Benton MacKaye Trail, Part 2

Weeks pass, snow and ice on the mountain side melt and feed into springs and seeps and mudmires. On the 1st of February, our crew got to work at Heggie’s Rock, a nature conservancy site in Columbia county, Georgia. The rock was nothing like I’d ever seen—a patchwork of lichens and mosses and stonecrop-like plants interspersed with serene pools and islands of shrubby cedar. A quilt of life borne right from bare granite. Frogs called all afternoon in the southern sun, unbothered by the noise of our saws.

This past weekend, we were slated to work @ Piedmont National Wildlife Refuge, but the burn was cancelled 2 hours into our drive south. So when got back to the crew house I took all my food and water out of my fire pack and shoved it into my six moon designs backpack. Loaded up into my CRV and headed west, back in the direction of Springer Mountain. 

I parked this time right off GA 60; there’s a small parking pull-off where the BMT crosses the road. The plan for this trip: walk south from this trailhead to meet back up with where I camped on my last section of the BMT, then double back. 

The first leg of my trip was a drawn-out push up Tooni Mountain. Though it rained throughout the morning, by the time I set out on foot, the sun revealed itself and remained bright among scattered clouds. Running along the ridgetop, then an equally drawn-out descent to Toccoa River. Gaggles of day hikers gathered by the swinging bridge over shining water. A fisherwoman, a triumphant band of friends. 

The late afternoon light reflected off the river onto evergreen rhododendron leaves—a dance by the water. After a pause by the river to finish off my bagel lunch, another brutal climb up to the John Dick Mountains. Once I made a turn to get on the West side of Little John Dick, I got a broad view of a wide streak of yellow evening light fighting to make it beyond the clasp of cloudcover. But the sun fell behind the mountains before its rays could break free. 

Rhododendron hallways, crow’s foot holding up its clubs of spores. Squirrel rustle, the light of a not-quite full moon. That night I made it to Bryson Gap. There was a stream nearby that I suspect would be dry come high summer.  

The wind rushing through the gap like a whistle to a howl. My rainfly flapped with abandon with every gust. Mountain-forecast reported 35 mph gusts possible overnight, and I scrutinized my camp spot for widowmakers before I strung up my hammock. 

The next morning, dense fog ensnared the mountains; their ridges and gaps. I set out continuing south, stashing my gear at camp, in order to meet back up with the end of my previous section hike. Slowly, then all at once, the mist dissipated—the surrounding ranges came back into view. Walking back north to Bryson Gap, I felt the landscape was revealed to me like a gift. I woke up and the mountain was dressed in fog and two hours later i walked the trail among sunbeams glowing brightly.

I made my way back to the river. The water was turquoise, teal, and glittering white on the other side of the bridge where it runs through riffles.

Armadillo spotted at a pit stop @ Winfield Scott Lake on the drive back home to Cleveland, GA.

Wrapping & winding along a ridge. I cherish this naked season where the hills are clear & open to interpretation. As I headed back down Tooni Mountain to return to my car, I held the bands of mountains, blue and green, beyond the cove trees. 

I finished Fen, Bog, Swamp by Annie Proulx over this trip. A lovely novel in three acts that masterfully welds together history, advocacy, science, and personal anecdote.

Map of this weekend’s section

Benton MacKaye Trail, Pt 1

    A little over a month ago I graduated from UK, and a couple weeks ago I drove south to Georgia to work on a prescribed burn crew for the first third of this year. I took I-75 and pushed my pedal to the floor once I hit the climb out of the Kentucky River valley. Still a little heartbroken and dazed about leaving the job I’ve had for the past year, working as a stewardship tech at a nature sanctuary set up against that slow, faithful river. Feels like I still had a lifetime to learn from those 347 acres. 

Floracliff in the January snow

    Now I live in a town of three thousand people, 20 minutes away from Yonah Mountain, where I go run after work among scampering squirrels and trees with their buds dormant and cloaked in winter scales. A week after snow I ran to the bare side of the mountain top, where precipitation running off the peak was still frozen in the impression of a waterfall. Plodding back down bathed in red rays, red suneye between the hickory branches.

Yonah Mtn @ Sunset

    This past weekend I set out on my first backpacking trip of the year. Saturday morning, I drove up graveled Forest Service Road 42 near Blue Ridge, Georgia, up to the trailhead for the southern terminus of the Benton MacKaye trail. Starting on the side of springer mountain, I first took the Appalachian Trail to its first meeting with the BMT. Here the two trails diverge. They criss-cross one another a couple times walking north from Springer, with the AT ultimately heading east and the BMT heading north to Tennessee.

    A little less than a mile into the hike, a short spur offers a vista of the simplicity of southern woods in winter. 

Owen Vista

    I got to Three Forks sometime after lunch. Intermittent stretches of ice and snow remaining from a week-old snow event demanded careful footwork, especially in this section. This hallway past ice-fringed cascades is a busy day hike destination, but there’s a big broad campsite by the creek that would be nice for a short overnight. At each waterfall, rhododendron nodded into the spray, & boulders offered sittin spots to sore hikers.

    After long creek falls, the BMT and AT diverge again; they cross once more on the southern border of the Great Smoky Mountains national park. I followed the Benton MacKaye up past a grassy bald and two discarded ammo belts. That night I made camp up on the ridge after No Name Gap. Serene gold light beamed through the trunks and branches while I made dinner.

    That night I dreamt that a wild hog was accosting my hammock, and I came to wildly thrashing in my cocoon. I promptly fell back asleep. Winter backpacking means no insects, fewer people, and better views through leafless trees, but also laying in your sleeping bag for at least 12 hours each night. Between Saturday night and my extendo lunch break on Sunday, I finished a re-read of Remains of the Day. 

“No Name Gap”

    Sunday I watched the sunrise through my hammock bugnet, reluctant to emerge from the warmth of the sack. Eventually I got up, ignored my numb toes, packed up to the sounds of dawn shots firing somewhere in the vicinity (the BMT runs through Blue Ridge Wildlife Management Area), and began retracing my steps from Saturday. I spent a long while in the valley of three forks when I got back to the waterfalls before doubling back to springer mountain. Located some dusky salamanders in a seep near one of the falls. The weather turned to overcast, and heavy gusts blew over the chattahoochee national forest. The world seemed close to rain. But nothing came of it, not even on my drive home.

     Until next time, Springer Mtn.