Heritage Hiking…on a Happy Holiday…with Hounds!

Our travels have taken us along a most non-liner route.  While we were definitely enjoying the waterfall hiking, we found ourselves closer to the Christmas Holiday and as Wes would say; "in a ‘geographical oddity’" being almost equal distance from anyone we knew.   In the spirit of making travel plans based on something we wanted to see or do, I told Wes I would love to hike on Christmas Day.   We were approaching the first anniversary of my grandmother’s passing, and a few years had slipped by since my grandfather’s passing as well.  I wanted to hike on Christmas day in honor of their memories.

Three generations of nature & hiking enthusiasts  (back: Kristy Walker; middle: Paula & John Dickinson; front: Pat Dickinson) at the base of the world's largest spruce (Olympic National Forest, 2011)

My grandfather was an avid hiker, and the story goes that my first hiking trip with him was before I was born.  There is family lore about my mother being upset regarding either carrying a loaf of bread, or a can of beans, on a backpacking trip that made everyone think she was crazy.  Turns out she was apparently crazy with hormones.  Many years later, the first overnight trip that I remember was when I was around 12 years old.  My parents had taken my brother and I camping all our lives, but we were always in a tent or pop-up camper.  Granddad, however, was a pragmatist.  He basically lived the “lightweight backpacking” creed before it was cool, and used to carry only essentials.  I remember him telling me we would all be in our sleeping bags falling asleep under the stars.  I froze in fear, “But what about bears?!”   True to his stoic demeanor, he replied with a slight chuckle, “What about bears? You can’t watch the meteor showers through a tent Kristy.”  I was aghast.  We were going hiking somewhere near Mt. Rainier and I knew there were bears….and all I could think of was the photos of the pop-up camper shredded by a bear we had seen somewhere along our camping travels.  As my imagination went into hyper-drive, I recalled horror movies of campers being tossed around in their sleeping bags by super-human bears.   I was also certain that out here in the pacific northwest--where the trees were giants and the ferns as tall as me—that superhuman bears were definitely a real possibility.   I think even Big Foot hailed from these parts!  What was I going to do?  I wanted to go hiking, but…

Well, I did go and cannot recall any meteor showers as I cinched my sleeping bag closed tight around my head.  What I do remember, though—was locking myself inside my sleeping bag one morning because I had forgotten to bring a hair brush.  I had bed head and was not coming out!  No way and no how! Suddenly bears were a distant memory.  Somehow my father was able to convince me to get out of the sleeping bag and I recall my grandfather muttering something like “boys are so much easier.”  That actually may have been the phrase that got me to come out of the sleeping bag.  ;-)
 
This and other memories of my grandparents were flooding my mind as I thought how much fun it would have been to go hiking with them on Christmas Day.   So, with encouragement from Wes, we pointed Hank and Glory north towards TN.  The initial plan was to go from the Carolinas into TN, but weather had forced us to detour towards warmer weather.  Now we felt pretty good after all our ‘winterizing’ we had done to Glory that we could handle whatever the TN mountains threw at us.  And the coolest thing was that most of the state parks were still open!  So I searched for the ‘best state park’ and we ended up at Fall Creek Falls and did the namesake hike on Christmas Day.

Fall Creek Falls from overlook perspective 

We woke up to a sunny day with relatively mild temperatures in the 40s for winter.  Perspective is everything — these temperatures were really cold to us only a few short months earlier, but now felt great!  We drove to the trail-head with the boys in tow; took a few moments to take-in the view from the overlook; then headed down to the Fall Creek Falls trail.


This was our first time hiking or camping in TN and I had no idea what to expect.  The rocky trail was well-maintained and sprinkled intermittently with hikers smiling almost as big as I was.  Grammy and Granddad would have loved this!  Well, maybe not Grammy—as she begrudgingly would go along to make sure Granddad stayed safe but always enjoyed herself anyway.   She said she grew up in the sticks and didn’t understand why anyone would willingly go back out there.  The trail was slippery and rocky requiring focused attention as it quickly descended over 400’ into the gorge in under half a mile.   Once it felt like it was leveling off, huge rock formations became more visible; seemingly exploding out of the ground as they jettisoned straight-up, hundreds of feet into the air.  Simply awesome geology here!

Callie & I negotiating the rocky descent

Wes and Buddy at a crevace colloquially referred to as the “AC duct” for its blast of welcomed cool air in the summer

Keeping your gaze on your footing proved difficult with such awe-inspiring scenery.  WOW!!!  The mountain walls were alive, with water seeming to seep from every crack and crevice in the rocks.  Callie and Buddy were super excited and the narrow slippery trail left me vacillating between exhilaration and terror, as the trail became smaller and narrower the closer we approached the base of the falls.   At one point, all I could think of was mountain goat trails my brother and I had seen on a backpacking trip to New Mexico.  Man these were really narrow trails!

Callie pausing to look at the almost non-existent trail

As we made it to the area close to the base of the falls I coaxed the boys to lie on a rock and pose for a photo while getting sprayed.  Buddy seemed to enjoy it despite the roar of the pounding water a short distance away.  Callie had his ‘nervous Nellie’ face on and ensured I would not venture any closer to this dangerous new hiking feature.

Nervous Callie and Buddy getting misted from the falls

This was as close as I could get the hounds to the roaring waterfalls

We spent as long as we could near the base of the falls, but our senior citizen Goldens (8 and 12) were not as used to cold and wet conditions.  As we began the climb back up, we ran into a handful of people making the trek down to see the falls, also smiling from ear to ear at the awesome beauty in front of us.  What a fabulous way to spend Christmas!

We ended the day with a short driving tour of a few overlooks, and as Wes stopped to help some people take a group photo, we couldn’t agree more with their sentiment of what a fantastic Christmas day it had been.  I think Grammy and Granddad would have both enjoyed a day like that day…natural beauty and inspired happiness on a very special day of the year.  Rest in Peace my Grandparents.  One day we will hike together again.

Wishing you were here to see beautiful Tennessee

KLW

Fall Creek Falls State Park (TN)

With our appetites for hiking waterfalls sufficiently whetted, we turned our attention to our next adventure.  We would be traveling on Christmas week, so in addition to our outdoorsy agenda, we wanted to find a place that would provide us a special place to celebrate Christmas.  

With the winterization of our RV somewhat field-tested, we expanded our temperature-tolerance spectrum, and entertained the idea of spending Christmas in the Tennessee mountains.   Kristy’s exhaustive research of potential holiday destinations revealed a mountain retreat that housed a virtual gallery of waterfalls—Fall Creek Falls State Park.

Liberty Schoolhouse at Andy's Field Picnic Area

The journey to Falls Creek Falls via the Ocoee Scenic Byway took us through some of the most beautifully twisted, narrow, rock-laden passages that we’ve ever seen.  Sheer rock faces perpendicularly jutting upward from the edge of the roadway, dropping the occasional “crumb” to keep the tiller reflexes proficient.  Little did I know that I was actually auditioning for the last leg of the trip; as Kristy was charting a route into the park that was normally reserved for suicidal luge drivers.  The twisting, winding climb from Pikeville onto the Cumberland Plateau rose over 1,000 feet on steep grade that would  give a Himalayan Markhor pause.  It was on this accent that “Hank” actually showed some signs of being pushed, giving me a nano-second of satisfaction for pursuing the towing, horsepower, and torque capabilities that we though we’d never use.

Fall Creek Falls is Tennessee’s largest state park—encompassing over 25,000 acres, six waterfalls, and countless cascades.  There are numerous cabins, and a lodge/conference center that sit adjacent to the 350-acre lake (see time-lapse sunset video below); and an 18-hole golf course that serves as a white-tail rendeavou point during the winter months; and over 50-miles of wilderness trails.

Backing up in the dark at the Georgia Mountain State Fairgrounds was a needed confidence booster for this endeavor, as our campsite was on a tight tree-lined circle, with a stand of trees in the middle, and two trees serving as guides at the entrance of our site. This was the most difficult backing challenge to date, with The Rig eventually coming to rest with 3-inches to spare after the slide were extended.  This was also the most time & resources needed to level The Rig; as the incline was so steep that the nose of the RV was 3-feet off the ground (versus a normal of 5’).

Panoramic view of stream behind our camping area

The campground is comprised of 228 campsites spread across five areas.  During winter months, only three areas are open, but even with over 100 sites available, we were one of less than a dozen campers in the park.  Our campsite sat adjacent to one of the closed camping areas, so The Boys enjoyed leash-free walks several times each day.  Just behind our camping area was a stream that fed a seasonal swimming hole named “George’s Hole.”  

George's Hole Swimming Area

The swimming area sits at a bend in the stream, and displays a dramatic rock-faced backdrop for the jade-colored pool.  Upstream a few meters is a suspension pedestrian bridge that not only provides access to the far bank; but serves as as a confidence course for canines who have issues with Acrophobia and/or Gephyrophobia (and possibly Xylophobia).

We settled into our deciduous domicile amongst the deciduous grove and planned our exploration of the park.  It had been an interesting journey to date, and we were anxious to not think about moving for a few weeks while we immersed ourselves into the wild.

wWw

Nefarious Names, Morbid Modifiers & Contemptible Canine Cuisine

“It's a road trip! It's about adventure! . . . It's not like we have somewhere to go.” ― John Green, An Abundance of Katherines

After a successful return hike from the bottom of High Shoals Falls, we let gravity escort us back down the washboard goat trail until Hank rested on a much more amiable asphalt road.  We still had a lot of daylight left, so we decided to perform a windshield survey of the surrounding area.  We headed south on Hwy 75/Hwy 17, not really sure where it went…but not really caring either.  As the roadway serpentined through the mountain range, we came across another specimen of “odd signage” that warranted a photograph.

Sitting inconspicuously next to a meandering creek that is shaded by towering hardwoods was a peculiar mercantile that seemed to advertise an unconventional usage for man’s best friend.  I was raised in a rural setting where free-range beagles were common-place around the homestead.  I’ve heard a multitude of descriptors associated with these happy hunting hounds; such as: friendly, loyal, family-orientated, a nose with a dog attached to it, tenacious, fearless, tracker, briar-patch proof, annoying yelper, and elastic-like ears.  Not once in my days have I ever heard this tri-colored canine described as tasty; which is why this particular culinary offering seemed so grossly unappealing.  Come to find out, they’re pretty good smoked (but still a bit elastically).  

A few miles beyond Beagle’s Smoked & Boiled Peanut Shack lies the small, seemingly out-of-place town of Helen, Georgia.  A drive through this town doesn’t take you back in time, but rather it takes you about 5,000 miles to the east.  The entire town is comprised of  Alpine-styled buildings, capped exclusively with rusty crimson rooftops.  If there were one phrase to describe the history of Helen, it would be “pillage & change.”  Prior to 1800, this area was the center of Cherokee Indian culture; but this era ended during the “Trail of Tears,” and all the Native American influence was replaced by newly arriving settlers.  In 1828, thousands of prospectors flooded the area during the Great Georgia Gold Rush; bringing short-lived riches to this boom-town until the extensive mining operations left nothing to extract.  The mining boom was followed by the extensive timbering operations of old-growth forests that drape the mountainsides.  This North Georgia version of The Lorax continued until all the timber was cut, and there was nothing left of this town except a row of concrete structures.  In 1968, local businessmen gathered to discuss what they could do to salvage a community that had been ravaged by drive-by industrialization.  A local resident who had been stationed in Germany during his military service came up with composite drawings of how to transform this ravaged Georgia mountain town into a pseudo-Alpine village—complete with cobblestone streets and murals painted on buildings depicting the historic timeline of this community.  Over the span of a few years, this town--void of industry or natural resources — transformed into an Alpine-themed vacation destination.  Ausgesprochen schön!

Yearning to continue our exploration of the local area (but not wanting to relive the twisting and winding Hwy 75/Hwy 17 a second time), we decide to head back to camp via Blairsville (Hwy 129).  In retrospect, our return route made little difference, as either would require us to traverse steep, narrow, and twisting passages.  This return route took us across the Appalachian Trail—a single-wide dirt path that Kristy and I had spend many days traveling; and the sixth tallest mountain in Georgia (elevation: 4,468’), Blood Mountain.  Not being privy to the origin of the name of this mountain, we discussed the possible historic or geographic characteristics that may have led to this sanguine sobriquet.  

As we continued our contemplation concerning this conspicuously calloused claret-colored cognomen, a contiguous coincidence commenced which culminated in complete closure of our curiosity cogitation.  Without notice, we came upon a succession of cars parked on both shoulders; with occupants standing atop the adjacent perilous precipice.  I stopped to see if there was need for any additional assistance, and looked down the steep ridge at the object of everyone’s attention.  An individual—who either over-estimated his driving prowess; or under-estimated the erratic concave/convex rhythm of the mountain road—had launched his low-carbon-footprint sub-compact off the edge of a cliff and into a high-carbon-density stand of trees (which actually prevented him from tumbling down the sixth highest mountain in Georgia).  A local was clawing his way uphill to the roadside area where the spectators were gathered.  After helping him up the last couple of feet, he relayed that the driver was OK, but had a bloody face after the air-bag deployed.  As he walked back to his car, he said, “Yea…this happens all the time.”  Realizing that my limited services were not needed, I returned to the truck and continued onward.  As we drove down the mountain, I turned to Kristy and said, “I just found out why they call this Blood Mountain.”

It was getting really late and we had not yet had dinner (nor did we feel like cooking).  When this perfect storm of hunger and laziness merges, we typically find a local grocery store to resolve the issue.  We always try to take time to make small-talk with the town-folk who we encounter.  This is not only serves as an act of politeness, but also offers the opportunity to get the feel for what topics are of local importance.  During our late-night visit to the local grocery store, we ran across two late-teen  ladies who were engaged in a conversational filibuster while manning the check-out register.  Being close to The Witching Hour, I asked one of the clerks if she had a long drive back home after work.  She replied, “Not really…I live about 15-minutes from here and the other night I was going home and it was late and dark and I thought I saw something in the road and then I hit it, and I didn’t know what it was and hoped it wasn’t a person ‘cause…but didn’t think a person would be on the road at this time of night, so I stopped and went back to check and found out it was a ‘possum and it was “Graveyard Dead.” 

"'E's not pinin'! 'E's passed on! This parrot is no more! He has ceased to be! 'E's expired and gone to meet 'is maker! 'E's a stiff! Bereft of life, 'e rests in peace! If you hadn't nailed 'im to the perch 'e'd be pushing up the daisies! 'Is metabolic processes are now 'istory! 'E's off the twig! 'E's kicked the bucket, 'e's shuffled off 'is mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin' choir invisible!! THIS IS AN EX-PARROT!!”            ~ Month Python; Dead Parrot Sketch

I’ve lived in The South for over four-decades and I’ve never heard of — nor have I entertained the need for — a modifier for the word “dead.”  So when this young cashier espoused an attributive descriptor of “death" as if this were the fundament of common phraseology, it drove me to immediate pontification.  After deep, thoughtful consideration, I came to the belief that this was a rarely used type of vernacular theatrics.  It had to be!  There is no reasonable explanation otherwise.  Why would someone attempt to quantify that which is unquantifiable?  "Dead" is not measurable, as there are no real “levels” of death.  You’ll never hear someone say, “Your Uncle Bob died? On a scale of 0-to-10, how dead would you say Uncle Bob is right now?”  There is no “5” or “7” with regards to "dead." 

Perhaps within the first few moments of death—while the body is still warm—you’re not as dead as those who have cooled to cellar temperature.  You're certainly not as dead as those Mesopotamian gods who have been touring American cities longer than the Canadian rock-n-roll gods of RUSH.  But this was not the case with this nocturnal jaywalker, as he was labeled "Graveyard Dead" within moments of joining the Rolls of the Roadkill.  Even then...what about the poster-child of “Graveyard Dead”—Lazarus?  He was not only dead, but he had actually established citizenship in a graveyard for four days—complete with the obligatory stench.  If anybody could be labeled “Graveyard Dead”it was him; and that still didn’t seem to be too much of a death modifier for him to overcome!

As interesting as I find this phrase, I don't think it's any different than trying to give greater elaborance (which is not a word...but should be) to a word whose definition is normally dichotomous.  Take the word "pregnant" as an example.   You either are or you are not.  Yes…I’ve heard guys say, “She’s REALLY pregnant!” but this is a reference to how far-along or in their pregnancy; or a tactful way of NOT saying what they’re REALLY thinking... which is how “ENORMOUS" the pregnant woman appears.  This is nothing more than a low-risk, smoke and mirrors comment that men utilize if they find themselves conversing within slapping-distance of those who are "exceedingly gravid."

Since I believe this is merely an after-market descriptor to an already existing and competent force of nature, my take is "why stop there?"  If this is being used to heighten the listeners imagination as to the severity of ones passing, why not take an even more elucidative route?  Why not go all out and say, "...an I looked at that 'possum and it was 'gone to th pearly gates' dead?" Or perhaps a more descriptively gory approach with a hint of Heywood Banks; "...an I looked at that 'possum and it was 'corned beef hash with a tail' dead."

Regardless of the origin or intended usage, I found this bit of local locution to be quite interesting.  So interesting that from this day forward, I will purposefully place a unique modifier when using the word "dead."  You may take this as simple rhetoric, but I am Graveyard Dead serious.

wWw

Haiwassee/High Shoals Falls (GA)

North Georgia is Cherokee Country, and Haiwassee is derived from the Cherokee word “Ayuhwasi,” which means “savanna” or “large meadow.”  Haiwassee is a smallish mountain lake town that sits about three corvid flight-miles south of the North Carolina border.  The town has that type of small ski-town feel; without the skiing (unless you count the ample water skiing opportunities in the 7,000-acre lake that virtually surrounds the town).  Although smallish in feel, the town has a few upscale amenities that you may not expect this far away form a major metropolis.  There's a respectable wine shop, restaurants of varying cuisines, and the praecognita sentinel of civilization--a Starbucks.  

But we didn’t come to this neck of the woods to visit Haiwassee or to attend the Georgia Mountain Fair; we came to hike waterfalls.  Thirteen miles due south from Haiwassee on Hwy 75/Hwy 17 is Indian Grave Gap Road.  It isn’t listed as Indian Grave Gap Road, but rather a less conspicuous 1' x 2' sign that read "FR283" (Georgia Fire Road # 283).  This 1 1/2 lane gravel road can be easily mistaken for a private country driveway, so that’s what we did the first time we passed it.  

Kristy & The Boys at Blue Hole (Upper) Falls

Once our bearings became more calibrated, we began our rough accent up “Old 283” to the High Shoals Falls trailhead.  No more than a quarter-mile up this road we spotted a really nice, late model Cadillac Escalade that had stopped at a shallow river-crossing.  The opulent SUV waited a minute, then retreated about 50’ to where the road was wide enough to execute a "180."  We waited from afar at a locale that would accommodate both vehicles on (semi) terra firma.  As our vehicles slowed to pass, the driver rolled his window to chat.  He had Georgia plates and I had temporary Virginia plates.  I asked him if he knew this road and he replied that he didn’t.  He said that he and his family were out looking for waterfalls, but didn’t know if he should perform the river-crossing.  I told him that we were also hunting waterfalls, and we had reasonable belief that one was at the top of this road.  We wished each other luck and we forged onward.

The water crossing was a trivial spillway that contained no more than 6” of slowly moving mountain stream water.  We crossed it with ease and continued up the mountain.  “Old 283” is the narrowest of winding, gravel mountain roads; with eroded edges that drop dangerously into the adjacent ravine below.   Considering the primary designation as a fire road, a firefighter should consider battling a forest fire to be less life-threatening than the road that carries him there.  A continual sequence of hairpin turns—linked together by short, faltering washboard straightaways—made this 15 MPH journey a slow-motion, white-knuckle, molar-rattling event.

When we reached the trailhead, there were a few pick-up trucks haphazardly parked in the designated parking area.  For some reason these trucks looked to be outfitted for hunting versus hiking.  My observations were confirmed.

Stay Calm & Coexist

One can derive much from a simple sign.  This particular one let me know:

1. We may encounter deer in their natural habitat.  Not particularly an issue with us, but we’ll need to keep our hounds on leash.
2. We may encounter bear in their natural habitat.  Bigger issue, especially if we should encounter a mama with cubs.  We’ll need to keep a watchful eye for “fresh” bear signs.
3. We may wish to wear blaze-orange clothing while hiking, as deer & bear hunters may make us for a taxidermy trophy during our hike.  THIS was more unnerving than the first two.  Not expecting to be thrust into a spontaneous hunting safari, we did not bother to pack any blaze-orange apparel. 

We decided to continue with the hike, but be loud enough to either scare away any game, or alert ourselves to any hunters.  

High Shoal Falls trail is a moderate footpath that begins well above the falls, and terminates at the lower falls.  The upper segment is a semi-open walk amongst towering hardwoods, and descends into a greener “ferngullyish” habitat as it intersects and follows High Shoals Creek.  This decent into more noticeable greener surroundings is where the trail becomes much flatter, and much damper (read: muddy).  

High Shoals Trail (Upper Segment)

The middle segment has elements reminiscent of a Tim Burton production.  Exposed top roots from giant oaks that have endured years of steep-grade erosion, resembling of a den of wooden snakes amassed on the trail.  Vibrant green moss and lichen that carpets both the living and not; producing a contrast of color against the pastel browns of the fallen leaves.  Mighty timbers that once towered over this valley; now providing nutrients and a foothold amongst the rocky, rugged terrain to the young, nimble saplings and mushrooms that emerge from the rotting decay of their fibrous skeletons.

Exposed oak roots slithering across the trail

Patchy carpets of greenery

Opportunistic mushrooms

The tall timbers serve as an ecological foundation, both when they're alive and when they're dead. 

The path continues its declination, and begins to increase in pitch as it follows the rhododendron-lined creek. The lower segment houses the upper and lower falls, and a series of switch-backs and stone steps signal the proximity of the watery crescendo ahead.  The upper falls—also known as Blue Hole Falls—drops 20’ over a rocky outcropping into a deep blue pool.  The stream below narrows, providing a resurgence of energy as the flow continues towards the lower falls.  The lower falls consists of a series of cascading levels that descend 50’ into another deep blue pool.  

Blue Hole (Upper) Falls

Hours could be lost just watching the water polish the monstrous geologic formations.  To find such peace and tranquility while standing in the throat of the aquatic roar that resonates through the forest and valley below is purely inexplainable.  

High Shoals (Lower) Falls

After drinking-in our bionomic therapy, we headed back to the trailhead; less worried about deer and bears and hunters (oh my).  We met the Escalade crew about midway up.  They asked us if the hike was worth it, and I replied that I would let them know at the top.  Kristy and I both knew they had made a good choice, but also knew they needed to discover that for themselves.  The uphill trek was not as strenuous with fresh memories of our waterfall quest; and we reached the top with plenty of daylight to spare.  The hounds were tail-wagging’ tired, and if I had a tail to wag…I’d be that way too.  We headed back down Old 283 with gravity in our favor this time; letting the exhaust brake do all the work as we retraced a road that felt more like a railroad track…without the rails.  With plenty of sand still in the hourglass, we wanted to do something else…so we did.

wWw

Georgia Mountain Fairground (GA)

Wateree Recreation Area was a good lily pad for us.  We were able to enjoy a holiday, take a break from the “Roadie Pace,” stay put long enough to utilize Amazon.com delivery service, and perform additional winterizing modifications to the rig.  

“Where do we go from here?” ~ Missing Persons, Destination Unknown

Our eastward retreat put us in a position where we had choices.  We could venture southwest towards the Florida panhandle—which had the temperatures that we yearned for.  We could head due west across I-20, which would put us back on our “mental schedule” of seeing the Grand Canyon before Spring temperatures begin to rise.  Or...we could head northwest and bisect The Country via I-40.  

The Florida route was actually the most lucrative, as we had been dodging colder weather, and this was a way we could spend our days thinking about something other than how to keep The Rig (and ourselves) warm.  The main problem with the Florida route was not getting there, but leaving.  From the Florida panhandle (headed west) we did not see a lot of places that were "A-List" hiking locations; and we were not interested in back-tracking if we could help it.

The westward route on I-20 through Atlanta assured us of a quicker arrival in the Southwest region of The States, but again; we did not find a list of areas along the I-20 corridor that were “must see/must hike” places.  Additionally, we still held fast to the notion that this was not a Cannonball Run across Our Country, but rather a semi-leasurly pace that would allow us to drink-in the various community cultures that makes us E Pluribus Unum.  

The northwest passage (that’s actually how we felt about it) would take us right back into the colder temps that we had earlier fled. Although we had performed more extensive winterization while at Wateree, we (nor The Rig) had been “field tested.”  

“Think about direction, wonder why you haven’t before.” REM, Stand

As Kristy and I discussed our options, we realized that (up to this point) we had been moving from place to place based upon where we could find accommodations.  Although securing nightly accommodations is not a bad thing, it was making this journey have too much of a “business trip” feel to it.  We decided to start looking for “stuff we wanted to see”, then find the accommodations near the "stuff we wanted to see.”  The first item to make the list was “waterfalls.”  We were within a half-day drive of waterfall country, so with our “to-see” list activated, we charted a northwest course for North Georgia—the Georgia Mountain Fairgrounds.

We made reservations at the Georgia Mountain Fairgrounds campground with a bit of apprehension about what “fairground accommodations” would actually look like.  We had attended various state fairs, as well as the San Antonio Stock & Rodeo, and we did not want to park our rig in a large Walmart parking lot—minus the Walmart.  We weren’t trying to be pretentious, but we just didn’t think we’d fit in amongst the “carne” crowd.

The Georgia Mountain Fairgrounds is buried deep in the Chattahoochee-Oconee National Forest at the southern end of Appalachian Mountains.  This area is remotely located hours from any interstate, so our trek would utilized secondary roads which followed the twisting and turning trails that traversed through the mountain ridges and creek beds.  It was the most challenging driving to date, and I grew to appreciate the capabilities of “Hank” (Kristy’s name for the RAM 3500) to pull 7-tons up steep grades…and (even more important) slow 7-tons going down those same grades.  This leg of the trip was where I truly felt confident in my ability and the ability of the truck.

The trip took a bit longer than we anticipated, as we were forced to backtrack towards our moonshine buddy and the BunnyTuna thingy.  We arrived after sunset on a Saturday.  The check-in office is closed on the weekend (during off-season), and we had to find our spot and set-up in the dark.  Kristy—being the expert navigator & crew chief—laid strands of Christmas lights on the pad to give me an illuminated “landing strip” to guide the Fiver onto.  If it were not for her quick thinking, The Rig would certainly have a (real) wood paneling motif by now.  We positioned solar lighting around the perimeter for additional visibility, and were level & set-up in minimal time.

Kristy & The Boys enjoying the mountain views across Chatuge Lake

The next morning we took a walk around the campground to discover that we were the only occupants (again) besides the camp host (who was a retired DLA map maker for 40+ years).  We had the entire 161-acres to ourselves.  The campsites were spacious, and the views of the lake and mountains were beautiful.  We were pleasantly surprised to find that this was the nicest fairgrounds we had ever seen, with all others being a distant second.  A small crew arrived most days to empty any trash bins, service the shower houses, and clear the roadways of the daily avalanche of oak leaves.

Callie going "full camo"amongst the rusty oak leaves

Although the fairground portion was closed, one could see all of the buildings that housed various displays during operating season.  The buildings were primitive in design, giving a backwoods/hillbilly feel.  Adjacent to the primitive buildings sat Anderson Music Hall.  This 2,900 seat theater hosts various concerts and is home to the Fiddlers Convention and Cloggers Convention.

Rhododendron lined trails at the Hamilton Rhododendron Garden

The fairgrounds also housed a 13-acre Hamilton Rhododendron Garden with gentle pathways that switchbacked from the entrance down to lakeside.  There were over 3,000 rhododendrons of various species on display, all nestled beneath the hardwood canopy; with benches, gazebos, and various man-made structures tastefully arranged throughout. 

Solitude amongst the oaks

It was incredible to have such a large, well-kept piece of land all to ourselves. We had the serenity and privacy of a secluded lakeside property, but the convenience of being only 5-minutes from the quaint mountain hamlet of Haiwassee.  We had found another gem in our hunt for Americana.

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The Crossroads of Camden (SC)

"No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man."  ~ Heraclitus

On November 15th—roughly 90-minutes after departing Stone Mountain State Park, and a few moments before reaching the Oxford School Road exit on I-40 (West)—we crossed the Catawba River.  We barely noticed the unassuming forest-green procession of water, as it slowly meandered between the dense tree-laden embankments.  After traveling another 50-miles westward on I-40, we crossed it again just prior to Parker Padgett Road.  We were completely unaware of this river-crossing, as the much narrower upstream width was obscured by a lower and even more dense canopy.  The origin of this river is in Old Fort, North Carolina...about 25 crow-flying miles east of where we parked our rig in Candler (NC).

While the river of life glides along smoothly, it remains the same river; only the landscape on either bank seems to change.  ~ Max Muller

The Catawba River was important to the Native American population of the region, and it would later become an important inland trade route for the European settlers.  Originating in the mountain springs in Old Fort, the river flows east of the Eastern Continental Divide through a geological maze that snakes over 300-miles to its terminus at the Atlantic Ocean.  From it’s babbling beginnings, the river flows to Lake Hickory, a 4,233-acre hydroelectric impoundment area dating to 1927; then past the township of Catawba (NC); then onto Lake Norman, a monstrous 32,500-acre hydroelectric impoundment area.  Further downstream the river passes through  Lakes Mountain Island & Wylie, both bordering the western edges of the greater Charlotte metropolitan area.   The last leg of the river flows past Great Falls (SC), and loses it’s name at Wateree Lake.  From this point, it is only 75-miles to Charleston Harbor and the Atlantic by means of it’s new name, Wateree River.  The first town on the Wateree River is the historic community of Camden.

Camden, South Carolina has deep pre-Revolutionary War roots, and was a township created by order of King George II (by the name of Fredericksburg).  During the Revolutionary War, Lord Charles Cornwallis used Camden as the British supply post for the war’s Southern campaign and captured/occupied the Kershaw House for use as his headquarters.

Everything will change.  Everything has changed.”  ~ Lord Charles Cornwallis (character), The Patriot

The Battle of Camden was a rout, with Lord Cornwallis effectively stomping a new orifice into the untrained and undisciplined American troops led by Horatio Gates.  Although the American defeat by Lord Cornwallis provided a tactical and strategic positioning to the British, it would be short-lived.  1-year, 2-months, and 3-days after Lord Cornwallis defeated Gates at Camden, he would lay down his arms in surrender on the battlefield at Yorktown (VA)—5 crow-flying miles from where our trans-America journey began in Gloucester County, Virginia.

Camden was a pleasure to visit during the pre-Christmas season.  The antebellum homes gleaming with period-specific holiday lights enable one to momentarily step back in time.  Even the local funeral home proudly and perpetually displays a turn-of-the-century horse-drawn hearse.  The town of 6,000 has a close-knit, small-town feel.  There is a farmer’s market that actually has fresh produce from local farmers; a meat market that sells Prime cuts of beef, sliced to order on a traditional butcher’s block; and a corner music store, that partners with the pub across the street to showcase the local talent. 

I bet on a horse at ten-to-one.  It didn't come in until half-past five.   ~ Henny Youngman

The big event for the town is the Carolina Cup—an equestrian event that brings horse enthusiasts from all over the country, and swells the local census to over 70,000.  The Carolina Cup has been held every year since 1930—only missing two years (’43. ’45) due to The Great War.  The town is exceedingly horse-centric, with polo fields, steeple-chase courses, and boarding stables surrounding the official town limits.  The big irony in this event is that any betting on any horse competition is strictly forbidden by South Carolina law.

We again found the people to be warm and welcoming wherever we went.  The Southern architecture of yesteryear was accented by a community that still proudly embraced Southern Hospitality.

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Wateree Lake (SC)

As the days passed, the sujet du jour increasingly focused on where we would spend the Thanksgiving holiday.   Being RVing-rookies, we quickly learned that waiting for the last minute to make campground reservations can leave you choosing between an interstate rest area or "Isle-T" at your local Walmart parking lot.  As we looked for a our next bed-down location, we discovered a lot of “no campground vacancy,” which also led us to discover that there are a LOT of people who like to spend Thanksgiving in an out-of-doors environment.  Even though we’ve always loved to camp, we had never thought to go hiking or camping over the Thanksgiving break.  We wondered if this was something that we had been missing out on..then we wondered some more.

"The Pilgrims made seven times more graves than huts. No Americans have been more impoverished than these who, nevertheless, set aside a day of thanksgiving". ~ H.U. Westermayer

Perhaps this ritual is to get in touch with the early settlers of Our Nation, experiencing a fall harvest bounty in more austere surroundings, while appreciating the fact that we collectively made it to another annual milestone...

"There is one day that is ours. There is one day when all we Americans who are not self-made go back to the old home to eat saleratus biscuits and marvel how much nearer to the porch the old pump looks than it used to. Thanksgiving Day is the one day that is purely American." ~ O. Henry

…or perhaps it’s in the "escape into the wild" to reminisce of the simpler times of days-gone-by.  A gathering of family and friends in humble surroundings, void of the modern interruptions that now keep our lives continually connected to a self-imposed cyber activity log...

"Thanksgiving dinners take eighteen hours to prepare. They are consumed in twelve minutes. Half-times take twelve minutes. This is not coincidence." ~ Erma Bombeck

…or perhaps this oddity is actually made possible by modern technology.  High-end highly-mobile residences with full kitchens and satellite television to bring the modern conveniences of sports and gourmet cooking to the primitive world...

"Thanksgiving is an emotional holiday. People travel thousands of miles to be with people they only see once a year. And then discover once a year is way too often."          ~ Johnny Carson

…or perhaps the thought of spending the day in a wet, cold, ant-infested single-wide was better than any of the other options.

Regardless of this newly discovered nugget of Turkey-Day trivia, we needed a place to park our rig for the holiday.  With not many options available for a couple-hundred miles west & south, we found accommodations and pseudo-backtracked into South Carolina towards the Shaw Air Force Base recreation area at Wateree Lake.

Forty miles northwest of Shaw AFB, adjacent to the 14,000-acre hydroelectric impoundment lies the Wateree Recreation Area.  There are 22 full hook-up RV pads and 14 rental cabins scattered amongst the rolling hills which terminate lakeside.  

During the summer months, tent camping is permitted “anywhere you can set your tent,” and the July 4th holiday elevates the campground census above 1,500; who are rewarded with a fireworks show launched from a small nearby island.

We arrived at Wateree on the day before Thanksgiving, and were pleased to quickly set-up in a much warmer climate.  The campground was somewhat busy, with both RVers and cabin renters preparing for the following day festivities.  Although we have historically enjoyed creating an obscene feasting spread for our family and friends, we understood (and even appreciated) that the on-going changes to our lives were a necessary part of this journey.  We would be setting a table for two (and a floor for two).

After the holiday, the campground became mostly deserted.  Again we found ourselves enjoying both solitude and comfort amenities.  Most evenings brought picturesque sunsets over the lake; with the waterfowl either floating on the still waters, or making their way home to the evening roost as the sun falls into the western sky.  

The hiking trails were short, but remote enough to feel like you were in a forest.  A short stray away from the trail led into adjacent land that was the site of an old church.  As with most old churches, small parcels were set aside to bury members of the congregation.  The hilltop church is gone, but a downhill walk through the hardwoods will bring you to a smattering of modest headstones dating back several decades.  One such headstone revealed a casualty of World War II.  Here lies a man who probably wanted to be buried in the rural setting of his upbringing, and he now stands watch over sacred land--a quiet place of honor below the ever expanding canopies of oak.

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