mountains – Emily Takes a Hike

June 22, 2020

Backpacking in South Cumberland State Park: Collins Gulf & Rim Trails

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

May 12, 2020

Appalachian Mountain Trails: Burnsville, North Carolina

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hawksbill Mountain Trail

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

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

gorgeous sunset views from the summit of Hawksbill Mountain

Mount Mitchell: Deep Gap Trail

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

perhaps the most magnificent sunset I’ve ever seen

October 31, 2018April 30, 2019

Mount Elbert: Climbing Colorado’s Highest Mountain

On September 14, 2018, two monumental life events happened. I reached the summit of Mount Elbert, the highest peak not only in Colorado but the entire Rocky Mountain Range, and… I turned thirty. This day involved what was, without a doubt, the greatest physical challenge of my life so far, and as a result, the most incredible birthday I’ve ever had.

the magnificent westward facing view from the summit of Mt. Elbert at 14,440 feet

Until this recent trip, I’d never been to Colorado. My parents are beach people, so we never took any ski vacations growing up, and mountains didn’t appeal to me until I started hiking. One of the most enticing things about beaches is accessibility, and I’ve always loved that. It’s easy to immerse yourself in the sand, ocean, and salty breeze. It’s all right there within reach, minimum effort required. Nobody goes to the beach just to look at it, right? Mountains, however, fall on the other end of the spectrum. To me, the inaccessibility of most mountains, relative to most beaches, is immensely attractive. It’s easy to enjoy a mountain view from afar, but to physically be on a mountain like Mount Elbert, to climb it and feel the intoxicating thrill of standing on the summit, transforms the experience into something else entirely. Of course, most people who visit mountains have no desire to climb them, but for those like me, the view from below just isn’t enough.

Mt. Elbert (center), as viewed from a country road dozens of miles southeast of the peak

Although getting ready for Mount Elbert certainly required effort, physical and otherwise (leave a comment or send me a message if you’d like to learn more about how I prepared for this), I should make one thing very clear: despite this mountain’s status as the highest peak in the Rockies, it’s by no means the hardest one to climb. In fact, the route that Andy and I followed requires no technical climbing skills or equipment. However, the trail is painfully strenuous and ascends 4500 vertical feet over five miles to the summit. I’d only recommend it to those who are physically fit and have a high tolerance for heights and exposure.

All things considered, the toughest challenge we encountered was altitude: the great equalizer that doesn’t discriminate against skill, experience, or fitness. On a hike like this one, altitude complicates the journey long before the climb begins, because it takes time for the body to adjust to the lower oxygen levels at high elevations. The elevation at the North Mount Elbert trailhead is nearly 10,000 feet, and the average person begins to feel the impact of altitude at 8000 feet. Thus, I learned an excruciating lesson on the mountain: altitude affects everyone, even if it doesn’t make you sick.

taking a break at roughly 13,000 feet to catch my breath and enjoy the views to the east

A funny thing about mountains is that they tend to get steeper as you get closer to the top. It makes sense when you think about it, and trust me, you think about it constantly when you’re climbing one. As the slope increases, the physical challenge intensifies, and the air that was already thin at the trailhead becomes even thinner with every upward step. Although half of the trail lies below the tree line, this part of the journey is far from a leisurely stroll through the woods. The incline, though it varies in degree throughout different sections of the trail to the summit, is always noticeably present.

When we arrived at the North Mount Elbert trailhead at 6:00 AM, the small parking area was nearly full. When embarking on a high altitude hike in the summer months, afternoon lightening storms are very common above the tree line, and these often pop up with little warning. It’s crucial to get an early start so that you’ll have plenty of time to reach the summit and get back down below the tree line by 1:00 or so. When lightening’s in the area, it tends to strike the highest point on a surface. If you’re 14,000 feet up the side of a mountain and there aren’t any trees around, that high point is probably you. With this in mind, we came prepared for the below freezing pre-sunrise temperatures, but after the first mile or two, the sun came up and allowed us to shed our outer layers.

The first half of the trail lies below the tree line and winds upward through a beautiful forest that was ripe with fall colors during our hike.

Fall weather just recently arrived in Nashville, and it’s nearly November, but in Colorado, the leaves start to change much earlier. Below the tree line, we were surrounded by a rainbow of fall colors. As we approached the summit later in the hike, the expansive view of those fiery colors from far above the tree line was breathtakingly pretty. The dense forest that covers the lower half of the trail obscures any view of the mountain’s peak. However, several breaks in the trees on the way up reveal stunning views of Mount Elbert’s lofty neighbor, Mount Massive, whose summit measures only twenty vertical feet less than Mount Elbert’s. As the trail climbs and the trees become more sparse, Mount Elbert’s peak (or what appears to be its peak) emerges again.

The peak that’s visible from the tree line is actually a false summit, obscuring the top of the mountain from view at this angle.

The next agonizing lesson I learned on the mountain: the psychological trauma of a false summit. The physical strain of ascending a mountain pales in comparison to the emotional wrecking ball that hits you when you realize the peak you’ve been vigorously pursuing isn’t the summit after all, and the toughest part of the climb still lies ahead. False summits are a common occurrence on mountains, which are almost never smooth and cylindrical. When viewed from below at close range, a lower subpeak on a mountain may conceal the actual summit, due to its position and proximity to the climber. It’s difficult to explain, but the illusion that you’re closer to the summit than you are in reality elicits an inevitable feeling of defeat, even when you see it coming.

As the gradient increased sharply between the tree line and the first false summit, we pressed on through what was, in my opinion, the most difficult portion of the trail. Our breaks became more frequent, and aside from the shortness of breath that’s almost universally felt at high altitudes, we started experiencing more side effects above the tree line (roughly 11,900 feet). Most noticeably, these included headache and swelling in our fingers and toes due to poor circulation. The terrain was rugged and severe, so we moved forward carefully, testing our footing on the loose rocks to avoid sending a cascade of stones down the slope toward hikers below us.

view from the first false summit, facing north toward the peaks of Mt. Massive (right)

Beyond the first false summit (situated around 13,200 feet), the journey becomes increasingly difficult with every step. There were times when I couldn’t move more than twenty or thirty steps forward without needing to stop for a second to take in a few desperate breaths. Lightheaded from the thin air and physically exhausted from the climb, we continued, encountering a second false summit before we reached the final stretch: a narrow ridge that leads up to the top of the mountain. From here, the true summit lies in plain sight, unmistakable and magnificent.

the ridge leading to Mt. Elbert’s peak, viewed from the second false summit at 14,000 feet

I’m not embarrassed to admit that I cried when we finally reached the top of Mount Elbert. An adventure like this one takes you through every emotion imaginable, and then some. I felt immensely happy and energized at the trailhead, yet hopelessly discouraged and exhausted upon reaching the first false summit and seeing how much of the climb remained in front of us. I felt overwhelmed with panic when I couldn’t breathe, but then strong and resilient when I kept going anyways. When I looked up and saw other hikers far ahead of us, like tiny ants a thousand feet higher on the mountain, I felt consumed with envy and frustration because they were so much closer to the top than I was. On the summit, however, I felt extremely grateful that we were able to complete this journey at all, as we passed plenty of people on the mountain who never made it to the top.

Andy and I standing on top of Mt. Elbert

None of these emotions compare to the euphoric sense of accomplishment that we felt on the summit, but we only stayed for a few minutes. As I’ve repeatedly mentioned, it’s hard to breathe up there, and the top of the mountain is only the half way point. The descent, though challenging in its own way (because, you know, you’re more likely to fall down than up), was blessedly uneventful compared to the climb. On the way up, we were facing the mountain, and focusing all of our available energy on inching closer toward the summit. While making our way down, facing outward toward the gorgeous Colorado wilderness, we had a higher capacity for taking in many views that we were too distracted to notice before. This brings me to the final and most important lesson I learned on Mount Elbert.

This panoramic shot captures views to the south and west from the top of Mt. Elbert

Throughout the last year of my twenties, I spent a lot of time thinking about (and dreading) turning thirty. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I hadn’t accomplished enough over the past ten years, or that I was somehow “behind” where my twenty-year-old self thought I should be at thirty. I focused so much energy on what I hadn’t yet achieved that I lost sight of the many accomplishments I should be proud of. My salary didn’t cross the six-figure threshold in my twenties, but I’m working in a job that I love and earning more than enough to maintain financial stability. I didn’t get married or start a family, but I’m in the happiest, healthiest relationship of my life, and we have plenty of time to create our own version of happily ever after. I’ve finished two college degrees, travelled to places I never imagined I’d see in my twenties, and been overwhelmingly blessed by the love and support of family and friends who stood by me throughout the highest peaks and lowest valleys of my twenties.

Now that I’m a decade older and wiser, I see my blessings more clearly and regret that I didn’t appreciate them enough in my twenties. In my thirties, I’m sure I’ll climb more mountains, physically and metaphorically, and I’ll do so without fear or doubt that my peaks don’t measure up to everyone else’s.

June 30, 2018April 30, 2019

Acadia National Park: Hiking as a First Time Visitor

When talking to friends and family about my plans for May and the next step toward achieving my New Year’s resolution, I encountered the same question in almost every conversation: “Why do you want to go to Maine?”

It’s a fair question. There are plenty of magnificent parks and trails within driving distance of Nashville, and I’ve only explored a few of them. Further away from home, places like Montana and Colorado attract hikers from all over the world, and I regret to admit that I’ve only ever seen the Rocky Mountains from an airplane. Many esteemed hiking destinations in this region are more accessible and less expensive to visit than the remote northeastern coastline of Maine.

So, why visit Acadia National Park? I think the most attractive thing about traveling to Maine was the fact that so few people in my immediate circle of family, friends, and coworkers have ever been there. The place carried this alluring mystery in my mind, and I wanted to explore it for myself, alongside my significant other and favorite hiking partner, Andy.

Although I don’t personally know many people who have visited Acadia, the park receives plenty of tourist traffic, especially during the summer months. As the only national park in the northeastern United States, I can understand why. Acadia National Park exists in its entirety on Mount Desert Island, which is also home to the charming town of Bar Harbor, Maine. Yes, it’s a big island. In addition to its expansive woodlands and pristine lakes, Acadia’s terrain is rugged and mountainous, but there’s also a gorgeous beach and a rocky coastline that extends for miles and miles. For those seeking a civilized alternative to the Acadian wilderness (or a lobster roll), Bar Harbor is nothing short of delightful.

As first-time visitors to Acadia National Park (and the state of Maine), Andy and I spent our first day exploring a couple of the most popular hiking trails, Beehive Loop Trail and Ocean Path. Both trailheads are accessible from the Sand Beach parking area. If visiting the park on a weekend day during the peak summer season, plan to get there early, or you may miss out on hiking the trails in the area due to limited parking space. We arrived around 8:30 AM on a Saturday and were lucky to find one of the last remaining spots.

Beehive Loop Trail

There’s no shortage of amazing trails at Acadia, but the one that generated the most excitement for me prior to our visit was the Beehive Loop Trail. For a relatively short hike (about a mile and a half), this one packs in all kinds of fun.

The upward ascent begins at the trailhead and doesn’t stop until you’re standing on top of the mountain. Beehive Mountain rises about 600 feet above sea level, and the total distance from the trailhead to the summit is only half a mile. This is definitely the most challenging stretch of the trail, considering the significant elevation gain over a short distance, plus the climbing required to reach the top. In my opinion, the climbing portion wasn’t physically demanding, but with many narrow ledges hundreds of feet above the forest floor, I’ll admit that the exposure felt daunting at times.

I tried to channel the adrenaline pumping through my veins into excited energy, not paralyzing fear, and leveraged the iron rungs drilled into the rock face as often as they were available. All of the mixed emotions and mental anxiety transformed into an overwhelming sense of calm and accomplishment after I reached the top of the mountain, which is spacious and flat enough to enjoy without much risk of falling over the edge.

The climbing section is intended to provide one way access to the top, and two-way traffic on this trail would be seriously difficult (and dangerous) because the trail simply isn’t wide enough to allow it. The path downward isn’t nearly as steep and winds through rocky open spaces with expansive views before descending into the lush forest below. This part of the trail offers an easy, pleasant journey, and we encountered many hikers who opted to take this route both up and down the mountain. As is usually the case though, the more challenging route is much more satisfying.

Ocean Path

After we’d returned to the Beehive Loop trailhead, we decided to check out Sand Beach and make our way down the Ocean Path from there. By the way, I’m convinced that the same middle-aged white man with a mid-level government job named both the beach and this trail without ever seeing either one, because each space is much more stunning and inspiring than those lackluster names suggest.

As the name implies, Ocean Path runs along Acadia’s eastern shoreline overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. It’s a flat and relatively wide trail with little elevation gain and many access points from the park’s main road. This trail runs about two and a half miles (one way) and ends just past Otter Cliff. Along the trail, there are dozens of short spurs that lead out onto the cliffs for a closer and more extensive view of the ocean. As an easy hike with incredible views, this trail stays crowded. However, with so many quick opportunities to venture out onto the cliffs, it isn’t difficult to find a spot away from the crowd to relax and enjoy an unobstructed view of the limitless beauty that Acadia has to offer.

We noticed that the trail became gradually less crowded as we moved further away from Sand Beach. With this in mind, if I could do it over again, I’d have started at Otter Cliff and hiked in the other direction, toward Sand Beach. The cliffs are higher around Otter Cliff, providing more expansive views, and because the crowds are smaller, it’s an all around win. If you start at Otter Cliff, there’s no need to hike all the way to Sand Beach, since the beach is easily accessible from a parking lot off Park Loop Road.

Penobscot Mountain and Sargent Mountain

This hike. It’s currently the front runner for my favorite hikes of 2018 so far, and we ended up here by accident. I’ve already mentioned the limited parking at the more popular trailheads. Candidly, this hike is so far off the beaten path that it wasn’t really on our radar until we’d had two failed attempts to park anywhere remotely close to trails we’d intended to explore. Even with this one, we had to park on the side of the road about a mile away from the trailhead, and I’m so very grateful for all of it.

Fortunately, many trails originate from the starting point of the Penobscot Mountain trail. All of the alternative trails are easier to hike, so despite the overcrowded parking lot, the Penobscot Mountain tail receives relatively low traffic. Like the Beehive Loop Trail, this one involves some entry-level climbing, but it all happens early in the hike, below the tree line. After that, the trail climbs steadily past a couple of dazzling overlook points, which offer stunning views of Jordan Pond and Cadillac Mountain, the tallest mountain at Acadia National Park (AND the first place in the United States that sees the sunrise each morning).

After the trail climbs above the tree line, small rock arrangements called cairns mark the path forward. These man-made rock formations have been used since prehistoric times to designate scared places and help travelers navigate through their natural surroundings. Although they can be found all over the world and vary wildly in age and significance, I’d never encountered any used as trail markers before and thought this was a brilliant alternative to the bright paint that’s generally used to mark trails when the path becomes hard to distinguish.

Our reward for reaching the summit of Penobscot Mountain: unparalleled 360 degree views of Acadia and Mount Desert Island. I can’t put into words exactly how incredible this view really is. I’d never been to the summit of a mountain that overlooked both land and sea, and there’s something especially powerful about experiencing this on an island, because you can see both in nearly every direction.

The one thing that obstructs the combined land and sea views to the north: Sargent Mountain, which stands about 200 feet taller than Penobscot Mountain. Sargent Mountain claims the title of second highest mountain in Acadia National Park, and we didn’t even know it existed until we reached the top of Penobscot Mountain. The trail that connects these two summits runs just over a mile, one way, so the decision to continue on to the top of Sargent was an immediate one.

view looking northwest from the summit of Penobscot Mountain, with Sargent Mountain sneaking into view on the left

After a brief descent below the tree line between the two mountains, we started the steep climb toward the peak of Sargent Mountain, guided once again by the cairns. As we approached the summit, we quickly realized that the views from the top of Sargent, though similar to those from neighboring Penobscot Mountain, would extend much further due to the extra elevation. It sounds obvious, but thinking it and seeing it are totally different things.

Have I mentioned that we ended up on this trail after several failed attempts to hike others that we thought would be “better”? I know I have, and I’m here to admit that we were wrong. I can’t imagine a more breathtaking hiking experience at Acadia, and none of the other trails that we considered would have brought us up as high as this one did (with the exception of Cadillac Mountain, but you can actually drive to the summit of this mountain, which made the idea of hiking to the top less appealing).

In short, our entire trip to Acadia National Park affirmed my belief in taking the road less traveled. From the moment we decided to make Acadia our destination, instead of a more popular park out west, to accidentally discovering these captivating trails that most park visitors overlook, it really did make all the difference.