campsite for the night. At this point, Collins Gulf Trail splits into two strenuous options for climbing out of the gulf, via the connector trail that ascends toward the North Plateau or the steeper and shorter trail that ascends to the South Plateau via Stagecoach Road. Mine and Megan’s route included an exhausting and slow ascent towards the South Plateau via Stagecoach Road. Despite the intensity of this route, we felt overwhelmed and humbled by the opportunity to experience this historically significant trail segment. In the 1800’s, wealthy landowners commissioned Stagecoach Road in an attempt to build a highway between McMinnville and Chattanooga. Hundreds of slaves labored over this road’s construction, although the project was never completed. This trail segment remains, and to this day, ancient metal and iron cables still lie on the forest floor surrounding the trail, a haunting reminder of the cruel disdain that the road’s benefactors demonstrated toward the land and those who risked their lives in that extreme environment in order to build it.
A small waterfall provides a welcome sight at the top of Stagecoach Road
There’s another waterfall at the summit of Stagecoach Road (Yes, I’m calling it summit. Hike it from the bottom up with a massive backpack after traversing six miles of slippery boulders before you judge me). It’s a refreshing sight after an arduous uphill climb. Beyond the waterfall, a relatively mild one-mile spur trail toward the Stagecoach Road campground was all that remained between us and cozy night by the fire with a Bota Box and April Ludgate’s one-liners. I failed to realize however, that tents don’t assemble themselves, and not all wood is firewood. Even after blissfully separating from our backpacks upon arrival at our campsite, Megan and I still had plenty of work to do before nightfall. Luckily, Megan knew how to build a proper fire, but wood doesn’t dry out after rain as quickly in March as it does in summer months. Without an ax, we had to scavenge the forest surrounding the trail for dry branches and limbs, so we were mostly reliant on smaller pieces of wood that burn quickly. We had to make several expeditions to scavenge for firewood after dark, powered by headlamps (one of man’s greatest inventions, in my humble opinion), but I’m proud to say that we survived to see the sunrise on day two of our backpacking adventure.
Megan and Maggie in our carefully assembled tent at our campsite at Stagecoach Road
This is me volunteering for chef duties because nature is cold after dark and fire isn’t.
We woke up at sunrise after a night of little sleep, freezing temperatures, and the intermittent howl of coyotes. Hikers at a neighboring campground gifted us some firewood before they packed up and headed out, and this provided warmth for our stiff, cold muscles and our gourmet breakfast of ramen noodles. We expected a relatively mild day of hiking eight miles along the rim of the gulf, but this section of trail is far from flat. The elevation gain and loss isn’t significant, but it’s constant. Our bodies already felt thoroughly sore and exhausted after the first day of strenuous hiking with heavy backpacks, and that didn’t help. Other than conversation and commitment, scenery was our only source of comfort, and although the views weren’t as diverse as what we witnessed in the gulf, the trail provided countless reminders of why we’d embarked on this journey, so we pressed on.
Another peril of hiking clockwise involves crossing a seemingly endless uphill sea of unstable boulders that starts about two miles from the finish line. The boulder field looks magnificent. It’s easily one of the most beautiful sections of a trail, packed with with gorgeous moss-capped stones resting between an imposing canyon wall and the rocky banks of the powerful Collins River. If we’d hiked the loop counterclockwise, I’d have had energy to take photos as we descended through this enchanting area. However, by the time Megan and I reached the boulder field, fourteen miles into a brutal and exhausting sixteen mile hike, we were prepared to spend every drop of the dwindling energy we had left on getting up and out of the boulder field. The ascent through the boulder field rivaled the previous day’s ascent of Stagecoach Road. After reconnecting with the access trail, a mile or less from the Collins West trailhead, we completed the final stretch of this glorious hike with astounding speed, motivated by visions of cheeseburgers and indoor plumbing.
Maggie leads the way across a suspension bridge over Collins River, the final section of flat terrain before the arduous boulder field.
The timing’s a coincidence, but Megan and I completed this hike on International Women’s Day, and that makes the journey feel especially satisfying. Several people (male and female) told us, in so many words, “I wish a man were going with you”. As a woman who often hikes alone, I hear this a lot, and I’ve always thought that kind of statement says much more about the messenger than it does about me as the recipient. Megan had never backpacked before either, but neither of us ever felt vulnerable enough to question our decision to hike sixteen miles over two days on a remote and very challenging trail without a male chaperone. We were strong enough to carry everything we needed, resourceful enough to filter drinking water from a stream, competent enough to build a fire, and brave enough to spend a night in the woods without a man there to protect us. We prepared well (enough) and trusted our instincts. We didn’t execute perfectly, but at the end of the day, we accomplished something big, something new and important that neither of us had previously done before. This may have been my first overnight backpacking experience, but I can promise you that it won’t be my last.
views from Collin Rim Trail, a lightly travelled segment of trail above the most magnificent gulf I’ve seen in Tennessee
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
If you’d have asked me two years ago, I’d have said that this journey wasn’t sustainable, and that I’d eventually run out of new trails reasonably close to home. Two years later, I still feel like I’ve barely scratched the surface. I travel as often as I can, and since I began this journey, almost half of my new hikes have occurred on trails outside of Tennessee. As much as I’ve loved the trails of amazing destinations like Maine, Colorado, Utah, and California… there’s no place like home. I appreciate the breathtaking beauty of expansive mountain views, but there’s something so intimate and comfortable about the hidden waterfalls and majestic limestone bluffs of the Cumberland Plateau. If you’re looking for views that extend far and wide, Tennessee may not be for you, but if you’re looking for pristine beauty that’s buried and unpretentious, come on in. The water’s fine. And so are the caves.
The icicles surrounding Foster Falls may be too small to notice in this photo, but the views of this area in January were a rare and magnificent treat when I hiked here.
Tennessee offers no shortage of incredible waterfall hikes, and nothing influences the kind of experience you’ll have on one of these trails more than timing. I’d love to tell y’all that any time is a good time for a waterfall hike in Tennessee, but I’ve learned from experience that this isn’t necessarily true. The magic of seasonality can make one hike feel like four unique experiences, and I wholeheartedly appreciate that. Hiking to Foster Falls and Denny Cove in January reminded me so much of how my journey began two years ago, with my winter hike to Virgin Falls. If you’ve got the layers for it, I highly recommend a Tennessee waterfall hike in January. We don’t get much snow in winter in this part of the country, but temperatures fall (and stay) below freezing often enough to create magnificent icicle formations on our waterfalls. With all of this in mind, a sunny January day with sub-freezing temperatures may not be an ideal day for hiking for most people, but fortune favors the bold… or the cold, in this case.
As an added bonus, Tennessee’s popular trails don’t receive much foot traffic in January. Most of the visitors to South Cumberland State Park drive in from other parts of Tennessee, and winters in the volunteer state just aren’t consistent enough for our Southern blood to properly acclimatize. It’s a mystery to me though, because winter can still be beautiful without the presence of snow-capped peaks and frozen lakes. Snow flurries against a waterfall backdrop and high cliffs draped with thousands of sparkling icicles decorate the Cumberland Plateau in winter, and the trails (usually) remain clear of ice and other winter obstacles. It’s rare to experience conditions that offer the best of both worlds, but when the opportunity presents itself, why not take advantage of it?
Thousands of gorgeous icicles drip from the jagged cliffs along the trail to Denny Cove Waterfall in South Cumberland State Park.
It was 20 degrees with a forecast of clouds and sporadic snow snow flurries when I started my morning at the Foster Falls trailhead, named for the landmark feature at the eastern terminus of Fiery Gizzard. I hiked a western portion of Fiery Gizzard, one of Tennessee’s most alluring and popular trails, in October of 2018, and a through hiker I met on the trail told me about the idyllic brilliance of Foster Falls. I’ve wanted to visit ever since, and I’m so grateful that I had the opportunity to witness this beautiful place for the first time without anyone else around. I’ve heard that visitors flock to this waterfall in the summer months, because of the gorgeous and spacious swimming hole at the bottom of the falls. The hike to Foster Falls is relatively short and easy as well. I hiked a loop trail that runs two total miles, starting with a steep descent from the top of the falls to the swimming hole and spacious creekside areas at the bottom. From the base of the falls, the trail follows a moderate incline along the base of one of Tennessee’s most popular rock climbing walls, which was dripping with icicles and thus understandably vacant in January.
After ascending to the rim of the canyon that Foster Falls flows into, the trail continues along the edge and provides an outstanding glimpse of the waterfall from above before returning to the trailhead. Overall, the this loop offers many gorgeous views for a relatively easy hike. There’s also the option to continue hiking along the rim of the canyon on the Fiery Gizzard Trail, which extends for 12 miles in one direction before meeting its western terminus at the Grundy trailhead.
Foster Falls as viewed from an overlook on the Fiery Gizzard Trail
I’d be lying if I said it’s worth the effort to drive two hours one way for a two mile hike in January, although I thoroughly enjoyed the beautiful scenery at Foster Falls. South Cumberland State Park’s newest addition, however, is accessible from a trailhead only ten minutes down the road from Foster Falls. Denny Cove offers about four total miles of trails. It doesn’t sound like much, but this trail packs in a lot of value over a relatively short and moderate distance. A vast and beautiful cliff runs parallel to the trail on the north side, and this area is accessible to rock climbers during warmer months. In winter, however, the tree cover between the trail and the cliffs is sparse enough to provide extensive views of this gorgeous landscape. Overall, the terrain is mild but not entirely easy, and the trail ends at a glorious waterfall that isn’t visible until you’re right beside it. As the trail ascends, it inches closer to the creek that runs through the cove. As the trail approaches the waterfall, the incline increases before leading to a small open space with unobstructed views of Denny Cove Falls.
views of Denny Cove Falls on the steep section of trail that runs upward toward the base of the falls
On the return trip from Denny Cove Waterfall, I hiked the spur trail to and from a secluded overlook off the main trail. This route extends the 3-mile roundtrip hike to the falls by a mile, but the views are worth the short detour. It’s worth noting that, for the first time since I started this journey two years ago, I was entirely and blissfully alone on this previously unexplored trail. I saw a few people on the Foster Falls loop, but I didn’t see anyone on my hike through Denny Cove. This surprised me, even though the trail is relatively new and the weather was brutally cold (for Tennessee, anyways). Most people avoid hiking on days like this, but I eagerly anticipate them and hope they land on weekends when I can actually get outside to enjoy the solitude of a sub-freezing hike.
This overlook along the trail to Denny Cove Falls offers stunning views of the valley below.
It takes more than just cold weather to make a hike like this possible. Cliffs and waterfalls need rain and the resulting runoff to sprout icicles, and then the sun needs to shine for a day or two to reduce ice and slushy mud enough to make the trails navigable. The sunny days need to be bright enough to warm the ground, but the temperatures need to be low enough to keep the ice on the cliff walls from melting. Rock surfaces warm more slowly than dirt, so it takes nothing short of an act of God to create the perfect conditions for a waterfall hike adorned with icicles. It doesn’t happen often around here, but when it does, the rare opportunity to see a sight like this in Tennessee is certainly worth the extra layers.
Here’s a low quality image (iPhones don’t work well during prolonged exposure to 20 degree temperatures) of a high quality moment alone at the base of Denny Cove Waterfall.
In the midst of an emotionally turbulent weekend, celebrating my cousin’s wedding in Salt Lake City and mourning the sudden loss of my grandmother back in Nashville, I hiked Lake Blanche Trail in Wasatch National Forest. I explored this trail two days after an incredible hiking experience on Antelope Island in the Great Salt Lake with my parents, and my beloved grandmother unexpectedly passed on the day in between these two hikes. The trails pass through vastly different environments, despite their proximity to each other. They lie on opposite sides of Salt Lake City, separated by an hour-long drive, but they may as well exist on two different planets. This profoundly resonated with me, and still does, because in the midst of simultaneous joy and tragedy, I felt very thinly stretched between two extreme states of mind. The severe highs and lows aggravated emotional wounds that hadn’t yet healed after losing my grandfather only three months earlier and a week after mine and Andy’s wedding celebration in Nashville. I can’t really describe the amount of joy that my wedding brought into my life at a time when I so desperately needed it. However, the grief of losing my grandfather at the same time, filled me with so many intense and conflicting emotions, and all of these returned in full force when my grandmother passed away the day before my cousin’s wedding.
Lake Blanche, frozen and magnificent beneath the gorgeous profile of Sundial Peak
My hike to Lake Blanche, on my cousin’s wedding day and in the immediate aftermath of my grandmother’s death, felt incredibly selfish. I can’t think of a more accurate way to describe how I felt about it as soon as my boots hit the dirt. I honestly don’t know if I process grief in a healthy way, but I do know that the part of sadness that I struggle with most is the suffocating weight of it. I need room to breathe and time alone to grieve, and this (unsurprisingly) can create an inadvertent distance that raises concern among people around me who rely on the community of loved ones to carry them through difficult times. I certainly appreciate the power of family and togetherness in times of joy and sorrow, but I have little faith in my ability to provide comfort to others when the burden of our collective grief makes all my words and actions feel so insignificant. So much sadness under one roof just makes me feel like we’re all being buried alive by circumstances beyond what we can control. Spending time alone outside helps me find the clarity and strength that I need to heal.
There’s so much about my experience on the trail to Lake Blanche that felt surreal, but I can say with unflinching certainty that I felt the presence of my grandparents on this hike. Maybe that feeling was just the result of wishful thinking during a time of immense vulnerability. They never hiked this trail, but I felt their presence there as strongly as I felt the crisp mountain wilderness around me. This hike was a deeply personal experience for me, and as a result, I’ve been on the fence about sharing it. However, I’ve learned that writing about my hikes, especially the ones I take while I’m experiencing significant life events off the trail, helps me process my thoughts and emotions in a more rational way. Hindsight from a comfortable distance often provides perspective that makes me feel just a little less crazy than I may have in the moment.
I shed my outer layer to pose for a photo taken by the one other hiker I saw at the crest above Lake Blanche. It seemed like a good idea at first, but it was also 20 degrees and very windy, so that lasted exactly as long as the photo op.
Logistically, the trail to Lake Blanche and back covers about 7 miles and almost 3,000 feet of elevation gain. This one burns the glutes, but it’s entirely beautiful. As the trail climbs, the views get bigger and the spaces between patches of sparkling snow and ice get smaller. Hiking here in late November, on the verge of winter, I felt grateful for the opportunity to experience this trail just days before it’d become indistinguishable beneath a thick blanket of snow. Snow and ice presented a challenge in some places, especially on the upper mile or so of trail, but I didn’t use crampons or microspikes and managed to stay upright with some careful foot placement when necessary. The weather forecast on the day after my hike predicted at least a couple of inches of snow, which would have complicated this hike that’s far from easy under the most ideal conditions. The opportunity to hike this trail, on what may very well have been the final day before winter truly encompassed the area, felt like a magnificent and much needed byproduct of divine intervention.
This one’s easily among my favorite photos from any of my hikes from 2019. This is the final segment of trail to the crest above Lake Blanche. The lake isn’t visible yet, but the tree line has faded into the background, and Sundial Peak dominates the skyline.
Start to finish, views of stunning peaks and serene woodlands surround the trail to Lake Blanche on all sides. Everything within sight, in every direction I turned, appeared to be so naturally and majestically flawless. The trail’s strenuous and rocky incline, combined with the altitude, exhausted my body. Mentally and spiritually, however, I’ve hardly ever felt more alive and energetic. AllTrails and many other sources rank the trail to Lake Blanche as one of Utah’s very best, which shouldn’t be taken lightly in a state that’s home to five national parks and some of the country’s most diverse environments. After experiencing this trail for myself, during a time of seasonal (and personal) transition nonetheless, I’m a believer. I can’t appropriately capture the trail’s immense natural beauty with words or photos.
Even the lower section of the trail provided breathtaking and snow speckled views of the Wasatch National Forest during the final days of Fall.
The trail offers plenty of panoramic mountain views on the way up, but Lake Blanche isn’t visible from the trail until its crest at nearly 9,000 feet. The frozen lake, sparkling beneath the mighty profile of Sundial Peak, comes into view all at once in a moment of triumph after a grueling ascent. That’s the moment when I felt the presence of my grandparents more strongly than any other on this hike. I heard their voices and felt the excitement in their cheers as my tired body finally emerged on the rocky terrain above the edge of the lake. They followed my hiking journey more closely than anyone and loved hearing stories from my experiences. They read every blog post and cherished the photos I’d send after every new hike. They traveled all over the world when they were healthy enough to do so, and I believe they saw something of themselves in me as I developed a similar passion for exploring new places. I believe that brought them joy, and I find comfort in knowing that their everlasting spirits can experience these wild and wonderful places with me now.
When it’s hard to find something to smile about, go outside.
The purity of the Wasatch National Forest and the trail to Lake Blanche that runs through it, somehow made me feel simultaneously vulnerable and invincible. I needed to feel vulnerable to open myself up to the healing process, and I needed to hike this very challenging trail by myself to affirm the strength and courage I’d rely on to carry me through the difficult days ahead. Adjusting to life without their physical presence hasn’t been easy, but the legacy they’ve left behind inspires me to continue writing my own adventure. And from this first adventure after grandmother’s death until the day when I take my final hike, I know they’ll be with me every step of the way.
The blazing sun manifests itself in most of my photos from this hike, and even in the sub-freezing temps, the sunlight warmed my body. I like to think my grandparents nudged God about keeping me warm, in that affectionate but really persistent way that only grandparents have.
November of 2019 was a month of firsts for me. It was a time of transition, vulnerability, and new beginnings. As I write this post in January of 2020, well beyond the hustle of the holiday season, I’ve spent the last few weeks trying to decide which of the two epic hikes I took in Utah in November to write about here. Since my New Year’s Resolution has been to take at least one new hike every month and document my experience, I’ve been so focused on writing about just that: a single hike every month, even in months when I’ve hiked more than one new trail. It took a month like this past November to make me rethink that mindset, not because of the trails I hiked, but because of the significance and stability of my monthly ritual during a time when so much else around me felt chaotic. My new hikes are always meaningful, but in some months, I need a higher dose of that sacred time of exploration. I’ll dive deeper into that later, but right now, I want to jump right into reliving my incredible experience at Antelope Island State Park, located a short drive west of Salt Lake City, Utah.
This is me, hiking on Antelope Island along the coast of the Great Salt Lake, in my New Orleans Saints hat, because my football allegiances are almost as important to me as hiking adventures, and I combine the two whenever I can.
I’d never been to Utah, so when I had the opportunity to travel to Salt Lake City for my cousin’s wedding in November of 2019, I decided to extend the trip and explore a couple of the area’s countless hiking trails. Winter arrives much earlier in Utah than it does in Tennessee, so I wanted to do some research to narrow down my realistic options. More importantly, this was my first opportunity to hike a new trail with my parents, who have been so encouraging and steadfast throughout my hiking journey. I wanted to find a trail that was close to Salt Lake City but removed enough to provide uninterrupted views of the Utah landscape. Also, I wanted to find a trail that all three of us could safely and comfortably enjoy. My sophisticated research strategy (Google) provided many viable options, but as soon as I discovered Antelope Island State Park, I knew I’d found our ideal hiking destination.
My parents are the cutest, and I’m so happy that we were able to experience this amazing place together.
When I saw the word “island” in the name of this state park in the middle of Utah, I had some questions. Eventually, I learned that Antelope Island is only an island sometimes, depending on the tide, and that the Great Salt Lake is plenty big enough to contain a 42-square-mile mountainous land mass that appears as nothing more than a tiny peninsula on state maps. The geography of Salt Lake City and its surroundings is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. The lush mountains immediately east of the city receive glorious amounts of pristine snow that attracts flocks of enchanted winter sports enthusiasts from around the globe. To the immediate east, there’s Antelope Island and the Great Salt Lake, a hauntingly beautiful desert landscape of treeless, mountainous terrain and colorful waters as still and reflective as mirrors.
Antelope Island, located barely west of Salt Lake City, offers couldn’t be more different from my familiar hiking destinations at home in Tennessee, and I loved every minute of the newness and uniqueness of this beautiful place.
I haven’t found an online map or trail guide that accurately documents the trail that my parents and I explored. We hiked the Lakeside Trail, which is easy to find if you follow the road signs to White Rocks Bay after entering the park, but the AllTrails and Hiking Project directions will lead you to a trailhead that only allows overnight camper parking, not day parking for non-campers. Follow the signs to White Rocks Bay, and you’ll see signs for Lakeside Trail after the turn off. The Lakeside Trail runs for three breathtakingly beautiful miles along the rocky shoreline above the Great Salt Lake, and there’s a new two-mile segment that connects the outermost points on the trail along the coast to each other via an inland segment. This creates a five-mile loop packed with impressive views of the Great Salt Lake and its surrounding mountains and rock formations.
My parents and I hiked this trail clockwise, but if I were to go back (and I sincerely hope that happens soon), I’d hike it counterclockwise. There isn’t any significant elevation gain or loss on the trail, so the physical effort would remain the same regardless of direction. We hiked the coastal portion of the trail first though, which meant that for the majority of the two inland miles, we had our backs to the lake and mountain views. The prairie landscape was gorgeous, and the small herd of wild buffalo that we encountered at very close range while on the inland trail segment was undoubtedly one of the best things I’ve experienced on any of my hikes. However, If we’d hiked counterclockwise, we’d have hiked past the buffalos during the first mile, and then turned a corner that would have positioned us to view the mountains rising above the lake and prairie in between for a mile or so before reaching the magnificent coastal segment.
The coastal trail segment provided epic views of the lake and many unique rock formations that created a stunning backdrop for our hike.
Hiking clockwise, we still experienced no shortage of incredible views. Hiking on a treeless island creates longer lines of sight than what I’m used to in the intimate woodlands and gulfs of Tennessee. The views of the lake and the mountains from the very beginning of the coastal segment were nothing short of spectacular, and we timed our hike perfectly. We hiked the Lakeview Trail on a Friday in late November, and we encountered about three other hiking parties during our entire time spent on the five-mile trail. I knew that my parents and I would thoroughly love this hike as soon as we got out of the car in the parking lot at the trailhead. When I’ realized we’d see more buffalos than humans on this hike, however, that was when I knew we were experiencing something truly special, and that this place and our timing was more perfect than I ever could have imagined it’d be.
From the trailhead, we hiked along a rugged, yet well blazed, trail that ran parallel to the shoreline of the Great Salt Lake. Frary Peak, the highest mountain on the island, towered above us on the left, high above White Rocks Bay, an inlet off the Great Salt Lake that’s named for a large and (you guessed it) white rock formation rising out of its waters. As we hiked closer toward the coast from the trailhead, we noticed the herd of buffalos less than half a mile into our hike and took a detour to get a closer look, not realizing that what we thought was a spur trail into the prairie was actually the back end of the loop we’d eventually make. Regardless, it was a short and worthwhile detour, and the buffalos were still in the area when we looped around at the end of the hike. The buffalos on the island are docile and accustomed to the presence of humans, so even when the trail passed within a few feet of a buffalo, we never felt threatened or uncomfortable. Hiking in such close proximity to a wild animal that big, and feeling perfectly safe while doing so, felt so surreal and exhilarating. Before our hike here, I’d learned that the island was home to Utah’s largest herd of wild buffalos, but I still didn’t expect to see so many of them at close range.
No zoom on this one, I promise. The island itself was gorgeous enough, but the buffalos were icing on the cake.
Seeing the buffalos at close range was such a memorable and rewarding part of our experience at Antelope Island State Park.
After returning to the coastal segment of the Lakeside Trail, we hiked across rocky but moderate terrain as the trail traversed the slopes above the shore of the lake and below Buffalo Point, an overlook accessible by car from the inland side. We drove up to Buffalo Point after our hike to take in the stunning views of the expansive scenery from a higher vantage point. There’s also a short trail from the parking lot at Buffalo Point that leads up to the summit, with amazing 360 degree views on the way up. It’s a quick and easy way to access some of the island’s best views of the lake, mountains, and local wildlife.
As we moved forward along the trail, we experienced truly magnificent views of the Great Salt Lake, a still and pristine body of water with mountains surrounding it on all sides. It was a cloudy day, but the landscape reflected a rainbow of colors. The brilliant bluish grey lake transformed into greenish gold when the sunlight hit it just right. The yellow fields of prairie grass created a perfect frame for rust colored boulders against that stunning silvery backdrop of the salt lake and the distant mountains rising above it on the opposite shore. If my description sounds overly romantic, that’s because this landscape presented an experience that was so unlike anything I’d ever seen before. I’ve hiked extensively through the wild forests and waterfalls of Tennessee. I’ve climbed mountains in Colorado and hiked through various other gorgeous spaces in this country. This hike stands out among the rest. I’d never hiked through a prairie surrounded by mountains. I’d never seen a body of water as large and as still as the Great Salt Lake. I’d never hiked within several feet of a thousand-pound animal and felt thoroughly comfortable and safe.
I felt like I was standing in front of a painting throughout this hike, and the rich colors of that desert landscape still amaze me.
The day that we hiked at Antelope Island was such an immensely happy day for me and my parents, and at the time, we didn’t know how much we’d need that glorious escape from the chaos of the days to come. We didn’t know that my grandmother would pass away unexpectedly the following day. We didn’t know about the turmoil and tension that would accompany her death, and we didn’t know that for the second time in three months, we’d lose a family member within a few days of celebrating another family member’s wedding.
The unpredictable chaos of life has only increased my appreciation for the time I have set aside to regularly explore new hiking trails. Sometimes it feels selfish, and other times it feels difficult to find the time to devote to this passion of mine. The reassuring constant, however, is the refreshing and healing quality of the time I’ve contributed to my adventures in the wild. With hikes like this one at Antelope Island State Park, a place I’d never have encountered by accident, I’m reminded of the bigger picture. Setting time aside for yourself, to do something you love or something that helps you feel balanced, may not always make sense in that moment, but it can provide so much inner peace and clarity to carry you through the unexpected that lies ahead. There’s beauty in the chaos, and small moments of happiness and routine can offer comfort in times of sadness or transition if we just let them.
Salt has done a number on these rocks over time, and maybe they aren’t what they used to be, but they’re still beautiful, resilient, and important. Maybe the wear and tear has made them stronger. Maybe we could all learn something from the rocks.
I believe that fear is one of life’s greatest blessings, and this mentality has significantly influenced both my adventures in the wild and my everyday life. I think of fear as an opportunity demonstrate courage, overcome challenges, and succeed at something I may have previously thought impossible. Fear presents a choice: retreat or move forward.
Grays Peak (left) and Torreys Peak (right) are Colorado’s 9th and 11th highest peaks at 14,270 ft and 14,267 ft, respectively.
Until about two and a half years ago, I didn’t think I could climb a mountain, any mountain. I was afraid of heights and exposure, but with help from some friends, I made it to the top of Old Rag Mountain (3,284 ft) in Shenandoah National Park in July of 2017. To this day, that remains one of my favorite hikes ever, and the experience played a critical role in inspiring the first iteration of my New Year’s Resolution to explore a new trail every month in 2018. Throughout the first few months of 2018, I didn’t think my hiking adventure would ever lead me to the summit of a big mountain. I was afraid of the physical impact that altitude can have on the body and didn’t think I’d ever have the strength or stamina to endure hiking at high elevations. On September 14, 2018, my thirtieth birthday, I climbed to the summit of the highest peak in the Rocky Mountains, Mount Elbert (14,439 ft). I wouldn’t have made it to the top without Andy’s help and encouragement. To show my appreciation, I promoted him from boyfriend to husband ten months later.
Until a few months ago, I didn’t think I could climb a big mountain by myself. I was afraid of the possibility that I hadn’t really conquered my fears, but had instead relied on the strength of others to carry me through them. In October, a trip to Colorado with a couple of friends (Lexi and Anne, who have joined me on several hikes over the past two years) presented me with an opportunity to find out. On a wild, and possibly wine induced, impulse a couple of weeks before the trip, I changed my return flight to allow an extra day in Colorado after my friends planned to fly back to Nashville. I didn’t know if I was ready to climb a fourteener by myself, but I knew I was ready to try.
I had one day, an exceptionally tight window in October in the Rockies, due to intense wind gusts and single-digit temperatures above the tree line that signal the imminent arrival of the first big snow of the season. Also, I knew I’d need to choose from a small handful of mountains relatively close to Denver, to allow enough time for a successful summit, descent, and subsequent drive to the airport for a 9:00 PM flight back to Nashville. There weren’t many realistic options, but there was one that presented me with an opportunity to summit the highest peak on the continental divide and traverse an exposed ridge to the summit of an adjacent fourteener, all in less than ten miles out and back.
Grays and Torreys are part of the Wasatch Range and Arapaho National Forest.
Admittedly, Grays and Torreys are two of the easiest fourteeners to summit in Colorado, and very popular options due to their proximity to Denver and the opportunity to climb two non-technical mountains in one hike. However, “easy” is a relative term, not a literal one. There aren’t any easy fourteeners, only some that are less difficult than others. Experts usually evaluate a mountain’s difficulty based on the technical ability required to climb it, not the amount of route distance or elevation gain from the trailhead, although these factors often influence each other. Environmental factors, like weather and time of year, weigh heavily on individual experiences and can make any hike feel more or less challenging than expected. Every day leading up to the day I’d planned to climb Grays and Torreys, I checked online forums for new trail reports from other hikers and prayed for favorable conditions. At best, I knew I could expect single digit temperatures and severe wind gusts that would only intensify on the precarious ridge between the two summits. Multiple trip reports in the weeks leading up to my hike recounted abandoned attempts at crossing the ridge due to the intensity of the wind, a seasonal side effect of the transition from fall to winter at high altitudes.
The days in Colorado prior to my Grays and Torreys summit hike only increased my concerns about the coldness and brutality of the wind gusts. My friends and I experienced them while hiking in Rocky Mountain National Park, and the highest altitude we reached there was about 12,000 feet. Considering the severity of the winds in less exposed environments and more than 2,000 vertical feet below the summits of Grays and Torreys, fear dominated my thoughts, and doubt started creeping in.
My hair looks like this is every photo from this hike. What can you do, though?
The day before the hike, I said goodbye to my friends as they headed to the airport, and I checked into a cheap motel in Idaho Springs, a 45-minute drive from the trailhead. Maybe my expectations were low, but as it turns out, Idaho Springs is actually kind of cute. I wouldn’t recommend it as a destination, but if you’re passing through on I-70 or want to take advantage of the incredible hiking in the surrounding area, it’s not a bad place to be. I ate some of the best pizza I’ve had in a long time (Beau Jo’s), and promptly went back to my room around 8:00 PM to prepare for an early start on the trail. In the quiet loneliness of my motel room in that isolated town, sleep did not come easily as my mind raced with the uncertainties of the next day.
I reached the trailhead before sunrise, after a dark and skecthy drive up a rugged mountain road that would have been insurmountable without a 4WD vehicle with some clearance. My rented Dodge Journey made the trek at a slow and steady pace, but she got me there. I hiked west along the trail and watched the sun rise above the mountains as I approached the tree line. Because the trailhead rests at nearly 11,000 feet, the trees fade into the background after less than a mile of steady uphill hiking. As a result, both Grays and Torreys tower majestically in view throughout most of the approach.
Grays and Torreys, as viewed from the trail at dawn
God and Mother Nature blessed me with favorable weather, so despite the cold and the wind gusts, the sky was a brilliant shade of solid blue. I felt the bone-chilling intensity of the wind every time it picked up, which happened more frequently as I climbed upward, but the consistency of that sky and the serenity of the alpine tundra landscape fueled me forward. I realized the magnitude of loneliness quickly and often thought of challenging hikes I’ve taken before this one. I remembered the support and encouragement I had from others, those who accompanied me on previous hikes and those who were cheering from the sidelines. Regardless, it didn’t take long for me to realize that a hike like this one is much harder on your own. I struggled with doubt and fear constantly, and there wasn’t anyone there to reassure me in the many moments when brutal winds, incessant breathlessness, or dizzying exposure made me want to turn around and return to my rental car. I thought about that often, knowing I’d have other opportunities in the future to come back and summit these mighty peaks under more favorable conditions. Nonetheless, I kept going.
views across the valley from the upper slopes of Grays Peak, around 13,500 ft
Somewhere north of 13,500 feet, I convinced myself that reaching the summit of Grays would be enough, considering the reports I’d read about the treacherous and highly exposed trail along the ridge to Torreys Peak. Grays is the taller and less technical of the two mountains, and I could avoid the ridge by descending along the same trail I’d taken up. I’d return home feeling content to have even climbed one fourteener by myself. These were my thoughts as I climbed the final stretch of exposed scree to reach the summit of Grays.
Breathless and shaking, I emerged onto the summit of Grays, only to be greeted by a wind gust so strong it nearly sent me tumbling off the mountain. Luckily, someone had assembled a wind shelter on the summit in the form of a curved rock wall several feet high. I crouched beside it to take in the incredible views. It’s funny how the view always feels different from the summit, even when looking at scenery that’s been visible along the upper sections of the trail that lie immediately below the top. It’s as if your brain changes gears and finally allows you to take it all in with a fresh perspective of achievement. I gazed in awe across the terrain I’d just hiked and looked for the first time into the vast mountainous beauty that lie on the other side of Grays Peak. Hundreds of mountains surrounded me on all sides, and I felt like I was perched majestically above all of them.
The summit of Grays Peak (14,270 ft) is the highest point on the Continental Divide.
From the summit of Grays, Torreys suddenly looked less intimidating. I could now see the entire route across the ridge, and although it still intimidated me, with wind so intense that I could literally see it in the form of wispy dust clouds flying off the mountain like tiny translucent hawks, it appeared to be more manageable than it had looked from below. I decided to try it, knowing I could descend from a trail near the saddle if I changed my mind on the way down the from the summit of Grays. I started moving down the side of mountain and quickly realized that this trail was much steeper than the one I’d ascended on the way up. The winds on this part of the trail were stronger and colder than any I’d encountered yet, but I moved slowly forward until I reached the saddle and the spur trail that reconnected with the one I’d ascended to the summit of Grays.
This is the view from the saddle on the ridge between Grays and Torreys, facing the valley that the trail ascends through on its way to the peaks.
I don’t know if it was divine intervention or if I’d just crossed an endurance threshold that made the winds seem less noticeable, but in that moment of decision, I found a sudden burst of energy and determination. The most exposed section of the ridge was still in front of me, but for the first time on that hike, I felt calm and confident. I figured I’d better start moving again before that faded. The trail leading to the summit of Torreys is steeper and more technical than the one I’d taken to the top of Grays. Despite the more rugged terrain, however, the wind wasn’t as much of a factor as it had been before. It was almost 11:00 AM by now and still well below freezing at this altitude, but as the sun rose higher in the sky, the mountain felt warmer and less threatening.
I propelled my aching body over the final pitch and onto the summit just in time to high-five a couple from North Carolina who I’d met on the summit of Grays. These mountains were their first fourteeners, and they’ll never know it, but hiking behind them motivated me to keep going when I felt discouraged along the ridge. I could see them pressing on ahead of me, tiny dots on the side of the mountain, and it reminded me of hiking my first fourteener with Andy a year earlier.
The altitude written on the rock is 8 ft higher than the mountain’s actual height, but I support whoever made the decision to round up.
From the top of Torreys, I stared across the ridge I’d traversed from the summit of Grays, standing in the spot I didn’t think I could reach just two hours earlier. This filled me with an overwhelming sense of triumph and a humbling dose of perspective. The views were different but just as magnificent as the ones from the summit of Grays, and if I hadn’t been running behind an already tight schedule, I could have stayed on top of that mountain all afternoon, despite the wind and the cold. Reluctantly, I started making my way down the trail and back to the saddle, feeling exhausted but invincible.
The fall colors on the alpine tundra sparkled beneath the bluebird sky. I hadn’t noticed their brightness on the hike in, during the dim dawn hours as the sun rose behind the mountains east of Grays and Torreys, casting a shadow across the valley beneath the peaks. I encountered several groups of hikers on the way down, sharing advice from my experience when asked, and providing words of encouragement to those who looked like they needed it. When I returned to the trailhead, I felt physically and mentally drained but entirely fulfilled by the experience. That’s always the goal, right?
Grays Peak, as viewed from the summit of Torreys Peak
Without a doubt, this was one of my best hiking adventures yet. I tested my perceived limitations and emerged from the experience stronger and braver than I’d been before. The confidence I gained on those mountains has manifested itself in my everyday life too, as I pursued an incredible and competitive new job opportunity. I started that new job three weeks ago and couldn’t be happier. This hiking adventure continues to amaze me, not just through the places I’ve seen, but through how much I’ve learned about myself and grown as a result. I still have the same fears, but through my own courage and the support of others, I’m learning how to face them. Fear isn’t a choice, but courage is.
celebrating on top of Torreys Peak, my second fourteener of the day
I always look forward to September with excited anticipation. The month carries my birthday, and more importantly, it triggers the return of my favorite season: football season (roll tide). The only downside of September in the South: the sweltering heat is like a house guest who wears out their welcome after about three days, but three months later, they’re still around and it’s entirely suffocating. Also, Tennessee’s many spectacular waterfall hikes lose their luster in late summer as the rainfall tapers off and the creek beds dry up. In my humble opinion, September is the least appealing month for hiking in Tennessee, by a landslide. In September of 2018, I climbed the highest mountain Colorado, on my 30th birthday, to fulfill the September chapter of my resolution to hike a new trail at least once a month. Highly recommend. September may the best month for hiking in the Colorado Rockies, because the fall colors start to emerge but it’s too early for snow. In Tennessee, however, choosing a new trail to explore in the September chapter of the second iteration of my New Year’s resolution required some creativity and determination to beat the heat.
Here’s a selfie I took at the massive Buggytop entrance to Lost Cove Cave. The image doesn’t truly capture the size of the entrance, which measures about 100 feet wide and 80 feet high.
So, in September, feeling inspired by my underground hike at Mammoth Cave National Park in August, I decided to explore a cave trail with fewer rules and more risk: Buggytop Trail to Lost Cove Cave. This trail checks a lot of boxes for an ideal late summer hike in Tennessee. Round trip, the out-and-back hike covers roughly four miles of modest terrain. The trail lies entirely beneath the shade of a dense forest and twists along a rocky slope that rises above the gaping mouths of Lost Cove Cave.
Candidly, the trail itself isn’t as majestic as its neighbors in the brilliantly remote and enigmatic South Cumberland State Park. Buggytop Trail is certainly pleasant, with serene forest views and huge mossy boulders scattered generously across the surrounding landscape. However, the unique appeal of this particular trail, and the feature that makes it stand out among other trails in the area, is Lost Cove Cave. At roughly two miles, the trail splits at an overlook above the small canyon carved over thousands of years by Crow Creek, which flows steadily downward from the mouth of the Buggytop entrance . The fork to the left traverses the cliff’s edge before receding into the forest and towards the Peter Cave entrance to Lost Cove Cave. The path to the right of this overlook leads sharply downward toward the much more popular and visually magnificent Buggytop entrance.
Apparently, this stunning entrance to Lost Cove Cave received its name because the inward curve of the 150-foot cliff wall above resembles the shape of an actual “buggy top”.
One hundred feet across and eighty feet high, the Buggytop entrance to Lost Cove Cave is widely considered to be the most impressive cave entrance in Tennessee. Based on my own experience, which is limited but not entirely superficial (yes, “superficial” is my best attempt at an above-ground hiking pun), this cave entrance rightfully earned its reputation. The cave’s massive threshold, in the middle of an excessively average forest but almost large enough to encompass a football field, is entirely worth the relatively low investment of time and effort. Even on a scorching day in early September, the air surrounding the rugged exterior of the Buggytop cave entrance felt cool and refreshing, and the swift waters of Crow Creek instantly chilled my fingers to the bone. There’s a flat rock shelf extending from cave’s interior at the end of the trail, which provides an ideal setting to stop for lunch or a short reprieve to throw on an extra layer or two before entering the cave.
I encountered a group here as they were pulling on jumpsuits and headlamps and preparing to embark on the ultimate journey through Lost Cove Cave: climbing and crawling from the Buggytop entrance through the cave’s interior depths of darkness and emerging at the Peter Cave entrance. I’d read that this was possible and not entirely dangerous, aside from difficult route finding and the subsequent risk of getting hopelessly lost in the dark. I hadn’t read any reports of bears in the cave, so therefore, not a guaranteed death trap. However, I was hiking alone and had never explored the depths of a cave (I define “depths” as parts further back than where light from the outside reaches) by myself. I carefully considered these factors as I chatted with the group I’d just met at the Buggytop entrance, who quickly offered to let me join their journey through the cave. They’d never explored Lost Cove Cave either, but claimed to have deep cave experience from other adventures.
The sheer size of the Buggytop entrance allows light to flood the expansive open space that lies beyond the threshold. This part of the cave can easily be explored without a supplemental light source, but the passages extending from this room become much more narrow, dark, and treacherous.
Naturally, I accepted this exciting offer to follow a group of strangers into a deep, dark cave in the remote backwoods of Tennessee, with no witnesses or cell phone service around (Sorry, mom). The opportunity to explore further into the cave than I comfortably could have on my own, as a part of a group that appeared to know what they were doing, obscured any sense of stranger danger in that moment. Besides, these people just seemed normal. I’m not excusing my complete disregard for safety and wouldn’t advise anyone to do the same in my position. The increasing weight of second thoughts, along with the very quick realization that my inexperience was forcing this group to move more slowly than they could have without me, prompted me to abort the mission soon after we’d embarked. Guided only by my head lamp, I parted ways with the friendly group of strangers and carefully retraced our route back to the Buggytop entrance of Lost Cove Cave.
As I learned at Mammoth Cave in August, flash photography has an immensely negative impact on the dark ecosystems that exist deep within caves. However, if you’re within sight of natural light and want to capture a cave photo on your phone, work with angles until you find one that reflects light from your headlamp and natural light on an interior wall.
Part of me regrets this cowardly act of delayed responsibility, but another part of me acknowledges that I’ll have plenty of other opportunities to hike and climb through this cave under more appropriate circumstances. After the steep ascent back to the overlook on top of the cave, I hiked the quarter-mile trail over to an obscure third entrance to Lost Cove Cave, but I opted out of completing the very short remaining distance to the Peter Cave entrance. I still had plenty of energy and courage, and I genuinely wanted to see the group of strangers I’d met emerge successfully on the other side. I wanted to ask them about it and learn from their experience so that I’d be better equipped to accomplish this on my own in the future.
The view from the overlook on top of the Buggytop entrance to Lost Cove Cave is much more colorful than the landscape inside the cave directly below.
However, something didn’t feel right about completing the journey between the two entrances above ground when I’d failed to do so underground, even though I had plenty of good reasons for turning back inside the cave. I have no doubt that the group I met made it all the way through to the Peter Cave entrance, and I’m sure they’re all law abiding Sunday School teachers who run marathons to raise money for charity or cancer research when they’re not exploring caves. Their fortitude to attempt to conquer the mile-long route through the dark and complex cave passages, although none in their group had ever done it before, inspired me to do more research on the best approach for this. There’s surprisingly little information available, but in general, it doesn’t seem to be excessively technical or claustrophobic.
I’ve thoroughly enjoyed exploring these two cave trails over the past couple of months, and both provide exciting alternatives to escape the oppressive mid-summer temperatures above ground in Tennessee. However, I have a lot to learn about safe and secure navigation through caves before I’ll feel comfortable doing this on my own. It’s definitely an intriguing opportunity, but I think I’ll always prefer the diverse and colorful vistas above ground.
One more photo from inside the magnificent cave entrance, just before beginning my journey with the group I met and leaving the light from outside behind us
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.
