Bank Trompin', Swamp Stompin' & Mama Slappin' Que

With cold weather projected northwest into Kentucky; cold weather and a very long drive into northeast Arkansas; a southern route seemed the most logical.  We headed west towards Nashville and took a hard left onto I-65.  This carried us southward—past The Boobie Bungalow at Exit 6—and across the Alabama State Line.  From there we followed the northern border of the Tennessee River to Joe Wheeler State Park.

Panorama of Wheeler Lake

Like most of our winter camping experiences, we found the campground to be virtually empty.  Once again, we had the whole place to ourselves.  The campground is situated on Wheeler Lake— a dammed portion of the Tennessee River—and the park boasts a golf course, marina, several recreational areas, and an upscale lodge.  We settled into a nice campsite adjacent to a wooded area with trails.



With the campground situated lakeside, we spent most of our days strolling the shoreline.  The abundance of driftwood was astonishing, and we spent countless hours sifting through the weathered pieces of naturally recycled timber, wrestled from the womb of Ask and Embla.  The live-sized pick-up sticks gave us countless hours of sifting through the spoils of the rivers current; marveling at the exquisite sanding & natural finishing of a variety of wood types.  Evenings were especially nice, as the numerous peninsulas provided an opportunity to view the sunsets from differing perspectives.

“Now Muscle Shoals has got The Swampers,
And they’ve been known to pick a song or two.”
~ Lynyrd Skynyrd, Sweet Home Alabama

On the far side of the dammed-up Tennessee River lies the town of Muscle Shoals.  Although not normally included in conversations evoking the names “Motown”, “Music City”, “The Fillmore”, or “The Apollo”; Muscle Shoals is every bit as important in the history of American music.

Just who are these “Swampers,” and what songs have they been known to pick?

The Swampers are probably the most unsung (no pun intended) musicians in American music history.  The Muscle Shoals Rhythm Section (aka. "The Swampers”) was a group of studio musicians who served as session musicians at the Fame Recording Studio in Muscle Shoals, Alabama.  They have been featured on more than 75 gold & platinum hits.  Back in the day—most likely on a Wednesday—musical artists would come to the recording studio with a bunch of new songs, but not a lot of prior practice time to have the songs down pat.

Enter the studio musicians.

These well versed artists would sit in session—either in lieu of a band, or with the existing band—to ensure the recording was completed as efficiently as possible (studio time was expensive and in great demand).  These musicians needed to be able to lay down tracks spanning an incredible spectrum of musical genres—from gospel, to jazz, to blues, to southern rock, to soul, to country.  They not only had to play this spectrum of music, but also had to do it in a level of excellence befitting the artists who they recorded with.

Singing River statue in front of the Muscle Shoals public library

You won’t find a vinyl section in the record store reserved for The Swampers, and you probably won’t be able to get the local DJ to play them by request; but getting a sample of their soulful sound is still relatively easy.  Just cue-up one of these amazing songs and listen to the band in the background.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T & I’ve Never Loved A Man The Way I Love You (Aretha Franklin); When A Man Love’s A Woman (Percy Sledge); Old Time Rock-N-Roll, Night Moves & Main Street (Bob Seger); Mustang  Sally (Wilson Picket);  Tell Mama (Etta James); I’ll Take You There (The Staple Singers);  Shake,  Rattle & Roll (Big Joe Turner); Brown Sugar (Rolling Stones); Loves Me Like A Rock (Paul Simon); Giving It Up For Your Love (Delbert McClinton); and many, many full album sessions from dozens of artists.  A MUST READ overview of this groups incredible versatility is found on the Alabama Music Hall of Fame website.  Next time you hear “R-E-S-P-E-C-T”, how ‘bout giving some up for the most anonymous band we all love.

Whitts Barbecue: Momma Slappin' Good!

While visiting the ranger station, I asked the campground manager where she would recommend getting some quality to-go food.  She said I should try Whitt’s BBQ.  Having spent the last month in a state known for BBQ ribs; and having spend over a decade learning the finer art of smoking Texas brisket; I asked her how she rated Whitt's BBQ.  She looked at me with a lethal serious face and said, “It’s so good, it’ll make you smack your mamma.”  I was aghast.  I have heard of food being so BAD that threatening physical aggression against the cook would not have been incomprehensible; but why on earth would anyone want to smack their own mother for someone else’s cooking being good?  Regardless; I was hungry, and my mother was safe and sound in Virginia.  I needed to go try this stuff.

Whitt’s BBQ is nothing to look at on the outside.  You walk up to a window (or do the drive-thru thing), place your order, and then take it home or eat outside on the picnic tables.  When I placed my order for ribs & brisket, I asked the girl working the counter if she knew what “so go it’ll make you slap your mamma” meant.  She said she never heard of it, and asked the girl working the smoker.  The other girl said, “Sounds like the food must be pretty good…but I’m too scared of my momma to try that.”  The "Que" was stellar; and no domestic violence or assault charges were filed that night.

Of course, we're still in Alabama...

Alabama outhouse, but no Alabama "Moon Floss"

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Cedars of Lebanon (TN)

It had been nearly a month since we’d moved The Rig.  I was a little rusty in my moving day routine, and Kristy was still finding that sweet spot between pain & productivity.  We were moving slow and it was time to leave the set of an interesting scene in our lives.  After brushing the bark of the trees that crowded our campsite upon arrival, Hank slowly rumbled down the narrow, winding park roads of Fall Creek Falls towards Sparta.  At Sparta we took a left on Route 70 and followed the western sky until we hit Trammel Road. Trammel Road became Chicken Road, and Chicken Road took us to the doorstep of our next destination—Cedars of Lebanon State Park.

Kristy & The Boys at Cedars of Lebanon State Park, Tennessee

Lying just 15-miles east of Nashville, Cedars of Lebanon is the greenest desert you’ll ever see.  Harvested a century ago for the manufacturing of pencils, the entire glade was hand-planted—tree by tree—as part of a restoration project during FDR’s “New Deal”.

The park lies atop the Central Basin of Tennessee—a karst geology supporting the botanical life on the surface.  At any point in the park there may be only a few feet between the surface and an underground cavern, aquifer, or fissure.  The porous nature of this topography has created a habitat that is beautifully green, but mostly devoid of surface water—as all the water quickly disseminates through the limestone sieve below.  Because of the inability for the soil to retail water, the landscape can only accommodate very specific types of flora—either plants that are drought tolerant or those that can sustain on the limited water in the top few inches of surface strata.

Panorama of red cedar stands with miles of trails cutting their way throughout the park.

One such botanical breed is the red cedar (Junipers virginiana), which early settlers incorrectly associated with the cedars of ancient Lebanon (Cedrus spp.) which were used to make Solomon’s Temple—the origin of the forest name.  These red cedars thrive in the thin limestone base, forming large stands of glades and thickets that dominate the terrain.  The remaining botany is mostly composed of mosses, ferns, and other robust plants that have carved their niche in this hidden desert.

Fungi take advantage of the moist decomposing matter in a water-deprived environment

Moss carpeting a seasonal creek bed as the water flows through the cracks and into the aquifers below.

Clumps of moss spreading their mats wherever they can find a trace of sustainable moisture

The subterranean characteristic not only defines the phytogeography, but it also shapes the countryside contour.  If one could make the argument that this area could be called “Junipers of Lebanon,” an equally persuasive argument could support the name “Sinkholes of Lebanon.”  Throughout the park you will find large depressions where the earthen abyss has failed, resulting in the surface—as well as objects attached to said surface—sliding into the underworld.

Panorama of enormous sinkhole that partially exposed the cavern beneath.

The abundant park trails can provide stellar examples of the rich variety of geological formations common to this area.  Block formations, sinkhole springs, narrow crevices, or subterranean caves; an easy walk down any pathway rewards the naturalist with an abstract work—thousands of years in the making.

Wes at the bottom of a sunken fissure as a tree on the far end clings to stay up top.

The expansive network of underground caverns has been explored by spelunking enthusiasts, with a popular attraction—Jackson Cave—reporting chasmy tentacles that extend beyond the 900-acre park boundary.  Upon entering Jackson Cave, a gravel gauntlet floor allied with a shallow ceiling forces modern bipeds to duck-walk for the first 50-meters.  Beyond is a midnight-dark, misty-damp, and silty-painted cavern; with springs flowing into the teflon-slick clay pockets below.  The air is deathly stagnant and cold—your heated exhalations creating a visual haze that surrounds and obstructs your flashlight guided view.  I was surprised to find spiders and frogs living in the total darkness of this clammy lair.  This blackened pathway continued another 500-meters where it opened up into an underground lake with expansive ceilings.  Lacking proper equipment, caving skillz, and a safety sidekick; I retreated from Jackson Cave, covered—head, hands, back, and feet—in  the obligatory argillaceous veneer.

Outside the exceedingly low opening to Jackson Cave

The aged rock formations are not the only natural sources of interesting artifacts.  Throughout the park you’ll find unusual tree specimens—each revealing its own uniqueness of twisting & knotted branches, texturizing barks, and wandering roots.  

Two dogs and a tree with a humongous growth.  Make your own caption.

Museum quality natural art

In addition to the natural quality of this park, there are several other recreational activities.  Horseback riding from the park-operated stable, olympic-sized (seasonal) outdoor swimming pool, through-the-woods Frisbee golf course, softball fields, rental cabins, playgrounds, mountain biking trails, and a nature center.  All of this within an hours drive of The Grand Ole Opry.   Cedars of Lebanon is a strong candidate for anyone's vacation plans.  If you can't enjoy yourself here...stay home.

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Rock Island & Great Falls Gorge (TN)

Sunset casts an orange filter on an established farm in the rural Rock Island area

An hour of spirited driving northwest of Fall Creek Falls, you’ll arrive in the beautifully rural Rock Island & Great Falls Gorge area.  This rugged—yet fertile piece of Cumberland Plateau is mostly defined by the confluence of several rivers around the Rock Island peninsula.

With perhaps the exception of the 18th Century battles involving Lieutenant Snoddy and the Chickaauga (which just “sounds" like a GREAT story), the area is steeped in a chronological timeline of the quest to harness the tremendous powers and resources of these converging rivers.

“Playful river, ever laughing;
Pleading river, always calling;
Rushing river, now unwieldy;
Wild, deep river, oft defiant.”
~ Dr. R. P.  Hudson (poet); Ode To The Caney Fork 

The late 1800’s saw industry-minded entrepreneurs coming to this area to harness the power of the rivers; only to have their property scattered downstream following the destructive and unpredictable floods that were common to this area.  Early 20th Century attempts to harness the river’s force by means of a series of dams met similar fates.  The river was too wild and unyielding to be harnessed.

“…and thou shalt smite the rock, and there shall come water out of it…” ~ Exodus 17:6 (KJV)

"Twin Falls" pouring out of the gorge rock face.

In 1917 the Great Falls Hydroelectric Plant was completed.  Although it sustained significant damage in the “Good Friday Flood of ’29;” the dam held, and is still standing intact today.  The creating of the dam caused the Collins River to rise behind the dam.  The unbridled river—refusing to let a man-made structure obstruct its path—carved a pathway through the earth.  With tremendous power and volume, the Collins River pushed into underground caverns and ruptured through the many stone fractures as it made its short-cut down to the Caney Fork.  Named “Twin Falls,” this most extraordinary waterfall provides a visualization that there is no river feeding it.

Wes & Buddy hiking towards the bottom of the gorge cliffs

On the far bank from the Great Falls Hydroelectric Plant is a 2-mile trail that starts at the top of the gorge, and loops down to follow the winding river.  The layered rock form sheer cliffs that oversee the narrow, damp gorge below.  In this middle-ground between the jagged cliffs and the rushing rapids lies a lush, pseudo-rain forest; with springs casting aquatic webs across the rich, damp, fern-covered peat.

One of many springs that "appear" out of the walls of the gorge.

The trail traverses several of large springs—ascending and descending where the river has eroded any possibility of a level trek—and ends on an outcropping peninsula that features an upstream view lined with dozens of mini-waterfalls.

Narrow trail with steep declines to the rushing river below.

At various points along the trail, there is a sheer drop-off to the river some 30’ below.  There are also many vertical vantage points that leave the observer unaware that they are standing upon ground that has had its foundation swept away by the river.  Fortunately, we never experienced any Wile E. Coyote moments.

Kristy & The Boys at the upstream overlook (on her first post-accident hike).

Further upstream lies the remains of aged industry that fell victim to the power of the river.  The Falls City Cotton Mill was spared destruction due to its high location on an elevated bluff; however, the essential wheel-house was washed away…leaving the cotton mill inoperable.  The cotton mill’s “Spring Castle” also survived, but was no longer needed to provide refrigeration to mill workers who suddenly became unemployed.

The "engine" that ran the cotton mill.

Falls City Cotton Mill spring "castle"; circa 1890's

Falls City Cotton Mill (aka Great Falls Cotton Mill); circa 1892

Although the violent convergence of this destructive force has been thoroughly documented, the river remains a source for recreational activities such as kayaking, tubing, and swimming.  A nearby sign signifies that although this river has been tamed, it will always be wild.

Even someone who has trouble with capitol "N's" can see the association between lifejacket use and drowning.

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Polar Preparations & Temperature Tribulations

"Hank" handles the sub-freezing temps

With an ominous forecast of multiple days with sub-freezing highs, the campground began to lose the remaining winter camping fanatics.  The campers adjacent to our site had been at the campground since our arrival, and were H-A-R-D-C-O-R-E cold-weather campers.  When we woke, they were outside sitting by their campfire; and when we took The Boys for their nightly walk, they were still tending the coals.  So when we saw these arctic-weather warriors breaking camp, we knew something wicked this way comes.  These folks were also extremely gracious and kind; offering to help us in any way possible.  Since they had witnessed the New Year’s Night EMS disco party, they were well aware of our temporary immobility.  Before pulling chocks, they brought us with a hefty stack of firewood, and provided additional contact numbers should we get into a bind.  Similar to the people of Sparta, these folks were a class act.  Can’t give enough of a shout-out to the families of Kevin R. & Bob L.

With a collection of fallen limbs scattered throughout the campground, I was concerned that the wind may bring one of these large timbers down onto our roof.  Our roof was not the only concern, as the sub-freezing forecast also included near zero absolute temperatures.  This extreme temperature can reek havoc on an RV; freezing/bursting water lines, turning refrigerator coolant to pudding, and making the plastic parts extremely brittle & susceptible to breaking.

My first concern was keeping a supply of water during this cold stretch.  After wrapping our water hose with electric heat tape and further wrapping it with insulation wrap, I felt the hose itself would be protected from freezing.  The water spigot was a different story.  I didn’t have enough heat tape and insulation to wrap the outside tap, and didn’t have much confidence that it would prevent freezing if I did.  With a few basic supplies, I created a heat-sump enclosure for the entire water-point; hoping that the water lines beneath the ground would not freeze.

This heat-sump enclosure was made by placing our folding ladder over the entire spigot, hanging a shop light (with 75-watt bulb) from the upper rung, laying styrofoam panels against the side of the ladder for extra insulation, covering with a 55-gallon leaf bag to keep the wind out & heat in, and wrapping the bottom with more insulation wrap and a cardboard outer shell.  I placed our wireless temperature gauge inside the enclosure so that I could monitor how well the structure was performing.

MacGyver-approved heat-sump structure

My next concern was the refrigerator.  At this point I just put duct tape over the external vents (leaving only a 1” opening) and placed a 75-watt shop light inside.  It didn’t need to stay above freezing—just above 20F.

My remaining concern was the external waste lines.  The lines were disconnected from the sewer, but there’s always “some” liquid in these lines.  if it freezes and expands, we could have a nasty situation when the thaw returns.  All I could do was disconnect the sewer hose and hope for the best.

Everythong east of the Mississippi River has a measurable amount of water.  At 20F, everything east of the Mississippi River has a measurable amount of ice.  Picking up a fallen branch for additional firewood results in picking up the surrounding leaf-litter as well...all stuck together like your grandmothers dish of Christmas candy...in July.

Once again we found in solitude.  Temperatures continued to drop and the clouds moved in.  The dense clouds stealthily moved through the forrest, stealing the colors and texture of natures portrait; making the eye interpret the world as if looking through a frosted cornea.  The wind charging through the treetops, causing them to collide at their apex with a force and sound of two rams cracking horns.

Cold as a sorceress' mamilla in a copper-zinc alloy cleavage-cradle

Then it began to snow.  I sat on the couch watching these "Snowflake Surfers” ride in on their invisible waves, then catch another air-wave to go aloft again.  As the snowflakes perform their abstract dance towards the ground; surfing the wind currents, they don't do anything in unison like rain, but drift around until they come to rest on a (hopefully) frigid surface.  Occasionally they take flight again, dancing on the subtle wind currents while  making their own unique journey through their own unique existence.

Outside temp

Inside heat-sump temp

We stayed below freezing for 4-days, and actually hit zero; but never lost water, electric, or heat.  We endured our “trial by ice” and did better than we expected…after all, we headed south to avoid playing to our inexperience of cold-weather camping.  The heat sump worked much better than expected.  The enclosure kept the temperature about 25F-30F warmer than the actual outside temperature, which enabled us to have uninterrupted water for the entire cold spell.  The refrigerator compressor survived with only a shop light for warmth, and the only pieces of plastic that broke were a few of the ladder rungs.

“There’s no such thing as bad weather, only inappropriate attire.” ~ Unknown

It wasn’t the most pleasant stretch of camping we’d ever experienced, but we now had a newfound confidence regarding our cold-weather capabilities.  Our directional mindset was now re-calibrated, as we didn’t need to run from cold weather…just be prepared for what nature throws at us.

"Snow Dog is victorious." ~ RUSH; By-Tor And The Snow Dog

Americana Graffiti

With doctor's orders to take it easy for a few more weeks, we extended our stay at Fall Creek Falls to the maximum allowable span of 28-days.  The park staff ensured us that they would work with us considering the circumstances; but we wanted to try to push through this period if we could.

Sparta Drive-In: A taste of original Americana

While the convalescence phase proceeded—and life returned to normality at glacial speed—we found that the local camp store had much to be desired with regards to replenishing our supplies.  The town of Sparta lies 40-minutes northwest of Fall Creek Falls, and it was the easiest place to shop without navigating a goat trail; but you have to cross the ominously named Calfkiller River.

Sparta is a quaint little town—not to big, and not too small—and is named after an obscure village of ancient Greece.  When we first arrived in the area, we took Buddy in to see the local vet.  The trip to the vet would set the stage for how we viewed this town, as it was a mixture of small-urban & rural.  The facility itself was very rural, located a few miles out of town on a side road that you could easily miss—twice.  In the waiting area of the vet clinic were a couple of well-dressed women who were picking-up their standard poodles.  While we waited, a vet tech told her co-worker that she needed to make a run to a farm to pick-up a dog that was sick.  Later—while we were in the exam room—there was hot commotion about whether they wanted to examine the bovine in the barn out back, or perform the exam while it’s still in the trailer.  This place catered to the spectrum that defined Sparta.

Although there is a Walmart, there is also a thriving owner-operator grocery store that is reminiscent of days-gone-by.  The isles are a bit narrower, and the gourmet items are sparse; but the owner “Tom” knows all his customers by their names as he greets them amongst the isles.  He and his brother have been running this store since forever; and the clientele are fiercely loyal to his continued personalized service.

The Dodge dealership was full of friendly folks who worked Hank in for routine maintenance, and didn’t clean us out doing so.  They were also quick to point out some of their favorite places to eat in town; and offered to network me with a local historian who could give me a tour of the tri-county area…for free.

Deb at the UPS depot was a gem; helping me navigate the (new to me) system of shipping items back to our basecamp in Virginia using my newly-created UPS account.  She further networked me with the local propane company so I could keep our furnace and stove working.  And speaking of the propane company…the ladies who work the office are spirited, witty, and know how to sling a 40# cylinder into the back of a pick-up.

The local pharmacy was very clutch in their service & professionalism.  Kristy's pain medication was from another county, her insurance from another region, and our physical address...well...was a moving target.  Although this would normally launch red flags, the staff quickly made sense of our predicament and squared us away.

Across the street from the pharmacy is a gourmet coffee shop that puts that Seattle brand to shame; and around the corner is an "outdoors store" that caters to both outdoor activities—hunting & fishing.  You won't find any high-end, Everest-tested apparel in this store, but you will find a self-service bait machine out front.  If you find yourself in a fishing-bind at 3am, you can pull up and throw a couple of quarters in this Coke-machine-look-alike and get a package of nightcrawlers.  Bet you can't find THAT in a big city.

The town of Sparta does have that small town charm, and when I asked local folks if they would live anywhere else, they all said “NO.”  It is the hometown of bluegrass legend Lester Flatt, as well as the Lester Flatt Memorial Bluegrass Day held annually in Liberty Square.  Sparta also has an operational drive-in movie theater that is open seasonally.  These rare entertainment venues are disappearing from the American landscape, but the locals provide enough support to keep this piece of Americana thriving.

Panorama of the Sparta Drive-In

Although we only spend about a month in the area, the warm & welcoming residents provided me with a respectable rolodex of who's who in Sparta.  The best description I can give this town is "it's what every small town should strive to be."


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Step On A Crack...

“…break your mama’s back.” ~ Devo, Whip It

Thinking about how to begin....where to start. They say comedy follows tragedy, and with the event somewhat distantly behind me, I am able to (kinda) grin when reflecting.  "Trip-Splat" comes to mind as a favorite saying of Wes,' as he watches someone about to fall.  "I put the ‘Fall' into Fall Creek Falls.”   "Broke Back Mountain" also hazily surfaces in the frontal lobe; as does the song "Bust A Move."  No, that doesn't work.  How about the classic line “Help!  I've fallen and I can't get up!"  Yeah, that's more appropriate.  

It was indeed a beautiful start to the New Year.  We—like hikers and rangers in parks all across the country—participated in the "First Hike" of our own despite the cold weather.  None of us were ready for the park's "officlal" first hike—a 12-mile ranger-guided loop—so we did our own along a less traveled 4-mile loop called the “Paw-Paw Trail.”  After a wonderful day out hiking...without slipping on the ice…without tripping over a log…and only having one small slip while walking along a rotting log…I fell in a statistically more frequent location: inside our home (RV).  While walking too fast...in socks…on steps...on a carpet runner that wasn't secure...I slipped down a whole 2 steps….Trip- splat- indeed. 

Not sure if I landed on my rear, or if my back hit the steps, but I literally had fallen and could not get up.  The first responder to the RV was a young ranger shaking with adrenaline as I was her "very first real life patient."  She was so cute.  With a little teaching from my prior Paramedic days, she successfully took my (now elevated) high blood pressure.  I assured her that I was in a lot of pain and this was normal.  Once the local volunteer rescue squad arrived, they also got some practice as I told them anything but a backboard was impossible.  I thought a scoop stretcher might work, but they didn't have one.  Oh man did that roll onto the backboard hurt!  With our quiet campsite now doubled in population and illuminated by EMS disco lights, I was loaded into the ambulance for a 30-minute trip.   

The goat trail that Wes described Hank struggling to climb upon our arrival at Falls Creek was now providing a truly harrowing and excruciatingly painful ride down the twisty winding roads in an ambulance going a little too fast for my taste.  When the stretcher stopped the side-to-side swaying, we had arrived at the tiny 3-bed emergency room in the town of Pikeville.  

“...Prob'ly die in a small town...And that's prob'ly where they'll bury me.” ~ John Mellencamp, Small Town

Have you ever noticed how life in small towns always seems a little bit slower pace than you’re accustomed to? This is normally a charming trait—like during an afternoon of window shopping—but not as endearing when you’re in pain.  Although the ambulance driver did all he could to prove this small town pace to be an unfounded stereotype, once inside the local hospital (which also doubled as a nursing home), I was reminded that rural America is on a different rhythm.

Shortly after being checked into the ER, Wes arrived with The Boys in tow.  The attending physician astutely chose to get a CT of my spine; however, the tech on-call was physically working at another hospital…45-minutes away.  Once the radiology tech arrived, my gurney was wheeled outside into 20-degree weather..down the bumpy ramp and into the “Cat-Scan trailer” out back.  This was a bonus round for me as I thought all the bumps and jostling of the ambulance ride was over. 

I suspected something was broken but I didn't tell Wes.  Every time I had previously broken something, I knew it.  Some of you can relate; somehow you learn to gauge the severity of the injuries based upon levels of pain.  Well; not one, but two (Ah-Ah-Ah; The Count, Sesame Street) vertebra.  Fortunately, (yeah I know....how is there a fortunately to that diagnosis?) these fractures were not displaced, and of the transverse process.  Those are the little spiky things that stick out on each vertebra, and they did their job.  They protect the real important bone that your spinal cord runs through and are supposed to break and absorb impact before a major, potentially life threatening injury to your spine can occur.  Literally human crumple zones.  

So, Yep. I broke my back. On the mountain.  For real.

While I was awaiting the radiological interpretation from another location, Wes was in & out, managing the hounds.  They were hanging out in Hank, but the temperature required him to frequently go out to start the truck and keep the temperature comfortable for them.  I would later learn that one of them was so upset at all of the late-night excitement, that he vomited numerous times throughout the night.  More bonus material.

After several hours, the attending doc finished a final consultation with an ortho doc (located in a big city somewhere) and told me that:
- My back was indeed broken, and
- There was no indication that surgery would be required, (whew) and
- I was free to go home, rest and heal (uhhh, we are traveling?)

L3

L4

"I get knocked down, but I get up again.  You're never going to keep me down.” ~ Chumbawumba; I Get Knocked Down (But I Get Up Again)

Just before the sun cracked the eastern sky, we slowly motored up the Pikeville goat trail in a vomit-scented truck.  With great care and assistance, I managed to get out of the truck, across the campsite, and up/into the RV.  After navigating past the “scene of the crime”, I climbed into bed (as did everyone), and slept until noon.

Over the next several days, Wes & I began to learn new roles, as well as learn the limitations of multiple infrastructures.  Not only my limitations, but also those of Glory’s (the RV) cold tolerances, and our access to continued medical care.  After several “spirited” discussions with TriCare representatives located in warm cubicles back east, I received a reference to see an Orthopedic physician in Cookeville (TN).  A 2-hour round-trip trek in a truck built for work…not luxurious comfort.  I remind myself this is better than a referral to Nashville…2+ hours each way.

“It's not a season-ending injury….but raises the question whether he can tolerate a certain amount of pain…” ~ Jerry Jone; Dallas Cowboys Owner & CEO

I apparently have more in common with Tony Romo than just our mutual love for football and Texas.  It seems we both broke the exact same transverse processes in our lumbar spine.  “A Tony Romo Special'” were the words that the orthopedic doctor described the findings of my CT scans.  "Well THAT'S great news!" I think to myself as my left leg begins to go numb, and the knives jabbing into my lower back seem much hotter and larger that 14F day.  

He assured me that I could "play football" in a week if I wanted to; as evidenced by Mr. Romo's game presence a couple weeks after sustaining his lumbar transverse fractures. All I could muster was a weak smile and he verbalized “You look really uncomfortable."  Yeah, that's why I don't play poker, I thought...my face gives me away every time. 
           
We left the Ortho Doc relieved that surgery was indeed not required, but he did say "it's gonna hurt like hell”…and he was right!  This fall has put me in touch with a phrase I have heard but never quite understood—white-hot searing pain.  Those who know me well will attest that I generally grit my teeth and bear it.  This injury was too much for my will-power.  Wes was my hero.  He took care of me.  He cooked and cleaned, walked the dogs, did laundry, and brought me tea. He made me a contraption—"La Trapeze de Serta”—to pull myself up out of bed. He even dressed me when I couldn't bend over.  I spent the first week in bed slipping in and out of sleep/consciousness; with pain medication on board and a body that took over from my mind and made me rest.   

"La Trapeze de Serta”

"Success is the sum of small efforts repeated day in and day out.”  ~ Robert Collier

The second week was better.  I was no longer anxiously awaiting the next dose of pain medicine, and my mobility seemed to slowly improve.  The streak of bitterly cold weather had finally broken.  No one complained about the week I spent in bed, as the temperatures outside were single digits with sub zero wind chills.  Even the boys would run back to the fifth wheel when Wes would take them out.  In the days after visiting the ortho doc I was itching to get outside and at least walk a little.  He said I could even do (gentle) yoga...but Wes reminded me that he did not say I could go out and walk and slip on ice for exercise.  I argued that Tony Romo played football; but Wes also reminded me I was not Tony Romo, and despite what the Percocet was telling me—I was not invincible.  So I reluctantly took it slowly, learning that the back braces were actually my friend no matter how stupid they looked; and that walking around a fifth wheel does not equate to our normal 1-2 mile dog walks.  Oh, and walking sticks are important too.  Pain is a good governor. 

My (forced) New Years resolution is to be patient and slow down.  Not much yoga yet, but the walks are getting longer and the pain is just nagging instead of stabbing.  By the time we arrive in the western part of the country (where the really big mountains are), I will be ready!   And more patient.....:-) 

Until next time....your "broke back" guest blogger is signing off. 

 KLW (Kracked Lumbar Wobbler)

Petrifying Panoramas, Puritanical Pines, & Paw-Paw Paws

With the main waterfall hikes under our belt, we continued to look for more off-the-beaten-path paths that would still give us some quality trail time.  It was New Year’s Day and we wanted to ring-in the year with a traditional “first hike.”  We hit pay-dirt with the Paw-Paw Trail.

Over the edge view from the Fall Creek Falls Overlook (Paw-Paw Trail)

Not far from the trailhead we reached a diversionary trail that touted a view of Fall Creek Falls from a distant northern perspective.  Never being the type to pass up a waterfall sighting, we headed down this single-track pedestrian towards the gorge.  What we found at the end of this trail was impressive and alarming.  The trail dead-ended at a straight vertical cliff…down to the bottom of the gorge.  It did indeed have a distant view of Fall Creek Falls, but the 3-meter ledge that provided that spectacular view also left us in a state of acute awareness with regards to our footing.  The distant sounds of the falls accompanied the harmony of the river below and the wind in the trees around us. 

"In nature there are neither rewards nor punishments—there are consequences." ~ Robert Ingersoll

The casualties of weather warfare

Back on the trail, I took a sit in the leaf-litter while Kristy and The Boys checked out all the plants, shapes, and smells.  I was busy checking out the larger landscape features around me.  Off the trail was a  monstrous shell of a tree—blackened on the inside, with large sections of intact trunk strewn nearby.  Further uphill lay the remains of dozens of mature trees—their skeletons randomly piled onto one another.  

I realized that I was standing on a battlefield where the fury of nature lashed out at itself.  Thunderbolts rained from above, reducing decades of growth to carbon embers.  Invisible squalls blitzing through the weald—overwhelming their rooted anchors and leaving them prostrated on the substratum once deeded to them.  Nature can be hard.

Only moments prior we were breathlessly captivated by the view of the gorge; yet that view was the result of another prodigious show of natural force.  Some 450-million years ago, The "Great Pangaea Pileup of Cumberland County" formed these mountains which rivaled Everest (in height) before a 150-million year period of erosion left us with the smoothly polished ranges that we recognize today.  To sit beneath these centenary timbers while trying to appreciate the violent force that created the surrounding beauty leaves one both awestruck and humbled.

"And he puzzled and puzzled 'till his puzzler was sore.”  ~ Dr. Seuss; How the Grinch Stole Christmas

With an acute awareness of my surroundings—and now with a LOT on my mind (more than I started the day with)—I thought a continued walk in the woods would help soothe the encephalon excitation.  It was shortly thereafter that we came upon an informational sign that gave some interesting facts about the “Virgin Forest” that we were hiking through.  Virgin Forest? Wha?

I had seen this term in the past, but didn't give much thought until I was standing amongst the aged giants that were labeled as such.  They didn't look like virgins.  They were several decades into their lives, sizable in stature as they towered over the forest floor, and bore the scars of a life-long battle against insects, woodpeckers, lightening strikes, and all the other plagues that nature could throw at them.  A cursory glance within the leaf litter revealed acorns and female Conifer cones (also known as "ovulate cones); as well as knee-high oak and pine saplings sprouting up from this composting blanket.  Apparently there is a bit of late-night promiscuity occurring within the virgin forest.  Nature may be hard and violent, but it is not abstinent.

The Immaculate Conifer-ception?

There’s nothing virgin about a forest.  These forests have been in their sprout-grow-REPRODUCE-die-compost cycle for…well...ever.  It would be the same as calling water from the deepest spring "virgin water"; ignoring the fact that everyone on our solar sphere drinks water that has been recycled over and over for tens of thousands of years (should make that high-priced bottled water less appealing now, eh?).   My assumption is that this term refers to man’s interaction with this forest.  Although this forest has been propagating for megannums, it has been spared the axe and saw…for now.

It may seem trivial to those who haven’t spent time amongst the tall timbers, but these are sacred places where Our Species gain inspiration.  I've never seen any paintings inspired by the inside of furniture factories; nor have I ever  read any classical passages that lauded the beauty and grandiose of a warehouse full of coffee tables.  For that, I am exceedingly grateful to both those who decided that this forest be spared from the "harvesting of renewable resources”; and the residents of The Volunteer State who bear the fiscal burden to keep this forest “chaste.”

"Ever wonder where you'd end up if you took your dog for a walk and never once pulled back on the leash?” ~ Robert Brault

Cable Trail: A Venturesome Venue

Our next intersection was the “Cable Trail”—a trail that you’re welcome to hike, but make sure you hitch yourself to the cable as you descend down to the valley floor.  We opted to save this one for a later date—convincing ourselves that The Hounds needed to be fed soon—but secretly knowing that we didn’t have enough gas in the tank to tackle a round-trip ravine run.  The Boys approved of our decision to put preservation ahead of pride and head back to camp; and rewarded us by patiently accommodating our desires to take a paronomasia photograph.

Eight Paws on the Paw-Paw Trail

With the sun buried in the western sky, full-bellies all-around, and the memories of an epic hiking day fresh in our minds; we discussed our next adventure.

"...those little words came to bear an ominous weight, the menace of an imminent tragedy."  - Neal Peart, Traveling Music: The Soundtrack to My Life and Times

Before midnight struck, a stranger calmly presented a difficult question.  Not difficult in the answer, but difficult in the realization of the potential impact it would have on our lives.

"Bledsoe EMS 911. What is the nature of your emergency?"

wWw

Piney Creek Falls (TN)

Like a ribbon of silver streaming through a green velvet pillow, Piney Creek Falls cascades 75’ into a rugged, lush gorge.  The trees here have never been touched by the axe or cross-cut saw.  The narrow, “V”-shaped gorge below gives refuge to many large eastern hemlock, yellow birch, and yellow poplar.  Powerful and remote, Piney Creen Falls is the park’s most beautiful waterfall to many visitors.   - Wayside Informational Marker

Piney Creek Bridge

Piney Creek Falls is a hidden gem within Fall Creek Falls State Park.  Located at the end of a paved park thoroughfare, the falls can be enjoyed via two distinct trailheads; the Piney Creek trail and the falls overlook.  

View from the suspension bridge of Kristy & The boys cliffside at Piney Creek

Piney Creek trail is a moderate, well-maintained trail that leads to the highest suspension bridge we experienced to date.  It is solidly anchored to the sheer rock face of the upper trail, and is not obscured by any type of safety barrier that one would normally expect on a public trail with a 40’ cliff adjacent to the path.  

After crossing the suspension bridge, the trail descends towards the river, presenting an impressive panorama of rushing headwaters with a backdrop of sheer rock walls.  To the unassuming hiker, this river looks like any other aquatic flow; however, a mere 100-meters around a blind-bend in the stream is the top of Piney Creek Falls.  An unfortunate slip into the fast-flowing river at this junction may prove to be unrecoverable.

Wes & The Boys next to the unassuming Piney Creek

Although the landscape was nothing less than magnificent, the close proximity of dangerous cliffs & impending cascades reminded us of the perils that nature can sometime present.  We keep our hounds—as well as ourselves—on a short leash.

Kristy & The Boys enjoying a sunset viewing of Piney Creek Falls

The Piney Creek Falls overlook trailhead is adjacent to the Piney Creek trailhead, but places the objective viewer around the aforementioned bend in the river.  The falls are wide and powerful, giving an appreciation for the destination of the waterway that flows under the suspension bridge a short distance away.  Similar in geography, the overlook sits on a rocky outcropping that provides an unobstructed view of the falls; but demands respect of one’s surroundings and sure-footedness.

wWw

The Cascades at Cane Creek Falls (TN)

A short walk from our campsite sits the Fall Creek Falls Nature Center, a bi-level structure that sits adjacent to The Cascades leading to Cane Creek Falls.

Suspension bridge across top of The Cascades

On October 28th, 1882, Leonard Hudson Bickford wrote a letter to his son Charles, and told him how to cut the timbers for a mill they were to build beside theses cascades Leonard Bickford came to this area from New Hampshire with a knowledge of building water-powered mills. The Bickford Mill was not the familiar water wheel type, but was powered by a high-speed turbine. A log dam, chinked with mud and leaves, diverted the creek to the metal turbine. Iron pins, used to anchor the dam and the mill, can still be seen atop the Cascades. 

Corn was the only grain taken at the mill, and during good water conditions, 30 to 40 bushels per day could be ground. During low water conditions, the miller had to wait for water to back-up behind the dam. Wagons loaded with corn would come down the hill on the trail (from where this video was taken) and deliver to a loading dock on the side of the mill. While their corn was ground into meal or feed, farmers from miles around would sit, chew tobacco, and catch-up on local news. The mill served as their community center. 

A sash mill and a shingle mill was also operated by the turbine’s water power. The The sash mill produced the material for a three room log and frame house built near this site. This was a convenient home for the miller’s family, since he often worked late into the night to finish a neighbor’s grindings. 

In March of 1929, violent flood waters swept the mill over the Cascades and Cane Creek Falls. The mill had stood for forty years and served the people well. Imagine how it might have been, holding a team of houses by theses beautiful Cascades, waiting your turn to have a wagonload of corn ground at the Bickford Mill. 

- Historical marker located adjacent to The Cascades.

Callie sizing-up the next obstacle

After successfully navigating across a higher and more “springy” suspension pedestrian bridge with The Boys, we spent some time at the base of the Cascades; taking in the misty downdraft and aquatic hissing as the water washed over the lip.  From here we backtracked over the suspension bridge, which was now becoming “old hat” for The Boys, and headed to Cane Creek Falls Overlook.  

Cane Creek Falls

The trail to Cane Creek Falls Overlook is an elongated loop that can be navigated via “The Gorge Trail.” providing breathtaking views of the valley below.  This trail is anchored at the far end by the Fall Creek Falls Overlook, and runs a twisty parallel to the high road “The Woodland Trail.” 

Our hike to Cane Creek Falls Overlook on The Gorge Trail was moderate in difficulty at best, with the trail being very well marked and maintained.  Although it was a balmy 40-degrees, we kept our Gore-Tex zipped as we walked through the shaded and breezy trail.  The last several meters to the overlook requires a bit more mountain goat agility, with 2-3’ drops across large boulders to the view at a rope-barrier precipice.  After taking in the spectacular view from the overlook, we continued down The Gorge Trail, stopping along the way to enjoy hidden outcroppings with eagle views.

Kristy & Callie discover another epic view

Kristy capturing another memory while The Boys take a break

We reached the terminus of the trail at Fall Creek Falls Overlook, took a few more photos, reloaded on fluid and calories, and headed back via The Woodland Trail.  The terrain was much different as we bisected the mountain.  Reclusive springs released small threads of water from their underground captivity; granting their freedom as they start their long journey to the oceans.  Hidden pockets of leaf-covered mire—a mixture of trapped spring water and decades of rich, decomposing forrest litter—peppered the trail.  Our boots sank into this muddy mixture, as it climbed above our ankles and demanded equal attention amongst the diverse landscape.  Rocks smoothly worn by centuries of natures rough hands; perpetually damp, providing a sustainable nursery for the various mosses.  The mosses beautifully decorating the terrain with abstract patterns, but dangerously  creating the traction-less surface akin to an icy oil-slick.  The trek back was equal in grade, but much more technical; and we finally pulled off the trail as the sun dipped below the western edge of the Cumberland Plateau. 

Sunset across the Cumberland Plateau

wWw