An interlude in 3 parts
By
Garry W. Shores
With Editing Assistance from
Deborah L. Borman
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then it is heard no more. It is a tale
Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." Mcbeth
Obsession is a strange bedfellow. My
fascination with the Cumberland Plateau has been with me since I was a small
boy. Raised in the foothills of Southern Middle Tennessee. Family hikes often
included short trips, “up the mountain”. This started something in me that has
grown, wilted, and bloomed again. I have a serious love for the lonely places
in the woods the obscure and hard to reach. I have both my Parents to thank for
that.
I’d
been planning this trip for a month. But it’s been percolating in the back of
my feeble brain for much longer. Walking from Cove Lake State Park down to
Frozen Head State Park. It’s only 45-50 miles by trail. Bought a new
lightweight pack to haul my gear in, lightweight food, and a minimum of
clothing and just trying to keep everything as light and compact as possible. I
was not entirely successful. For example, I used an old WWII steel British mess
tin and enamel mug. Too heavy for my purposes. At the last minute I opted for a
heavier sleeping bag. This made for an uncomfortable evening of me vainly
trying to thermoregulate. These were the lessons learned. It’s an ancient
struggle between what I need and what I want. Also, as the day approached, I
found myself anxious and having difficulty focusing on the task at hand.
The Cumberland Trail began in 1971 as
a Tennessee Scenic Trail and a State Park in 1998, and work has continued
sporadically since. Officially, it’s the Justin P. Wilson State Park, named
after one of our state officials (sigh). He’s not a horror, Mr. Wilson oversaw
the cleanup of the Pigeon River and urged TVA to donate land for parks. The
trail follows the meandering ridges of the Cumberland Plateau and dives deep
into the nearly inaccessible gorges/ravines/chasms that populate this
geography. Some of these areas rarely see the light of day, and people are
infrequent visitors. These areas are home to a variety of predators such as:
black bear, wild boar, orcs, trolls, and mountain lions. It’s an austere,
lonely place.
I’ve been obsessed with these places
since my youth where I used to climb the plateau with a vengeance. I used to
time myself and I could make it from the foot of the plateau to the top in
under 30 minutes (on a good day). On weekends my friends and I would often
explore around the Sewanee area, I was constantly amazed at the rock formations
and beauty of the Cumberland Plateau. It has stayed with me to this day.
In high school, I could usually find a
willing friend to accompany me on my weekend forays into the backwoods of
Middle Tennessee. Once, we found a cave, the entrance in a creek bed, no bigger
than a manhole cover. Once inside the twist and turns took us deep inside the
mountain. Our flashlights were not up to this scale of adventure. Onward and
inward we climbed and crawled our way through until we reached a massive
chamber. A crack in the ceiling allowed a bit of light to infiltrate this mausoleum.
We could not both enter the room. We entered the chamber 30-40 feet up into the
wall of the chamber. Water from the creek would run through the channels burst
out the side of the wall and down, down, into the room below. Luckily for me
and my “bestest” friend Lance I had a bunch of parachute rope that came from
the drag chute of an F-4 Phantom. This gem was thanks to my brother Greg
Shores, a Marine avionics technician of the highest caliber. I tied a nice
rappelling seat and over the edge into the darkness I went. Down, down, and
down. Reaching the floor giddy with excitement. I surveyed the darkness tunnels
shooting off into various directions and rubble everywhere. Oh, and I disturb a
bunch of bats in my stumbles. So here I am deep in the bowels of the Cumberland
Plateau. I attach myself back onto the rope and ask Lance to haul me up. It’s
an impossible task. We have no ascenders, no carabiners, just this yellow nylon
parachute rope that is likely not up for the task at hand. Eventually and thankfully,
we devise a plan for me to escape. I free climb then Lance will take up the
slack and hold firm, ensuring that when I slip, I do not plunge to my death.
This method worked surprisingly well, and I do not die or cause bodily harm to
myself or Lance. It was a great experience, full of terror.
My
friend, Carrie gives me a lift to the Bruce Gap Road parking lot. It’s a bit
North of the Cove Lake State Park. At 8AM the lot is a lonely thing, and by the
looks of it all manner of sketchy events likely occurs here. Shouldering my
pack that feels very heavy I begin the trek. Trash litters the trail along Cove
Creek, it’s quite the nightmare. I follow the creek and pass under the I-75
Interstate. Here the trash is probably the worst it will be. I keep expecting
to find a dead person, but no luck. However, I do spy several orange plastic
caution barrels. MOUNTAIN DEW / MONSTER bottles are innumerable! Crossing Old
HWY 63 and a Railroad track I head into the woods. The drone of the interstate
is loud in this urban wilderness. The climb begins. I’m noticing a lot of
wildflowers even early in the trip.
Trilliums
litter the forest floor. I see several I’ve not seen in years. I get excited
about this. I spy these beauties: Great White Trillium, Wake Robbin Trillium,
Yellow Wake Robin, and Little Sweet Betsy. These flowers spread through
rhizomes, growing, and spreading out over time. Trilliums show themselves in
early spring and retreat into the soil. They have been my favorite for many
years and it’s always a joy to see them. Other notable flowers include Trout
Lily, Spring Beauty, Rattlesnake Plantian, and Stripped Wintergreen. There are
many whose names escape me. Watching the forest wake from winter is refreshing.
The forest floor is alive with flowers, vines, and horrible saw-tooth thorns
(more on that later).
Walking through this second and third growth terrain I’m amazed at the seasonal rejuvenation. This entire area has been clear cut multiple times, the ground tortured. Yet here the wildflowers are back and coming on strong. It makes me hopeful for a future with more wildflowers and bigger trees. The dogwoods haven’t bloomed here yet. If there are any left. The blight has hit them hard.
The sun is out and shining with a vengeance, making up for lost time. The last few days have been overcast, but today is bright. Forecast calls for calm the next two days, with rain on Thursday. I’m not too worried about it. The blowdowns are starting to become more frequent; I’m having to scramble over and under the logs and actively hunt for the trail blazes. The trail is marked with white blazes nailed to the trees. Unfortunately, time is relentless and many of the blazes have been torn from the trees or blown down. It’s very easy to get turned around in such conditions. Of course, I do, and my map is near useless. Luckily my compass shows I’m heading in a southwesterly direction. The climbs are ghastly vexations. The plateau is steep, merciless. No quarter is given, and none taken in this struggle of man vs nature. I sweat and suck down water, I get lightheaded. Eating G.O.R.P. I regain my senses as the glucose surge takes control. Thank GOD for trekking poles. I would have broken my leg several times already without them. I make the climb and cut across the Plateau and run through a gauntlet of Mountain Laurel and then its down searching for the blazes I descend to the sound of rushing water. At the bottom the creek is running under a steel bridge of new construction. It was built by 212th Combat
Engineer Company
out of Paris, Tennessee. This bridge is sturdy, like spanning the chasms of
Mordor sturdy. Trees are shading everything, and the ground is a mass of Trout
Lily’s, Trilliums, and Wild Geranium. Water flows and eddies through the
ravine. I sit at the pebbled bank and listen to water. Gulping water and eating
handfuls of G.O.R.P. I rest and soak in all the scene. It’s picturesque in the
best possible way. I begin to question the wisdom of my latest adventure, but I
will soldier on.
Up
and down the plateau I walk, at some point the trail narrows and drops off
40-60 feet below, a wrong step here would not be in my best interest. I
scramble up and find myself in a field with telephone lines. RANDOM! This area
is full of surprises. Soon I’m clambering with difficulty down some steps and
onto a road. It looks frequented by 4x4’s trucks and dirt bikes. Beer cans and
cigarette packs litter the ground. Cross the road and it’s down the plateau,
down hills give me no joy. There is always another climb around the corner.
Climbing is harder on the shoulders but easier on the knees. So, between the
two, I hate them both equally. I’m walking through a tangle of blow downs and
have lost my way…….again.
I hear water, good cause I’m almost out.
Another steel bridge, another crushingly beautiful nature scene confronts me. I
fill my bottles and move on. Gotta make the time. Gotta keep this train rolling.
Up the stone steps. Up, Up, Up through more buzzsaw thorns and blowdowns. I’m
scratched to hell, one rakes me right across the nose, the blood pools and
coagulates……..sigh. The sweat stings my eyes. Another bridge, this of wood and
looks quite unsound. I chose to ford the creek instead. It’s a tranquil stream
I stop to collect my wits and cool down. And refill the water. ALWAYS REFILL
YOUR WATER.
The
water looks clear, fresh even. However, I didn’t bring a filter just some
Iodine drops and purification tablets. I finally break down and read the
instructions for the purification tablets. I stumped when I get to the part
about, “Let sit for 4 hours out of direct sunlight”. Four Hours? Don’t they
really mean 30-45 minutes because that’s about all the patience my thirst has.
But no, to kill the cryptosporidium viruses it takes like four hours or
boiling. Well, I guess Iodine is going to have to be the thing for me. I drink
deeply with absolutely no concerns whatsoever. I’m not just perspiring sweat is
literally pouring from my body in rivulets. I sit looking around the stream
passes under the decaying bridge, light is filtered through the branches and
leaves and the warm air is not uncomfortable. I notice water bugs flitting
about doing their water bug dance. Grasses and flowers are poking through the
rot of leaves and topsoil. Everything is ok, in fact
its more than fine. I would have never seen this without all the sweat and
scrapes.
The rest of my day, my long day is spent climbing up, down, and around the Cumberland Plateau with no clear idea of where I’m located. Just following the white blazes and a vague south westerly direction via my compass. Around 6 PM I find a field. It’s a large fresh grassy field that has a nice breeze and all. There are some little clumps of trees scattered around that provide cover from any passers-by that happen along (not expecting any). I settle down to sleep under the stars. I cook a meal of mashed potatoes (Canadian MRE, circa 2015 or so) and some chicken (new-made). I have a candy bar as well. I guard my precious remaining water. There’s not much. Darkness falls I’m very much fearing the leg cramps that will come once I try and relax. I pop some Motrin and Salt Tablets and try to relax. Luckily it’s not excruciating. Today was 16 miles. It’s been a while……
DREAMS
OF TOM HANKS……………
My
sleep is terrible, I stare at the infinite sky of stars and stare some more.
Sleep will not come and when it does it feels like I’m still awake. My mind is
on high alert. Sleeping out in the middle of nowhere, alone will do that I
suppose. Eventually I find myself on a ship in the middle of the ocean. It’s an
Italian prison ship and we are in the middle of the Mediterranean, somewhere.
I’m locked in a large steel room with Tom Hanks (the way he looks when he was
in Cast Away). Flames begin to shoot out of the walls randomly. With great
difficulty (losing a few fingernails along the way) we climb up the walls,
avoiding the flames and manage to claw our way through a small hatch in the
ceiling. Next, we find ourselves in a massive ballroom. People are dancing 17th
century French style (but its Italian). And everyone is ignoring us.
UNTIL……..Until the fight is announced. Evidently myself and Tom Hanks have been
entered into a Kumite fight to the death against “The Kentucky Rednecks”. And
suddenly it’s on! We are fighting like caged tigers against twelve or more
adversaries. Kicking and biting and punching the whole night. This is me trying
to rest and get ready for the next day of grueling adventure. Finally, I get
about 3 hours of sleep. I had intended to get up early and be on the trail.
When I awake its clearly daylight. I drink the absolute last of my water, and quickly
break camp. Immediately I get turned around, it’s not a great way to start the
day. The problem is that there are so many trails to choose from. This area is
riddled with old logging roads, railroad beds, and all manner of paths. Finding
the right one is not obvious. Finding the white blazes, even with a proper map
is not always easy. Eventually the path is found and up I go. I reach the top
in short order, the view from this ridge peak were well worth the struggle. The
plateau rolls for miles in all directions. I feel forsaken. Forsaken by God and
Man, left to my own struggles, failures, and small victories. I catch a cool
morning breeze, my stomach growls. Fuck you stomach, suck it up. I’ve not had a
water resupply since around 1600 yesterday. I make my way down to the logging
road below. I’m at the Norma road. I spend the next hour or two walking up and
down the road trying to find my way. Luckily in my disgust I head down the
logging road and find a pitiful but bountiful stream. I stop right there and
begin boiling water for coffee and purifying and eating. Eating a snickers bar and yet more good old
trail mix. I’m really beginning to hate trail mix. The hot coffee makes
everything all right. Rejuvenated, I begin the trek down the road. I’ve decided
to use the logging road to get down to Norma then hit the next section of trail
and find a place to camp before the rains come.
At least on the logging road it’s an actual path, and the weather is nice…..for now. I walk, taking turns trying to find my way on the map on my phone. It’s not good, not good. I don’t know where I am exactly. At some point I look down in the valley and see an abandoned warehouse. Out here in the middle of absolutely nowhere. I’m tempted to drop my pack and investigate, but in my mind, I can see a large herd of wild boars using it as a refuge/nest. Then I imagine me going down there and being devoured alive by the herd of wild boars that shelter inside a massive, abandoned warehouse in the middle of nowhere. It’s not a pretty imagination, the one I have. Chewed up and shit out on the ground with nothing left but some teeth and hair. That’s the kind of carnage I’m imagining going down in that abandoned warehouse. The warehouse looks like an old, abandoned airplane hangar. Massive sliding doors stuck in a half open position. Graffiti adorns one side of it, “DeeZ NutZ” figuring prominently.
There
are numerous stories “out there” stories of the guy out backpacking for the
first time in years, who makes some horrible miscalculation and either ends up
at the bottom of a ravine or worse. Don’t be that guy I tell myself. I’m
thinking back to my Wilderness First Responder Class in Townsend. We had a
lecture from Jeff Wadley, a larger self-taught expert and passionate about
search & rescue. A Scout got separated from his troop camping off the
Appalachian Trail. It took them three days to find the body. The child was
found in a ravine about two miles from the trail. Jeff Wadley’s lectures will
put the fear into you in a big way.
Passing
the warehouse, I come to my senses. Garry, you have no real idea where you are
going. You have no idea what road you’re on. Prudence says, turn back to your
last known point. I swallow whats left of my tattered pride and about face. I
pause to refill my canteens at a small stream.
The
horrors of solo travel are many and as varied as the grass underfoot. I’ve
nearly walked off cliffs before, catching myself at the last moment. To sit and
shake in seizure-like activity is not fun. I’ve dodged trees and flying debris
while wind and rain pelted me. Fortunately, knock on wood I’ve never met with
serious disaster while soloing in the back country. My greatest fear is to be
maimed by some beast and once left for dead to awaken, forced to fight the
carrion fowl feasting on the remains of a once vigorous soul. Or you just bleed
out, laying there in the dirt crying for your momma and cursing your stupidity.
All the strange choices you made in life that led to this one moment. You dying
in the middle of nowhere alone and afraid.
High
noon on a godless forsaken logging road. Walking down the dusty road I round a
corner just to be confronted by a ravenous, beastly wild boar. He is black as
the darkest night and stares at me with
soulless hungry eyes……The dust devils dance across and I can taste the grit in
my mouth. The sweat pours off me and mingles with the aerosolized dirt. It runs
down my face leaving streaks. I am lost as fuck, staring down a wild boar in
the middle of a logging road. Lost in the middle of the Cumberland Plateau
(CP). The Boar eyes me, I eye it. Our eyes locked in marital stares. This is
where I die. Should I make a lot of noise? Never had this one. Bears, sure no
problem…make yourself look big and scream a lot. They usually run away. Me and The
Boar, we’re different we just stare at each other until The Boar decides to
sprint across the road, jump a berm and run down the oh so steep hill near the
abandoned warehouse in the absolute middle of fuck-all nowhere.
An hour later I’m at the green field
that was my campsite last night. I waste no time. Its well after 1200 hours and
I have miles to go across a trackless tree fallen landscape before I sleep. I
entertain thoughts of sleeping under the interstate overpass. Noisy and trash
strewn, it makes me laugh a bit. Retracing the steps is mostly easier. But the
dread is there. I make it through many old “where the hell is the trail”
moments, only to find new areas of “perplexion”. At some point I’m walking to
one of the bridges, only to find myself hallucinating, looking for something
that clearly isn’t there. I get turned around for half an hour or more. Lost on
the side of the plateau. I sit down to water up and crunch some delightful
trail mix. Looking around its just me and the squirrels. A woodpecker drums
close by. Refreshed, and senses gathered I trudge on and pick up the trail this
time. Soon, I am stomping across the first of the two steel bridges. It’s
getting easier. Mental note, eat more frequently. Hitting the ridge line, I
give Joe Gamble a call. He’s a Park Ranger at the Norris Dam State Park. I get
him on the line and he’s able to pick me up at the parking lot. It’s already
5PM, luckily, I have about 2 hours of daylight left and seven miles to cover.
Up and down and around the plateau I march. This exertion, this tour of the
land that I’ve spent my life exploring and sweating over is good. I take a big
drink of water and another. I smell terrible, my legs are still shaking and
it’s dark, but I feel wonderful. Its good to be back, this obsession is part of
me that’s been missing.
I
hit Frenchman’s Grave Trailhead or whatever it’s called and it’s practically
dark. I cross the road, bite the bullet, drop the pack, and dig out the
headlamp. My legs are just a constant throb of cramping pain. My shoulders are
screaming, just about everything hurts. But that’s ok, I still have plenty of
trail mix to stave off the impending hypoglycemia. I shoulder my pack and pick
my way through the rock-strewn madness that constitutes a trail in these parts.
I hear the roar of the interstate, I’m close and I can see light of homes and
buildings. The wind is still blowing up a gale, portend of things to come I
suppose. I have a few sketchy creek crossings and down a stone staircase and I
literally run across the railroad tracks to pick up the trail. I’m running, but
I slow it down, no need to jack everything up so close to the finish line.
Trotting past the Devils Racetrack trail intersection I see headlights. I hope
to GOD IN HEAVEN that it’s my boy and not some tattoo festooned tweaker out for
blood and whatever he can claw from your recently murdered carcass. Yeah, it’s Joe,
he meets me on the trail. I throw my pack into the back of the park service
truck and jump in, grateful. Immediately we drive to the closest fast food
chicken place, and after a crushing 25-mile day I inhale the first hot meal in
48 hours. It’s delish. Damn it’s nice to be alive tonight.
