Days 3 and 4: Steel Creek (?) to Lost Cove

Wednesday (13.04 miles): Alaska Kate was up and out in 47 minutes, two minutes over her target departure time.  Chuck and I sat and ate breakfast more casually, but were out by 9:30 with the goal and momentum to make it to Harper Creek Falls by a reasonable hour.

In the first mile, I was day-dreaming about something Chuck had said—that when you do something challenging like hike all week (or in Kate’s case, all summer), it makes all the everyday challenges seem easy by comparison.  I was cruising, reveling in the thought of things feeling easier this morning after yesterday’s struggle when all that came crashing down in a creek crossing.  Wet Socks again!!

I pushed through, fueled primarily by ire, but by 2.5 miles at FS 496, I was feeling hot spots on the outside of my big toes and under the pads on the left foot.  So, we stopped.  I had to take care of my feet so they would take care of me.  Boots off.  Powder and moleskin.  Less wet socks on. 

The 1.2 miles on a dirt road was something refreshing, except leashed the dogs decided to let me drag them a bit until we reached 181, the four-lane curvy road that climbs out of Morganton into the mountains.  Across the road, a large white truck with USF license plates sat at the guard rail in front of the MST trailhead.  From there, the trail descended rapidly down a mudslide–we both agreed this would be a horror show to hike up, especially in the rain.  As the trail leveled out in about a mile (5.2 for the day), we came to a white Members Only jacket hanging beside the trail and a confusing creek crossing.  I walked around the back searching for the white blaze while Chuck explored the creek.

There he met a man who interrogated him rudely about the presence of Upper Creek Falls (which, from our logic, would be reached from a different trailhead was at least another half mile up 181).  The man seemed frustrated that Chuck didn’t know the whereabouts of a waterfall, as if Chuck’s backpack meant he knew all things about the area.  I didn’t get the pleasure of meeting him, but Chuck said he and his lady friend (or special lady, maybe) didn’t seem particularly well dressed for the hiking bit.  It seemed the man and his wife may have to re-ascend the trail.  Florida retirees in the NC mountains: gotta love ‘em.

For us, it was the creek.  It should be noted that the official guide greatly misrepresents an abundance of camp sites in this area as well as underestimating the actual mileage, and had we actually made our goal of getting here yesterday, we would have been left in a poor place.  That said, this was no simple rock-hopping creek.  Off came the boots.  On went the sandals.  Across went the dogs as we handed them across a fairly deep pool and set of rapids.  Thank God for backpack straps.

On the other side, the skies opened up again, just as Florida man and his special lady (or is it lady friend?) must have been re-ascending the washed out trail.  But by this time, we seemed mentally oblivious to the rain.  We looked at the sky, simultaneously gave the rain a “who fucking cares?” and decided to hit the trail, sandals still strapped to our feet.  Yesterday’s impromptu tarp party had taught us that the best thing to do in the rain was to just keep walking.

As such, we did not stop for the next four miles–almost zombie-like—in our sandals.  Much of this hike was done in silence, with one of us on the lead and the dogs in between. Every time we came to a place that looked like a good place to stop, we both agreed that we wanted to keep pushing.  The zen of hiking.  The body on autopilot.  The mind churning unfettered  

By the time we finally stopped, we had crushed four miles since the creek and 7.5 since we last sat so I could change socks.  Just inside the Harper Creek Wilderness boundaries, we found a sandy spot on the trail just below the MST/Raider Creek intersection, just long enough to get a little sand in my shorts, just enough to cause some minor chafing. Map check.  Trail Mix.  Chocolate Almond Butter.  Back on the trail. 

We hooked a right and headed east. I had told Chuck I had thought the trail between here and camp was fairly easy.  I was wrong.  It was mostly downhill, bombed out by water, waist-high embankments on both sides.  As we came back to the creek, fallen trees obstructed the trail, causing us to navigate full branches in full packs.  Tempting campsites began to appear, singing their siren’s song.  Rest with us.  Put down your weary burden.  But we resisted and finally found ourselves at the last creek crossing of the day where Harper and Raider Creeks intersect.

A quick check of the dehydration meter ran dark.  By the time we rolled into camp a half mile later, it became clear to us that we had pushed ourselves to a breaking point and beyond, and we would later admit that fatigue and lack of water had made us get some of that woozy, trail drunk feeling.  It had made us susceptible to the siren’s song, but we resisted and were rewarded with one of my most coveted campsites ever.

The descent into the campsite is steep and dangerous, but once there, a large, flat floodplain flanked by boulders gives ample space for camping and easy access to water, swimming, and sight-seeing.  The creek runs the length of a football field that houses 5-6 separate sites, each divided by large rocks. I’ve always wanted to camp here, but never on a weekend.  It’s close enough to the road that large groups often occupy all of the campsites with de facto car camping.  But on this day, it was all for us.  We took the site closest to the falls—easily the best.  Upon arrival, our fatigue and dehydration set in, so I put up the hammock, pounded some electrolytes, had a snack, and rested my feet.  Soon, the falls began to call me.

Harper Creek Falls is a mammoth two-level fall upstream from the site.  There are two ways to get to it.  1) rock hop and wade through the water for ten minutes 2) get back on the trail and rappel down a rope tied to a tree.  I chose the former on the way up.People often wonder my obsession with hiking, and even reviewing the trip to this point, it may seem like a mild form of masochism.  But if I could distill one of the moments that makes all the grueling pain worth it, the afternoon swim in the falls would be that moment. 

The pool is all mine, centered in rock canyon on three sides.  I jump head-first in the cold water, washing away the sweat and grime from a 13 mile day.  Different muscles awaken as I swim a hundred feet or so against the current to find myself against the rock face, where a rope hangs, allowing me to climb up to the second level of the falls thirty feet above.  There, the more powerful falls reside, so I walk around in both fear and reverent awe, careful not to get swept downstream.  Later, I sit on the rocks, now able to see high above the water, far down into the canyon.  The sun dries me for the first time all week.  The water rumbles, vibrating the rocks beneath me.  Chuck and the dogs are down at camp.  I am a small speck of life on this rock face amid a vast openness. It seems like a perfect meditation, but I don’t want to close my eyes.  I want to take this sight in, for these moments are rare gems to be treasured in the memory.

The movement of the sun across the canyon reminds me this precious infinity is coming to a close, so I rappel back down the rocks and hop back in the pool.  Grab some soap and take a river bath.  Pack the bag.  Let’s take option 2 out: a 70 foot climb up the canyon on a rope.  Back on the trail.  Back down to the campsite.

After the long hike, the waterfall trip seemed to have completely wiped me out, but somehow, we find the strength to get some wood and coax a fire into existence—our first campfire of the week.  It’s amazing what that simple act can do to lift one’s spirits.  Distance thru-hikers often eschew the campfire as an unnecessary expenditure—taking time, requiring the energy to find wood, carrying resources that create weight in the pack.  While we both agree with this logical calculation, the effect of light bouncing off the titanic boulders, shadows dancing against the canopy of trees underneath a clear starry sky, the opportunity to stretch aching muscles next to a roaring fire constitutes an essential part of the experience.  We ate our dinner with gusto. Soon, we came near the end of our wood pile, the embers began to lose their glow, and we stumbled contentedly into our hammocks.

Day 4 (8.24 miles):  After yesterday’s ball-buster, we had the inclination to sleep in a little bit and cruise in to Lost Cove on a short day.  There goes that word again.  Cruise.  Again, a condition and terrain dependent term.  Official trail guides somewhat undersell the difficulty of this section of the trail.  Getting out of camp is a gnarly task in itself, but crawling over narrow trails as we hiked over the falls brought us to a sandy part of the trail next to the creek.  It makes the hike more challenging, but “Thank God,” we thought, “that at least we don’t have to do this in sandals.”  But soon, the trail became more challenging.  There were creek crossings, sure, but even when on land, the trail climbed over rocks jutting into the creek through snake-infested trees, on trails that with just a bit more water would become all the more devastating.  

The creek crossings were actually the best part.  After the first one, we took the time to tape up our feet and spent another four miles hiking in sandals.  It was a bit more manageable this time, and the water crossings were the best way to cool our feet and flush out the sand.

[wpvideo 6eLcn9Vs ]The dogs saw it differently, and by the time we reached the seventh crossing a half mile before Bard Falls, we had a near mutiny on our hands.  Admittedly, we had to jump into knee-deep water, which for a dog is swimming level.  Juno and Atticus took one look at the creek and tried to turn around.  I threw my pack on the opposite bank and came back to grab them.  In moments like these, I’m extremely grateful for Chuck’s help as he knows the dogs and they know him.  We’ve crossed water many times.  But despite all that, the dogs didn’t want to listen, and I had to grab them one at a time and coax them in the river.

Luckily, we soon came to Bard Falls, our first major break stop of the day.  We left our packs on top of the trail and scurried down.  Atticus seemed hesitant to go down any hill he didn’t want to climb back up, but we coaxed him to the bottom.  

The flood plain opens into fire rings right beside the creek that comes gushing out at the bottom of the falls.  We snacked, snapped pics, and began climbing on the rock in front of the falls.  The volume of the water coming through the narrow canyon pushed a continuous blast of cooling air over the front of the rocks, giving us some natural air condition when we needed it most.  The water, moving faster that normal for the summer, kept us from exploring the cave that drops to water level, but the stop refreshed, and gave the dogs a quick nap.

We got back on the trail.  A half a mile later, we stopped at the MST/Harper’s Creek intersection to put boots back on.  For a while, I leaned back on the log and fell into a perfect harmony of fatigue and rest, taking in the beauty of being out, far, far away, like I had earned this beautiful moment of rest on this one secluded spot.  In retrospect, it seems a non-descript log in the middle of the woods, but it is one of those sense memories—perfect place, perfect time—that will always be a touchstone of absolute rest and contentment.

Soon, it was time to cruise.  A gentle mile climb up to FS 464; .6 miles down a gravel road; 1.2 miles down into the valley and into camp.  Lost Cove: a flat, shaded area with multiple campsites.  Chuck and I were again fatigued and had already started having breakfast fantasies while setting up camp.  It was still early and the sun was out, so I set up a clothesline for my damp sleeping bag and wet socks.  An hour later, we found the energy to hike back 10 minutes to Hunt Fish Falls.

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Compared to Harper Creek, the return to the Hunt Fish Falls is far less strenuous but equally rewarding.  In the waning afternoon sun, a giant rockface overlooks a massive pool beneath two waterfalls.  We both took the plunge in the massive pool, treading water, watching hawks overhead and fish jumping out beneath the waterfall.  Contented, we sunned ourselves like lizards in the warm air.  After being in the state of perpetual moistness for most of the week, the evening swim and drying was the perfect rest and ending for the day.  Knowing tomorrow was our last day—a short hike out—it was the perfect punctuation to our long days of hiking and sleeping in the woods.  These falls are not far from a road, but as the culmination of four days that started with grueling climbs and downpours, the brief rest seemed our reward that made all struggles worth the game.

Back at camp, we found sufficient wood to easily build a roaring fire through the night as we tried our best to empty our bags of as much food as possible.  Then sun set over valley and we drank freely of both the conversation and the silence.  There would be no rain tonight, and as the woodpile ran low and the fire dwindled, I became excited for the rest the hammock would provide.  For me, there is no sleep in the world like that in the woods by the running water on a clear and temperate night.  Dreaming would pale in comparison to this.