October ‘23: A Lil Falltime Frolick on Pine Mountain

October 21-23rd, 2023 

    This past fall break I headed down to Pine Mountain to backpack the Birch Knob Section of the PMT. I’m glad I finally got the chance to hike this backbone along a critical ribbon of conserved forest. The Pine Mountain Trail is intended to be one leg of the Great Eastern Trail, a work-in-progress which will eventually parallel the AT and run from Alabama to New York. Pine Mountain, according to the Kentucky Natural Lands Trust, is one of the world’s most biodiverse temperate zone forests. 

Day 1 - Elkhorn City Trailhead to just past Skeet Rock Knob 

    I was supposed to do this hike with Elijah but he got sick the week preceding. He still agreed to ferry me to and from the trailheads (what an angel he is). We got to Elkhorn City, KY at nearly 1 on a breezy and overcast day. The road to the trailhead was deeply rutted with muddy water collected upon the surface, but my 2wd CRV made it just fine. 

    My greatest apprehension about the trail was the water situation. I was comforted that it’d rained a lot in the week before I started walking, but at least in Central KY it’d been dry for months. Day 1, walking 9ish miles to Skeet Rock Knob, the best source I could find was a leaf-covered puddle on a rocky ridge. It was brown-tinged but clear enough. I <3 chlorine tablets. At some point in the day I passed “goldfish pond” which is listed as an official source in my guide but looked far less palatable.

My guy!!! A northern walkingstick.

    The push up to pine mountain from Elkhorn City was rocky and steep ATV trails through Breaks Interstate Park, mostly clear and wide with the cover of some rhododendron tunnels. The first big overlook was a look at the town I’d passed through to get to the trailhead. The trail thinned out to single track at some points. A leaf bug leapt across the trail and the overhanging arm of a shrubby witch-hazel held out before me a still and silent walkingstick. I made dinner at a rock outcrop covered in steadfast lichen with a sweet view of changing leaves in the valley I had just climbed out of. Mac n cheese below a swirling cloud-quilt. 

Walking upon a spine of exposed lichencovered rock

Golden hour—delectable!

    After dinner I hiked on a bit more and found a little hammock spot in a patch of woods between a rock outcrop and a buzzing powerline clearing. As I was setting up for the night I was startled by a scurrying of something dark-colored and mammalian in the brush. Out of the undergrowth appeared a cadre of black little hound dogs, at least 4 of them, but no humans in sight. They barked at me a little then went away, down the mountain or elsewhere I’ll never know.  

    I was cozy in my little sack and I remember the wind roaring over the ridge, swallowing all other sound. Gusts ruffled the dying leaves and pulled at the tall trunks so the moonlight pulsed through the trees before it found me. 

Day 2 - Powerline overlook near Skeet Rock Knob to Cantrell Gap

    The day’s highlight was getting Birch Knob overlook to myself for about an hour, and then a bear I saw on an unsuccessful attempt to find Jenny Falls. It was cloudy all day and if I sat for a break for too long I got all frosty and shivery.

    Hiking in the morning I passed some historical markers pointing out old homesites, explaining the significance of gaps the trail traveled through. The trail changes from one track to join old wagon roadbeds at some points. With the terrain and everything grown up it’s hard to imagine people making a living in this landscape. One sign after Blowing Rock Gap pointed out the murder site of Henry Mullins. It read:

    “One day while Pridemore Fleming was sheriff of Dickenson County, he and some others made a raid in the vicinity of Blowing Rock Gap. They found some moonshine near George Dutton’s on Cane Creek, and proceeded to drink a lot of it. While in this condition they approached the home of Henry Mullins. They found a jar of moonshine just on the Virginia side, and accosted Henry about it. He denied any knowledge of it being on his place, and one of the posse, Seth Hill, shot him dead. Since the shooting happened in Kentucky the trial for this murder was held at Pikeville. Hill was given a small fine.”

    Wild. What the fuck Seth??

“Old home site—this site is the location of an old farm belonging to an early settler.”

“Henry and Arminie Mullins Homesite”

Birch Knob Shelter

    I wandered on wondering what widowed life was like for Arminie Mullins, alone on the mountain, husband taken by a drunkard’s gun. I got to the turn off for Jenny Falls, marked with a blue blaze as a water source. In pursuit of a scenic sidequest and some quenchment I went down the hill, a side trail traveling through a rhodo-choked drainage. I got this sense that if I were a bear… this would be a fine place to be. And sure enough, right ahead of me on the trail, a flash of furry black behind, and then a split second decision to save Jenny Falls for another day. I absconded back up the hill to the main trail. Soon after, a sweet shelter, and then the parking lot for Birch Knob Observation Tower.

Looking over into VA (i think)

Looking over into KY

  There was a cistern that made an excellent water source along the trail between Birch Knob Shelter and the observation deck parking lot. I filled up, grateful after my aborted water mission, then scurried up the metal steps see the overlook. I stayed a while to take in Pine Mountain in autumn sublimity, stretching on towards Whitesburg and beyond. A truly baller vista that I returned to during Thanksgiving Break to savor a sunset at. 

    The trail continues south, following a gravel road. Along the road I memorial site of a plane crash with another good overlook of hills and farm land. I remember a sign for an official campsite off to the left of the road, which I didn’t investigate. Soon I turned right, back up onto single track trail shaded in by trees of autumn struggling to hold on to their leaves.

A warning about the trail being “incomplete and difficult to traverse” after I left the gravel road leading away from Birch Knob Tower

  I was hiking with some guidance from Valerie Askren’s Backpacking Kentucky book, which showed campsites that were nowhere to be found, i guess due to trail reroutes over the years. There was supposed to be a campsite at Cantrell Gap, but I saw nothing indicative of a good place to sleep. I hiked on just a bit and found a flat spot on a ridge overlooking the KY side to set up for the night on. My view there was obscured but I still enjoyed what I could see of the sunset, vibrant colors upon the hills beyond the trees. Down in Kentucky I saw dots of light coming from people’s homes, and the shouts and barks and engines of civilization which travel up to the ridge to meld with the mountain breeze. Again, moonlight coming to me, strong through the trunks and branches. What does a bobcat make of moonlight? What does it think when clouds shroud it out?

Day 3 - Cantrell Gap to Jenkins, KY

   The last day of every backpacking trip is always bittersweet. I woke to blue beyond the treetops. I had all day to make the 10.5 miles to pound gap, and was full of a sense of excitement to see my love again and a sadness that my trip was coming to an end. The first part of the day followed wide ATV trails, which made for rocky, steep walking in some spots and slick n’ muddy potholed sliding in others. I was running out of water in the morning and deciding whether or not to collect some from one of the gargantuan oily ATV puddles when I saw a paw paw patch, and then a very shallow stream crossing the trail which I collected from using the broken-off cap of my Nalgene. 

Some sort of old foundation I passed early in the day.

Great Eastern Trail.

PMT marker on a huge tree fallen across the trail.

        This final day was the most bushwhacky of the section. Just before “the doubles” for a spell there are blazes upon trees to mark a path, but no trail. It switches between dubious one-track/nonexistent to 4X4 road. There’s some neighboring private land as well; I remember passing through a big sunny field with a little hunter’s treehouse at the edge. I’m not sure if that was part of the trail. There is nothing quite like the joy of seeing a blaze for the first time after a good while of befuddlement. If all fails, just follow along the spine of the mountain.

Some cliffs I saw before I got lost.

          Despite the mild confusion of a trail-in-progress (I would love to work on the PMT one day) this final day was so wonderful—the sunshine & rock walls rising from the earth & endless views of the hills beyond. And the serenity of a lonely trail in autumn! This entire section I saw no other hikers—only a family out on their ATVs on day 1, and people going up to the observation deck on day 2.

Tucker Gap! The first trail blaze I saw after some bewilderment

    Just before the quarry overlook (view was choked out by invasive autumn olive) I found the best water source of the day, a wide stream that the trail crossed. 

    The end of the section came up quicker than I thought. The last hard push of the day was through a steep rhododendron tunnel, like going up a staircase past little caves carved into the rock. I emerged at the final overlook of the section. After raven’s nest overlook there was another little stretch of upland woods and then I found myself signing the hiker notebook left by the Pine Mountain Trail Conference. Then I emerged from the woods by a big noisy cell tower. 

    A long, gravel drive took me down off the mountain to US-23. I took my time, savoring these last views of the mountains beyond the power lines, part of me wishing my path was to push on, cross the pavement, and get back into the woods onto the next section before the sun came down. But the highlands & little shepherd sections I’ll save for later, maybe next spring, to see Pine Mountain in the throes of another season. For now I’ll daydream of rhodo tunnels and rugged rock jutting out of the earth, and stickbugs & gazing out at slopes and valleys graced with hues of red and orange and gold.

Last miles of the trail, headed down to Jenkins.

None of the listed campsites from Cantrell Gap to 4 Springs seemed to exist anymore. 

Thanks 4 reading :)

Blackmare Lake

August 6, 2023

Mariposa lillies, Payette NF

This summer rolled into August and we found ourselves near Cascade, Idaho preparing for our last hitch together. At the behest of Idaho Fish & Wildlife the five of us would head into the Payette National Forest for 9 days. Thankfully they outfitted us with pack mules. Had we carried 8 nights worth of food and tools out upon our backs they’d have found my body among the tobacco brush and huckleberry bushes.

My 22nd birthday came the Sunday right before we were slated to hike out. Three of us woke early at Warm Lake and went over to Trail Creek Hot Springs for a morning soak. There was a big rectangle pool with incredibly hot water, and a fancy little spigot you could turn to regulate the flow of cool creek water coming into the pool. But even with the creek water flowing in at full throttle the heat was something to get used to, and I’d periodically have to hop out of the hot pool to dredge myself in frigid creek flow. I wondered who it was that dragged all the pipes and cement and mortar down this steep hill to spruce up the hot spring. 

The rest of the day was spent gathering supplies for the hitch, prowling Cascade’s grocery store for bear creek soup packets and laying out our gear for Monday. The crew pulled out some cannolis for me—one of my favorite little treats. I’m sure they bought them in Boise and where they hid them in the truck for a day I’ll never know. But they were delicious, and I settled into my tent late once I was sure we were prepared for the extended workweek, reading the little birthday card they gave me.

Goose creek falls, Payette NF

Aug 7

The next day dawned. The mule packers got to work weighing and balancing and loading our gear onto the animals. Our project partner, Michael, gave us some apple slices to ply the mules and horses with. I hiked slow, trailing behind the rest of the crew as usual. A cool morning gave way to a hot midday upland hike, and when we got to our overgrown camp, six miles in from the trailhead, we spent hours hacking away and clearing out spaces to lay our tents and tarps out. Pushing back the overgrowth along the trail leading up to camp and the trail from camp to Blackmare Lake would be our mission for the duration of the hitch. 

Then the storm came, all six of us huddled beneath the kitchen tarp to escape the deluge. With luck on our side and Lily's tenacity we got a fire going after dinner when the rain died down, which helped dry and warm us. Looking back on my journal I seemed to be in a pretty low mood by the end of the night, being cold and wet from walking through waist-high brush to get a bucketful of water to put out the fire.

Aug 8

In my hammock around 10 at night I remembered two currant fruits hanging from a bush, dark and shiny like a cow's eyes. Which brought me back to our previous project overlooking Hell's Canyon in the Payette NF, where I saw elk along the trail. That was the week before, and today we scratched out a different trail. I was on my knees, smelling the sweet scent of earthchunk i'd pried up with my hoe. Beautiful soil layers, laced with some sort of yellow fungal life.

I saw some beautiful mushrooms, one with a little green round leaf embedded in its smooth cap, and the veinskeleton of a decaying lead stuck to its neck. I swear I saw beneath the cap little moss fingers growing out of the flesh. I peeled up patches of moss from boulders along the trail--beneath the electric soft-green carpet is attached a thin layer of new dirt--made of fir needles, and a spruce cone stitched up in this bryophyte blanket. The complete confusion of a forest barely disturbed.

Painted lady landed in an alpine meadow.

Aug 9

Elijah is at the beach at Bald Head, North Carolina, where the sea turtles have left their eggs upon the sand. Today I am lopping swampy trail, a delight of life. Pull back & look close, kneel upon the squishy earth--see stalks of moss, little translucent electric petals shining with moisture. I ran a saw for the first time in over a month. Downed wood abounds, along with patches of huckleberries for us to pick through.

pink clouds beyond the campfire, dead mouse upon a big ole rotting tree. That chunk I cut out took four to push aside--the heart was still solid, throwing sweet smelling ribbons 

rings within, reality that gives you pause. Ate lunch by mycelium, strong web upon deadwood. Peek a distant peak

Aug 10, Thursday

I realized that pissing outside is a strong motif in my writing. Today I sawed like 14 fallen trees. Some were damn near soil already. Tapped and pried at the sloughing bark with the pulaski to find a grub curled up asleep in a rotting cubbyhole, and frantic hordes of ants and spiders crawling from the wounds I’ve made. Though pulpy, the faces where the saw chewed through still smelled sweetly of conifer.

Aug 11

The crew is gathering around the smoldering fire watching uncut gems which will downloaded onto his phone. I am listening to the lovely rush of south fork Blackmare, which i bathed (half-assedly sat down and splashed myself) myself in after dishes. 

Today I sawed more. Methodically cut out big chunks, wider than I am tall sometimes, pushed ‘em out and watched them roll down and away, landing with a thunk or a splash in a creek. Before lunch, and older solo hiker came through, headed for a bushwhack to the lake. Oh, to have a lake all to yourself. I hope my sawing didn’t break his peace. The peace of lying on your back right on the dirt after lunch, stopping wherever shade is to be found. Of saw maintenance with a mountain view at the close of a day.

My summertime out west is dwindling, but for now life is simple. We gather sticks to stay warm, sweat as we swing tools in the sun, sit upon the rocky shallow bottom of a creek to get clean. The wet start to the hitch was a blessing as now these dry sunny days feel wonderful. I am growing to enjoy ripping the chainsaw which I couldn’t say for myself when I first learned how to use it this past winter. And I am stocking up on my serenity before going home to face the city and school. 

Cockroaches flee from the wood I pry apart. Paintbrushes stand guard along the trail corridor. Patches of moss upon boulders, the way great trees fall then crumble into soil which begets more trees, more life.

Aug 12

Huge dragonfly hanging out over camp, checkin’ out the fire. It’s come around for a couple nights now. Today I sawed some more big logs. One particularly difficult one was rotted bleach-white and suspended across the trail under a lot of downward pressure. Wedges didn’t work, and I was having a hard time just lining up the undercut and holding up the saw to cut from beneath. But eventually it came down.

After lunch in a shady little grove I was trying to head back to this big ole boy I was cutting up, and I got turned around in a meadow, the one choked with paintbrush near the larkspur-full drainage beneath the high rocky peak. I retraced my steps over and over again and finally found the entrance to the woods that I’d come out of.

Now in my hammock listening to Blackmare again. Recent nights it’s been hard to sleep, my mind races, thoughts fluttering towards the future. But today in the meadow: yarrow, paintbrush, aster. Dark beetle upon deadwood. Saw a scrub jay on the way up the mountain in the morning, and at the end of the day going back to camp I saw two in the same spat of trees. What’ve yall been up to all day?

summer’s end comes in the crisp coldnuss of these woods whenever the light leaves.

Tufts of moss which sink in like a cushion where I place my boot. Amber liquid froze up on the bark of trees—I collected pieces to throw in the fire, just to see what they’d do in the flames. The sweet smell of cut timber, and horsemint crushed underfoot. & the satisfaction of forcing movement from a big ole stubborn log—rock n’ roll baby!

I find little tufts of moss everywhere—stuck to my braid, snuck into my underwear, and the inside of my nasty work hoodie. 

Sunday, August 13

Almost done with reading EO Wilson’s Diversity of Life, which I have been working on since March. 

The dusk call of a scrub jay. Or some other screechy bird. And again, Blackmare.

I feel like such a damn far cry from the little lady I was 3 summers ago.

A playlist for backcountry yearning

Lover’s Rock - Sade

Swimming - Maple Glider

Shake This Frost - Tyler Childers

blue valentine - nina

Wildflowers - soccer mommy

Gentle on My Mind - Glen Campbell

I’ll be There in the Morning - Townes Van Zandt

Promises - Cleo Sol

Somehow I haven’t pulled a single tick off of myself out here. Just chipmunks scurrying across the backs of fallen logs and little ants in a frenzy.

I had set out to cut out every log on the path to the lake, but as the day wore on it became clear that there was a lot left to do and I would have to content myself with having done the best I could. Around 4 I decided to just hike on up and check out the lake like our project partner suggested we do. I stashed the saw and chaps and pulaski and headed up the steep trail. Passed some big ole blowdowns, oof—good luck to the next trail crew. Shallow streams with sandy bottoms crossed the trail, which came out of the woods onto ground that was exposed rock. Breathless, I knew I’d made it when I gazed up the hill and saw blue sky flat above the trees. Henry and Lily had passed me on their way back down, and I found Madison and Will up by the blue water.

Up on the flat of the lakeshore there was a bleached ole animal skull and rusted coffee cans with labels from decades past. The ground was worn flat from campers through the years—though the overgrowth we’d been battling for the past week suggested for some reason the visitors waned as years rolled on. 

The water was clear, and I dipped my hand in to feel its coolness. Rocky peaks rimmed it and great white boulders which fell from the peaks stood along the bank. So many noteworthy boulders along the trail—a spat of quartz embedded in one tugged at my gaze.

The trek back to camp was a different story. I didn’t get back til 6:30, saw upon my shoulder, all tuckered out. But filled with a sense of accomplishment for our crew’s work. As I sawed my diddly darnedest with the MS261 the rest of the crew lopped and handsawed and chopped the trail out to daylight it all the way up to the lake.

Yee

Aug 14

Hot day. Heat that smooths out the brain; my mind completely unwrinkled by the time i finished saw maintenance. All we had to do today was carve out 1/4 of a mile of tread leading up to camp. Tough going, as the hardy grass clumps’ stubborn roots resisted the whacks of our toolheads. But we accomplished what Michael would’ve wanted for the steep slope. The sun was blazing by noon, and we headed back to camp before 2. 

Then I gave the chainsaw one last wipe down and some final licks. And then I headed to the southern creek crossing to wash off. 

I was so groggy and drowsy by then. Made dinner with Henry, finished Diversity of Life and read some of his copy of The Sun Also Rises. After dinner I laid on the trampled ground by the fire and Lily and I droned on about the future, school and such—while I watched the swaying trees surrounding camp, whose crowns were touched by evening sun. Now the sun is gone and it is chilly, but it is not entirely dark. 

I am uncertain about some things. And concerned that once home I’ll be again consumed by that weariness and wariness, and that yearning to be elsewhere. 

But most I can do is intend to savor the present once I’m back in Kentucky.

Idaho Conservation Corps, Orange Crew, Summer ‘23 <3

:P

Last summer, near Walker, CA

Two entries from late June, starting out on the PCT backcountry crew. This was back when we were training somewhere off highway 395, and my writing had space to breathe in the boredom of time passing in camp as we went through wilderness first aid and crew member training before the season really picked up.

6/27/2022

The way a piney floor warms, cut sparsely by a gentle breeze. Time to time, the wind picks up, a sheet of sound moves through these mountains. Fallen pine cones scatter amongst the needles. We pry off a scale, snap each in half to reveal the ribs beneath the woody surface. 

Just past 6 I headed up the ridge and bore right for a view of the valley going wide, out to the town in the flat. Trying to understand my position between these slopes. These ravaged slopes–a sliding mess of ash, of downed pines, and the greenery fighting to stake a claim on this severe slope. 

Twin babbling creeks, a spindly lupine taken root. The placement of boulders. The ones I sat amongst to shelter feebly from the wind. And the puzzling, rounded ones I saw high upon a steeper slope, left of where I chose to go. 

6/28/22

My sleep broke up into little anxious shards. This morning I got up at 5:20 to mount the ridge again. Walking up along the scree I was morning light thrown upon the far slopes. The sun was somewhere, hidden. 

Now it’s just before 10 and I’m in bed, fly open, spread wide to see the luscious array of stars upon the dark. I am tired.

Tired day. I took a wretched nap after lunch laying in the bed of needles by the babbling creek. Warm sun and flies danced upon my face. There and now a delicious rousing breeze would push through the valley. 

Stevie, fielding, jake and I went up that scree-covered slope to see what there was. We went up and up to the left, where I’d never been, us in a rocky intermediate hilltop all surrounded by majestic slope. Jake reads my tarot. We sit upon the earth, I dip my hands into earth and ash melded together and the dust glitters upon my sooted skin. 

I am going down alone, watching my shadow cast down the hill, making big strides as the sweetest portion of day blooms into light. 

Today after class was over I set out on the trail leading out of our campsite. 

I watched the crown of light shrink upon the rocky ridges, and a haze of sweet evening light settled and morphed over Walker. Then back down. Bed down, bedtime.

Penstemon’s fiery plumage looking down the spine of a valley. Granite faces that beckon you to mount, to push further, that threaten to take your breath. The squirrel mewling in the newborn dawn. The fractallike patterns found in the arrangement of scales in the freefallen pinecones. Vibrant snowflower pulls life from a fungal system. A snakefly meanders through the deep furrows of spruce-bark. The land that still has so much to teach me. What will i learn this summer?

2 backcountry hitches along the elkhorn crest trail

North Fork John Day Wilderness

(hitch 1)

bounding up the elkhorn crest trail. I pulled a dead mosquito from the end of one of my braids. i know our paths will cross again. oh i've sang so many songs

to myself + the saxifrage, through some mountain pass

and the chipmunk at home in a field of granite

buttercup, marigold, and sandwort like lace over dirt. now the lake is dark and peepers cry to the wilderness

hailstorm in the wallowas

i saw it coming in the distance, rain coming down over the hills. the conceit in me thought the clouds wouldn't make it to the ridge. but the undeniable signs of a storm appeared as i bent over some tread--the eerie wind, the foreboding clouds. ethan and I crouched beneath some low-growing spruce as it came. it turned to hail, we waited among the trees, i hoped the crosscut saw would stay dry, then the precipitation dissipated.

everything dries eventually. i got up from my cowering stance, chilled to the bone, and my work pants and gloves were soaked. i threw my wet pack on, took up my tools with my rain-wrinkled fingers and went forth out onto the ridge, where sunlight shone once more promising an end to this discomfort. my calves pulse, i warm up. i stop to piss along the trail and find silky phacelia (uncommon!) growing among the rocks.

after a hailstorm

hellebore & heaven-sent, sun-slung n far-flung

(interlude) (lisa gave me a day off from the crew)

yeah. last night i was at morgan lake, i stayed up reading the book taylor sent me from colorado, which we found back in the pisgah and i'd forgotten she'd swore to mail it to me once she finished. and the sunset and serviceberry bush brought me back to the blackbirds.

the evening, this evening that was all mine, the loneliness I took for granted back in the south. just me and a super duty. 

i miss upstate sc

(hitch 2)

i pull a tick from the nape of my neck. i peer down into a scree-filled valley. my footsoles swell crack then peel along topographical looking lines. in my hammock i hear a baby goat cryin' up on a ledge. i saw one up there silhouetted against the colors of the sunset.

i got my crosscut B (bucking only) cert today. pulling teeth through a rotted belly--out crawled the ants from the punk.

the crumbling cliffside beneath a whitebark's shade is where I take my lunch break. our camp upon the lakeshore: sandwort amongst gravel amongst little boulders. a dark sheet of water pierced here and there by some ripling--the fish the osprey hunt for in their dramatic diving.

Sharing a home with an extended family of mountain goats.

and then the sky was more blue than pink, and night fell.

woman waiting

it was a strange feeling i had gazing out at those blue mountains, stacks of them piled up on the horizon, wondering when fielding would breeze by us on the trail. I'd known for a couple weeks that we would run into each other on the elkhorn crest. What a coincidence, that my crew would be assigned to a project along the trail he was thru-hiking. 

in the still moments i felt like a woman gazing out upon the plains during wartime not yet knowing she is a widow. I throw spadefuls of dirt down the cliffs, pause momentarily in the high-altitude heat, chewing on the sense of wild connectivity. Through this short span of just over a year that I’ve worked in conservation this nation has become a neighborhood. This trail is a hallway where i bump shoulders with those i shared a season of my life with. As I scrape slough the trail is a forum for my thoughts as they dig their heels into the past then flit to the possibilities of the future, bounding into the territory of daydreams. 

Lisa’s dog following Henry along the Elkhorn Crest Trail

Prairie smoke along rock creek trail, Wallowa-Whitman NF.

Alpine wildflowers abound. Silverleaf phacelia

Rhexia-leaf Indian paintbrush

Silky phacelia.

Redstem springbeauty

Alpine collomia sprouting out of talus below rock creek butte.