It did rain last night. The trees were still dripping when we woke up this morning. But our picnic table is perfectly dry. And the little awning that extends from the screen shelter over the back of the Teardrop kept the raindrops off of us as we made coffee, hot chocolate and hot cereal for breakfast. We’re only two days into this trip, and already it might be the wettest we’ve ever taken. No one ever told me that the Smokies get more than 80 inches of rain annually -- more than anywhere else in the country except the Pacific Northwest. So, after the Teardrop, of course, this shelter is the best thing ever.
We set out first-thing for the Smokemont Riding Stables, just down the road from our campground, where we embarked on a two-and-a-half-hour, seven-mile trail ride. Led by our guides, Sonny and Robert, our horses climbed a ridge above the campground to a gushing mountain stream (really the Oconaluftee River), which we followed further up the mountain to a waterfall. The route took us through thick rhododendron groves (although it looks like we just missed the blooming season), and past rocky crags sprouting thick moss and abundant ferns. It struck me that this is really a rainforest. Everything is so lush and dewy; there is a constant dribble of water from the leaves, down the rocks, across the path -- and not just because it rained last night. The Smokies are so-named for the mist and low clouds that perpetually shroud the mountaintops. Due in part to this constant humidity and moderate temperatures, the area is home to an astounding diversity of plants and animals. More than 1,500 flowering plant species have been identified in the park, and some 100 species of native trees grow here -- more than in any other North American national park.
Anyway, at one point on the trail ride, we passed a backcountry campsite just as a young shirtless man emerged from his tent. This sight (rightly) spooked my horse, Gus, who reared up on his hind legs and then turned and started to bolt in the other direction. Just as I got him under control, Keith’s horse, who had been behind me, spooked, too, and made like he was going to run off, as well. We both got them under control in just a few seconds, but it got my heart beating pretty quick.
During the ride, I was struck by the idea that this is the quietest our children have ever been while awake. Ever. They were completely silent during the entire 2.5-hour ride. The kids were each separated by a horse-length, of course, and they were so absorbed in the ride, so tuned in to their own horses and, in Clare’s words, “I was so busy paying attention to nature,” that they didn’t have a chance to needle each other. After moderating ten hours’ worth of squabbles in the car yesterday, I was grateful for the peace this morning.
After the ride, we went into the small town of Cherokee, just south of the park, for lunch. We were hoping for some cell-phone reception (there’s not much), so that Keith could call the tent manufacturer and have them, somehow, send us a replacement pole. As it turns out, they don’t have a replacement pole, and the granola dude answering the phones at Sierra Designs, I shit you not, told Keith to find himself some duct tape and some young willow branches with which to build a splint for the broken tent pole. Right. So, we’ll see how that goes.
We spent the rest of the afternoon at the Oconaluftee Visitor’s Center in the park, obtaining Junior Ranger activity books and poking around the Mountain Farm Museum -- a collection of rustic pioneer buildings. It was getting warm, our energy was lagging, and the kids were approaching their Junior Ranger books with less-than-halfhearted enthusiasm, when Keith suddenly perked up -- convinced that he saw action movie star Steven Seagal perusing the historic exhibits along with us. In fact, with a giddy, wonder-struck, certainly stalker-like fixation, Keith tailed this guy for 30 minutes. Like, this star sighting made Keith’s year. Like, if I had seen Ewan McGregor or Hugh Jackman. But this was Steven Seagal, who was cool for like a week and a half in 1988. Hanging out at the visitors center. In the Smoky Mountains. (“I’m telling you, Amy, he has the same barrel-chested build, and, look -- the same ponytail!”) Perhaps it goes without saying: Keith finally reported back that, no, it actually wasn’t Steven Seagal after all. But then he regaled me with a description of this defining Steven Seagal movie in which his character battles a pair of rasta-ninja evil twins. This, my friends, is a slice of my life.
From the visitors center, we drove about 20 miles to the parking lot near the top of the park’s highest peak, Clingmans Dome, and then strolled the half-mile path that leads to the observation tower at the top (6,643 ft. elevation). (The path intersects the Appalachian Trail at this point, and we saw a few bedraggled, bewildered hikers (think: the lead singer from Spin Doctors) stumble into the parking lot and mumble something about they haven't seen civilization in weeks. The direct quote, I believe, was "I'm almost glad to see an f---ing car." ) We didn’t stay long; the weather had turned cool and wet again. We have discovered that the wet weather and the temperature fluctuations between the mountaintops and the lower elevations make it a challenge to get dressed in the morning. It may be cloudy and damp and cool one minute, but it suddenly warms up when the sun breaks through. And a 20-minute car ride into the mountains means a 20-degree temperature drop. We found ourselves constantly shedding and donning layers throughout the day.
Back at the campsite, we enjoyed chili chicken tacos for dinner, and, of course, s’mores for dessert. Also, ample amounts of chardonnay and IPA for the adults. It was a long day, after all.
No comments:
Post a Comment