Mount Cammerer

It took me living in Western North Carolina for, um, 18 years before I ventured across the state line and on into America's #1 most visited national park for any kind of mountain exploration. Perhaps this is shame-worthy, but I am not ashamed because all of these Blue Ridge Mountains, including the ones in the comfort zone of my home state, are holy and more than worth my time. That being said, my visit to the Great Smokies National Park was long overdue.

The trip was planned for me. All I had to do was pack some snacks, and some water, and some (I mean lots) of extra clothing just in case and show up. R.E. and I headed across that state line and into Cocke County, through Newport and straight into Cosby. The Appalachian Farmers Market which we were planning to attend at the Visitors' Center was not happening, so after a bathroom break and a peanut stop at a convenience store, we parked in the Cosby Campground and found the trail head. The day was fresh, and the morning chill was quickly fading to a mild, sunny springlike February delight.

It was a 6.5 mile ascent to the summit of Mount Cammerer, which is nearly 5000ft. I forget the elevation that we started at, but it was a lot lower than that, meaning the climb was steep and "relentless." The lower portion was a familiar scene of rich, lower- to mid elevation Appalachian mixed forest coves. Hemlocks and mixed hardwoods provided the canopy as we ambled through doghobble and lycopodium, across a creek with its cold water falling majestically over mossy rocks and boulders. I saw my first spring wild flower of the year down there- a single, humble, pale pink flower at the end of a delicate long stem from a clump of round-lobed hepatica (Hepatica acutiloba). I thought February 6 to be early for such a display.

As we climbed up through the middle portion of the mountain, we ventured into snow. First it was little patches, and soon the entire ground was covered. We wound around the steeply mountain, through awesome mountain coves, in an out of the angling sun. I stopped to enjoy a large yellow buckeye tree at the edge of a small branch crossing. The sun shone on a little pool of the clean, clear water, illuminating a small stash of lucky buckeyes at the bottoms, like wishes in the woods.

Buckeyes in the pool like wishes

Before long the snow was rather deep, but the balmy breeze graced us with a hint of the promise of springtime. The snow sparkled in the angling sunlight, and shadows of the delicate skeletons of last summer's angelica were cast in blue. We hiked through blueberries and galax, wintergreen, usnea, and lungwort lichen, hydrangeas, and elders. There are no domesticated dogs allowed in the Smokies, but a set of canine tracks wove in and out of the trail as we ascended- either the ghost of a wild canine or some law-breaking hiker's companion.

From the top of Mount Cammerer, we breathed the air of nearly 5000 feet and allowed our eyes to behold the beauty of both Tennessee and North Carolina. We saw I-40 weave around mountain contours below like a ribbon. Behind Snowbird Mountain was Max Patch, a familiar place never before seen from me from this angle. The sky was big and blue with thin, non-threatening clouds periodically wisping their way lazily across the vastness, casting mild shadows on expanses of green forest. There is so much land in the Smokies. A pair of ravens flew at eye level from somewhere high to somewhere else high, their otherworldly croaking unmistakable.

First mountain in the distance is Snowbird. Behind that in the farther distance with a little patch of snow on it is Max Patch.

On the way down the mountain, I remember feeling how warm the sun was when I held my face toward the sky. My knees creaked, and my feet were wet but not cold. We returned to the place we had started shortly before dusk. An unidentified songbird made a ruckus in a rhododendron thicket, and a chill drifted off of the ice cold streams which flowed over the moss covered rocks. The day was beautiful.

In between times

Day of the Dead offered us a special, spooky gift from the Otherworld this year- a perfect 12 inches of pure, white snow to cloak our world and allow us a window of time outside of time. Every surface was covered, and for the first day, the sky itself seemed to follow the sentiment. It was white on white on white, a perfect canvas; a magical mirror into the Day and into our hearts.

When the snow is blowing and the wind threatens death by treefall, us mortals retreat to the safety of our hearths, and often, subsequently, into the enigmas of our hearts. Day of the Dead. The in between time. The start of a new season, and, according to some, a new year. Can I still myself enough, by the warmth and safety of my hearth, to listen to the whispers of my heart?

12 inches of freshly fallen snow bequeaths to us a blank canvas, upon which both Life and Death imprint their marks. The bright coal red glow of freshly fallen maple leaves, the gold which is hickory leaves, the sassafras mittens- they all rest upon the white canvas, then slowly melt into it. Their gentle and impermanent imprints are reflective of the very nature of Life itself, making its mark for a brief moment of time, then returning to the the earth and its collective pool of Life-sustaining ingredients. The deer and coyotes leave their tracks, wandering here and there, in search for food and Life. Death begets Life. Hopey uncovers a bloody, half eaten rabbit from the snow on the ridge on Sapling Mountain. I carefully retrace my own imprints when the light lengthens and the wind feels colder and I can feel the beckon of the hearth. A young bear head rots in the snow, skull partially exposed.

Tomorrow the snow will finish melting, and autumn will pick up where it left off when a special kind of Winter intercepted it two nights ago. Tonight the moon rises over the great white blanket and its cold, long glow through the shadowy tree fingers will leave an impression upon our hearts.

Sassafras

Haiku for a friend

Lady riding hood
Toting more than just cookies
through the woods to Gram's

A song, a story,
Generosity displayed.
Tea party legacy.

A snow white quilt,
A pink veil, a red ruby.
Mother and daughter.

Epiphany

ephiphany: 1. Epiphany- A Christian feast celebrating the manifestation of the divine nature of Jesus of the Gentiles as represented by the Magi, traditionally observed on January 6. 2. A revelatory manifestation of a divine being. 3a. A sudden manifestation of the essence or meaning of something. b. A comprehension or perception of reality by means of a sudden intuitive realization.

                                    (American Heritage College Dictionary)

Midnight approaches on this day of the Epiphany. According to my thermometer, the record low for Janury 6th has been reached. As I go to bed it is -1 (F). I spent the weekend creating worst-case scenario plans for my family for severe winter weather and brutal cold. I will not lie; there were some above-average anxiety levels involved. However, as RM so eloquently put it today, perhaps anxiety in the face of dangerous weather is an example of anxiety serving its best purpose. Maybe the marriage of my primal animal instincts and my human ability to plan complex strategies is a beautiful thing, and, more importantly, could be highly useful if the power were to go out when the temperatures are below zero and the wind is raging. Maybe there is a fine line between neurotic thinking and smart thinking.

Today, I spent the "warm" hours of the day getting the pipes and the plant nursery ready for the burly night. When all plants were tucked in the greenhouse and the crawl space was closed up and heated and there was a beefy supply of firewood stacked on the porch and all the necessary hollerhood faucets were trickling, I retired to my delightfully warm, wood-heated house and revelled in the comfort. Believing all the bases were covered, my mind was free to wander back through my small but potent memory bank of the handful of other times I have met zero or sub-zero temperatures. Extreme weather experiences form colonies of vivid memories which perhaps dwell in the part of the brain reserved for personal epiphanies... ...Hearts awakening. Lungs pierced by the clear sharpness of the cold. Legs running. Sparks flying when steel hits steel. Full moon casting ethereal tones of blue and white over Shenandoah mountains and valleys. Somewhere in middle America a fire burns a tipi to the ground. Hearts breaking. Horses drawing a carriage face the New England wind. Red sun ascends like our Lord rising over Swiss Alps, its light casting red glowing diamonds over a sea of ice. Sleepless eyes enlivened. A scintilla of hope finds its way through the phone lines.

night hike, full moon

silence much louder in the dark
rustle of beech leaves an announcement of a breeze not felt

shooting star and great horned owl a welcome home

no light needed

Gingko

First snow finds me baking pumpkin pies from my first pumpkin harvest here in the cove, rendering a sample batch of deer tallow, watching does forage snowy brush and Chinese herbs from my kitchen window, and marvelling my most recent significant accomplishment.

First, the pies. The variety used was "Long Island Cheese," a small-medium sized flattish tan-colored eating pumpkin. These actually did better than my butternuts this year, for some reason. The yield wasn't extremely high, but enough for me to eat on through the winter, and satisfactory for something that I just plugged in little starts of in gaps in the herb beds as an afterthought. The pies they produce are delicious. I know this because I have made 9 this week, and had enough left over to make a miniature in a ramekin and taste of it.
The tallow rendered nicely- yielding a half cup from the scraps I scraped off of a deer hide I recently cleaned up. The color was an amber when liquid and a creamy white as a solid. The smell is rather gamey, and I am unsure as to whether I will be able to tolerate it as a base of a balsam poplar bud salve I want to make with it.

pumpkin pies with tiny jar of deer tallow

Now for the recent accomplishment: Monday of this week I planted my gingko tree in the yard. This in and of itself is nothing noteworthy, as the hole was not particularly difficult to dig, and I plant trees regularly enough for the task to feel somewhat commonplace. However, it is the transferrence of the plant into the ground from its home in the pot where the accomplishment lies. It is an arrival of sorts. A benchmark no doubt. You see, I have had the gingko tree in a pot for 15 years.
I purchased the wee seedling from one Mr. Eidus for $5 back in 1998. I just couldn't pass the little guy (or gal) up- with its commanding singular presence in its very own division of organisms- its ancient DNA gracing our modern existence with ancestral dreamings and beauty of by-gone eras. I knew that it was less than ideal to purchase a tree as a transient youngster in my early 20s, but I remember thinking, 'I will probably have my own land in about 3 years, 5 at the most, and I can take good care of a tree in a pot for that long.'

Fifteen years, 8 moves, a few thousand cookies and about 500 gallons of Barry's Tea later, here we are, the gingko and me, with a piece of earth and a sweet cold spring to call home. I planted the tree in front of the western corner of the house, where its lovliness can be showcased, it has ample room to grow, and maybe someday in 15 more years, if we are both still here, he or she can shade me and my living room from the hot afternoon summer sun. What a thought. Just as I had absolutely no clue as to how the past 15 years would unfold at the time I first met the gingko, I realize now as I step into the next 15 that I am just as clueless as to what is to come. You just never know what is going to happen. Ever.

Christmas Curse of the Sasquatch Hunter

Brief Update:
All is well, mostly. Christmas morning was interrupted by a belligerent sasquatch hunter who promised to put a curse on Dad when Dad made him leave the property. According to this man, who appeared to be in his 50s, thin, gaunt, bearded and dressed in tattered clothing, Sasquatch walks the woods enrobed in a cloak of light so as not to be seen by Homo sapiens. Luckily, however, the footprints are indeed visible to the naked eye. The 'squatch hunter was asked to leave because he was scaring some customers.

Today is the first day of sun in a week or more. The overcast, rainy and snowy weather has made this world seem at times dangerous and dismal. I woke up to a quiet cove covered in snow. The morning sun cast long rays over Franklin Mountain in the distance. I could see illumination through the branches of tree skeletons, a bright mountain against a thick dark blue grey sky. ominous. I thought of my mortality. Winter is set.

Jenna has the flu, which also reinforces my mortality. We wear our masks and annoint her with all manners of healing substances: homeade chicken soup, elderberry syrup, vitamins galore, oscillicoccinum, lavender oil. We quietly pray to someone that full health is reinstated very quickly. Godspeed.

Adventures in Technical Difficulties

I started my essay about technology choices the other day on a common word processing program that I had on the laptop. I wrote about 2 pages of an introduction, and then I decided to do a google search to find a transcription of a report I heard on NPR last year about techonology and human attention span. Somewhere in the process of doing the google search, the computer acquired a virus and ceased to function properly. Oh well.

Since the road was too icy for me to even back out of the driveway, and my little computer project was on hold (not that I can't write on paper or anything, but my draft was on the messed up computer), I walked down to the local library in an attempt to research a little something about the Industrial Revolution and the Luddite movement. Nothing. Oh well.

Well, the day was sunny and the snow was gorgeous with light cast upon it, so I loaded my little day pack and set off along the railroad tracks by the river and headed downstream. My mission was to conduct an old fashioned visit to my friend Ruth at her farm- in person and on foot. It was a lovely walk, and I took pictures to prove it. Ruth and I visited with hot chocolate for an hour or so, and then it was time for me to head back so I could make it back to town by dark.









The next day was sunny again, and I dared to fire up the ole gal (pickup truck) and venture out for some errands. I backed out of the driveway onto the road and promptly slid on what was probably the only remaining patch of road ice left in town. I slid off to the side so that I needed to call 2 large men to come push me onto the dry road. Oh well.

First stop was to take the computer to the repairman in Marshall. He wasn't in so I trustingly left the computer with the gal behind the bar who said she would pass it to him when he got in. Oh well.

I did some errands in Asheville for the afternoon, and the last stop was Beaverdam Ingles to pick up some stuff for my mom. I got out of the store at dusk and was stepping into my truck to leave, when the guy parked next to me informed me I had a flat tire. "You're not going to want to drive on that," he informed me before he drove away. Oh well. It was my first flat tire, and frankly, while I was familiar with the concept of how to remove the tire and jack the vehicle up and change it and all that, I had no first hand experience with the tools and the process. So after a while of trying to help myself and failing (while all manners of people who probably call themselves men passed me by and stared) I called for some back up. Michael T came and helped me, and then sweet neighbor friends from Shelton Laurel Leonard and Deanna showed up out of nowhere and jumped in. The tire was frozen/ rusted on and very difficult to get off, but with the dream team it was accomplished, and I was on my way.

The next day was warmish and I drove out to the holler in the afternoon for a visit to the land and home site. The driveway was still covered in snow, so I parked up the road at the base of the church driveway and walked in. It was a most lovely walk-fresh mild air and snow still all around, wonderful neighbor friends out and about, I could almost believe that winter would end someday. I walked up to the house site and enjoyed a drink of cool spring water, adjusted the metal over a couple of the stacks of lumber and headed down just before dusk. When I arrived at my truck to leave, I realized my keys had fallen out of my pocket somewhere along the way into the snow. I retraced my steps, searching every little possible pocket in the snow along my path until dark, and I didn't find my keys. My truck was conspicuously situated so that all the Sunday morning church goers would have to weasel around it to get up to church. I left a note on the window stating. CAR KEYS LOST IN SNOW. "I AM VERY SORRY!" followed by my name, phone number and location. Oh well.

Today I will continue searching for my spare key, walk and look again for my lost key in the snow, check on the status of the infected computer, and possiblly take the flat tire to get repaired. It's just an adventure in a few technical difficulties. Oh well.

Upon further observation

Upon further observation, there are many, many robins foraging in the Hot Springs vicinity. This may not seem like a mentionable observation from my life in Western North Carolina, but let me tell you, people are talking about it. No one I have talked to remembers seeing this many in the winter before. Granted, I am snowed in, so I am not talking with hoards of people these days, but several have spoken of the phenomenon. The repetitive conversations and observations of the grand quantities of these fine feathered friends prompted me to do a little "googling" of the matter. Apparently, the vast majority of robins migrate south for the winter, but some roosts are inclined to stick it out where they are at and chance finding enough winter berries (their food of choice when the ground is too cold to hunt earthworms). These flocks remain in the vicinity of their breeding grounds, but do a bit of moving around in order to procure the ample fruit snacks they need in order to meet their heavy dietary needs. Apparently, more and more groups of robins are trying to overwinter in their breeding grounds due to the increasing amounts of invasive honeysuckle vines. The honeysuckle berries seem enticing, but apparently they aren't as nutritious as native berries (according to an article I read that I can't figure out how to post a link to here...)
To the best of my observations, the robins around here are focusing on the abundant hackberries we have in this area. There were flocks of them on the road above the French Broad this afternoon as I walked to my grandmother's to cut her hair (and get out of the house!) The river was gorgeous as usual and the lovely grey-green color that it assumes when the water is butt cold. I imagined being in that water, and I shivered to myself. I love that river.
Back to robins for a little minute, did you know that when robins do migrate, they fly at 37 degree (F) isotherms? To the best of my understanding, this means they will ride a weather front, staying in the 37 degrees zone.

Snow falls upon a small quiet mountain town

When I was a kid I liked snow. In fact, you could say maybe I even loved snow. As a young adult I was loving snow too. I lived my most potent year of young adulthood in my aunt and uncle's cabin alone in central Virginia. It snowed a lot that winter, and I was alway out in it- walking and walking and walking. Tracking animals, visiting neighbors, walking to keep my 19 year old self company. Walking in the snow to make sure I was tired enough at the end of the day. It took a lot of snow walking to get me tired enough back then. But that might have been my last year of loving snow. For approximately the last 15 or so years I have not loved the snow. It is messy, uncomfortable, dangerous and gets on my nerves. You could say Dana + Snow = Frowny Face. People know this about me. If you know me, you might be inclined to call me up when it is snowing and say something like, "Hey Dana- I bet you're having a hay day in this snow!" This is a sarcastic comment, and you are a hilarious joker.
This is background information for my current weather report from the quiet town of Hot Springs, NC. It is snowing a good one. 6 or 8 inches of glorious quiet light white stuff that is just gorgeous. It snowed all day Christmas and today, a soft gentle, steady, but relentless snow that has melted my icy heart and remembered me about what I used to love. This snow is the stuff dreams are made of- fluffy and so light it practically offers no resistence when shuffled through. I was with Jenna today, but I made it out for 3 little short walks to get my thick sugary holiday blood moving and fill the ole lungs with some fresh winter. Walking home tonight the effortless movement of delicate snowflakes through the clean air and the reflection of Christmas lights off the crystalline terrain was an experience to be revered and remembered. This must be what the white Christmas hype is about.