The Lonely Cliffs of Viking Mountain
Sometimes called “the Bald Mountains”, its highest point is known by many official sources as “Camp Creek Bald”, but perhaps most famously known locally for the failed Ski Resort called Viking Mountain, this range is one that continually captivates me. We will call it Viking Mountain this time, to refer to the range that runs from the Old Asheville Highway to the west, and to Rocky Fork State Park to the east.
On the weekend after a serious snowstorm, I naturally decided to venture up the more remote side of this range, making an approximately 10 mile roundtrip circuit to a stunning vista known as Baxter Cliffs. This would be my first time up this particular trail.
Snow up to my ankles - Canonet QL17 Kodak Gold 200
On this day I was alone, but one could either be reassured or perhaps more perturbed to know that one is never truly alone in the wildlands of Appalachia. If you feel as though you are being watched, that is both your paranoia acting up, and an ancient human instinct you may never have felt if you so occupy your mind as to bury it when you’re in the wild. Regardless, the sentiment is almost certainly well founded, as life abounds in the wilderness, and it smells, hears, and sees you in that order, long before you are even aware of it. Sometimes, if one is very still, walks in the snow without a sound, wears no obvious scents, or takes care to mask them, nature can be seen and lived amongst in ways that few know possible.
This is all to say of course that I was not in fact alone, and now I will share with you all my great evidence of this:
The paw of the mighty Black Bear, our most timid of fearsome predators.
I am not sure whose tracks I followed all the way to this hidden vale.
I walked through the most fascinating of places on my climb up to the main ridge. It is common to gradually come up ridges by switchback, and for the trail to run alongside streams and hollers that lead down the sides of the mountains. In most cases, these features narrow continuously and then rise steeply to join the primary ridge from which they run off. In this case, the top of the holler opened up to a broader flat meadow that was undoubtedly a wellspring of life on the mountain. Here there was an abundance of tracks and signs of life. This range has always possessed a sort of unsettling aura that is only amplified when left alone with one’s wandering mind. I felt so strongly that I was an unwelcome visitor in a place that was perhaps too pure or too remote to host me. It was quaint, peaceful, and to linger there would be a great pleasure. However, despite the great abundance of wonderful spots to camp, I could not help but think that if I was on such a trip I would press on to a place that felt a little less lived in, so as not to overstay my welcome with the more regular residents. This time I was only passing through in a day, and while a long lunch break here could be pleasant, I always found myself looking over my shoulder to see what might be there, and my thoughts wandered to if such a need might arise for me to unbuckle the flap of my holster. No such need ever arose, and I reaffirmed that I was an experienced mountaineer, and such worries should be of no concern to me. I trudged on, head held high, but eyes and ears ever open.
The end of the trail, a stunning vista of Baxter Cliffs on the right, and Camp Creek Bald to the left.
Here at the end of my trail I stopped for a good long while and breathed the fresh mountain air. In my pack I carried an extra coat, and my stillness made it a necessity. I began partaking in my hobby of photography fervently, taking such an opportunity to put my equipment through its paces. I made great use of the self timers to take one of my now most beloved self portraits.
A new favorite view of mine. Canon AE-1 Kodak Gold 200.
I sat here for a while, and in accordance with the season was quite melancholic as I looked on the distant peaks and remembered my many trips to them over the last several years. The bright sun brought warmth and happy thoughts of what is still yet to come.
My Canonet here reminds me that its light seals must’ve fully deteriorated sometime in the last few decades.
Here was some of the most rugged country in all of North Carolina, and for that, all of the Southern Appalachians. So sparse a place, for people that is, it could perhaps be the New York City of deer, squirrels, and possums.
After thoroughly enjoying that magical spice of life that is accomplishment, reflection, and an appreciation of God’s gifts to us, I began the process of walking away. The rest of my day would consist of taking my journey in reverse, to return to those so very different, but so equally precious things that awaited me at home. I will always feel the draw to the wild places, the remote edges of this world we roam, and while I am there, I bask in the glory of it. But there is always a limit to such things, and after what truly amounts to a shockingly small amount of time, I find myself withdrawing back to my content and tranquil life at home. I return to my loving wife, and mischievous dog, to sit on my porch and hear the birds sing and children play. The wind will blow the chimes on our porches, and the cars and bicycles will roll past. Eventually I might see a leaf take flight, and it will draw my eyes to the massive slopes of Holston Mountain, and make my heart flutter at the thought of adventure. Then it all begins again.