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.
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.
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