Since it’s early autumn and there were no big SEC football games during the afternoon, the wife and I thought we’d spend some time in the mountains. We recently climbed the Lookout Tower at Frying Pan Mountain in the Pisgah National Forest. Black Balsam Knob Mountain is about ten miles farther south on the Blue Ridge Parkway, and Skinny Dip Falls is a popular area about three miles down the valley from the mountain top.

Black Balsam Knob Mountain is also called Black Balsam Bald because of its unique tree line. The whole area better resembles the Rocky Mountains than the Appalachians. It’s the only mountain in the area that features so many clusters of evergreens and a grassy top. It’s only about a mile hike from the road to the peak and it’s really easy, considering the elevation involved.

We got there pretty early, so there weren’t too many people around. But once we got down to the two waterfalls around Skinny Dip, the park was more crowded than I’ve ever seen it. All in all, we hiked about six miles and stopped in Brevard, NC on the way home to grab some lunch. The quaint mountain town hosts a small college with a famous infestation of mutant, albino squirrels. I snapped a bunch of photos and posted them below.

Click on the first image to enlarge, then use your right arrow key to advance:

Some days are ordinary. Other days are extraordinary. Yesterday was what I refer to as a bookmark day.

I woke up in a church where I had spent the night volunteering as a chaperon for several homeless families, which provided me with some very valuable perspective. Next, I picked up some Chik-Fil-A for myself and the wife and headed home. After breakfast, we drove to the Blue Ridge Parkway to spend the day in the mountains. Parts of the Parkway are closed for half of the year due to icy road conditions, so we try to make the most of it in the summertime. Once autumn rolls around, the area gets clogged with narcissistic motorcyclists, lane-hogging RV’ers, and tortoise-paced retirees who putt from town to town to watch the leaves change.

We decided to finally climb the fabled Frying Pan Mountain Lookout Tower, which sits atop Pisgah National Forest in North Carolina. The tower was built in 1941 and is around 70 feet tall. It provides panoramic views of Cold Mountain, Pisgah National Forest, Shining Rock Wilderness Area, and Mount Mitchell, which is the highest point west of the Rockies.

You couldn’t paint a prettier day. Aside from some brisk winds, it was picturesque. And the Blue Ridge Mountains were proving to be a little smoky, which is always fun. We had no trouble finding the entrance to the trail, which is marked by a gated gravel road and a narrow hiking trail. As we entered the trail, we encountered an elderly couple that was camping nearby. They wasted no time in telling us in excessive detail just how many bears were in the immediate area. As their warnings became more dire, so did the pain in my bicep from the wife’s vise-like grip.

As they spoke, a fog started to roll in. It was like the opening scene of a horror film.

You know how all horror movies seem to be the same? You shake your head disapprovingly as the main characters get stranded in the middle of nowhere – without cell coverage – and decide to abandon the main road for a sketchy dirt road that’s always steeped in an eerie mist. Then you think “what are they doing” as they meander up to a shack with dead animals hanging from the eaves and bloody farm tools everywhere. Then you say “these idiots deserve what’s coming” when they voluntarily walk into the house of horrors.

That’s what the onset of our hike was like. As we entered the forest, the fog continued to creep in and the wind contorted into a low howl. We were utterly alone and we could only see about twenty-five feet in front of us.

I’m not going to lie; I grew up watching Gentle Ben and Yogi Bear, so I was eager to spy a bear until I saw two large piles of what I can only assume was black bear scat. That’s when the fantasy edged closer into the realm of reality and my eagerness turned into anxiety. At that point the wind started to howl and the fog thickened. My mind began to replay scenes from every horror movie I’d ever seen. At any moment, I expected a young, scantily-clad Jamie Lee Curtis to run shrieking by.

The wife, being a fervid Jazzercier, was forcing me to literally run up the mountain. She was so sure we’d encounter Gentle Ben’s angry, inbred cousin that she was clutching my keys between her knuckles in a sort of ‘key claw.’ I had to stop her halfway up the mountain to tell her that I couldn’t keep up. She didn’t want to ease up at all until I explained that, at that pace, I’d have no energy left to mitigate the inevitable bear attack. She slowed down at once.

As we walked through the dense fog and forest, I got the distinct impression that Hansel and Gretel had come this way. It didn’t help the overall mood when I casually commented that we were in a part of the forest where “no one could hear us scream.” And the wife’s attitude worsened considerably when she asked, “what do you do if a bear comes out,” and I sarcastically retorted, “I run away faster than you do.”

We couldn’t see the lookout tower until we were upon it. By that point, the wind was whipping faster than anything I’ve ever walked through. I’m sure it’s always windy at the top of the mountain, but this had to have something to do with Hurricane Irene, which was directly to the east of us at the time. It wasn’t stormy, meaning there wasn’t any thunder or lightning. It was as if we were in a damp, high-speed cloud that was more fun than any amusement park ride I’ve ever ridden. You could actually lean into it a little and not fall over.

At this point, sane people would turn around. I don’t want to get into a thought experiment about what it says about me, but my gut reaction was one of childlike eagerness. I figured that we’d come all this way and we might as well climb the damn tower. The wife wasn’t pleased, but she struck a confident pose. I was pretty impressed.

It was with mixed feelings as we started to climb the tower. When we got one flight up the stairs, it became obvious that we were battling 50 mile-per-hour winds, and that’s a conservative estimate. The tower was shaking like a twizzler in a toddler’s hands. The warped, rusty stairs were wet and slippery.

The wife shot me that glare that every husband recognizes as the “I do this at your peril” face. I responded sincerely that “we don’t have to go any higher.” As soon as the words left my lips, she scuttled down the steps. I lingered a while with a boyish grin on my face and then worked my way back down to the base of the tower. I gently rubbed the wife’s shoulder and asked intrepidly, “are you ready to go back down and face the great bear menace?” When she hesitated, I realized that there was a window for a little more adventure. I was shocked when she boldly asserted, “I’m gonna do this thing,” and worked her way back up the wobbly staircase.

By the time we got to the top (or as far as you can go before you encounter a gate), the wind was rushing even faster. That inherent voice inside me started to assert with vehemence that, “if this thing topples, we don’t walk away.” But I wrestled my common sense into submission and enjoyed my time on the trembling tower.

Being the wise, amateur historian that I am, I decided it was more important to capture the moment on film than to hold onto the rails. I took this 30-second video:

For a comparison, click here to see what the view looks like on a clear day.

We finally descended the vibrating staircase and stepped onto the damp, but stable, ground. As we worked our way back down the path, the wind slowed, the skies started to clear, and the fog thinned a bit. I snapped a few more pictures that showed the area in greater detail.

I looked to the right and spied a power line that a bear had recently used to sharpen its claws and mark its territory. Our pace immediately sped from casual to brisk. After another bend in the trail, we passed a single, elderly fellow on his way up the mountain. I murmured to the wife, “both of us can outrun that guy.” We giggled to ourselves and our mood relaxed.

As we finally emerged from the forest and started driving south down the Blue Ridge Parkway, the skies cleared up completely. It was as if the entire episode had been engineered for our pleasure.

From there, we drove to downtown Asheville, where we had an excellent meal on the patio at Bistro 1896. I highly recommend the food and the people-watching. Next, I calmed the wife’s nerves with a dozen cinnamon-apple donuts from Sky Top Orchard. Finally, we drove back home where we sat on the front porch swing and enjoyed the unseasonably cool weather over a glass of white wine.

Like I said, it was a bookmark day.

Here are the pictures of the hike. Click on the first image to enlarge, then use your right arrow key to advance:

We’ll go back and get some pictures of the mountaintop panorama on a prettier day. I got a picture of a coyote that walked right past me on Mount Mitchell a few years ago. Maybe next time we’re at the lookout tower, I’ll finally get to see a black bear.

One a side note, the wife and I recently revisited Issaqueena Falls and got some pictures of the view from the hidden ledge beneath the waterfall.

Claude Monet may have been the first to turn haystacks into art, but I think these pictures the wife took stand on their own.

Click on the first image to enlarge, then use your right arrow key to advance:

Since when is Maryland known for chicken?

Crabs? Yes. Turtle soup? Sure. Fried Chicken? I don’t think so.

As I’ve mentioned before, I love driving. Most people think of driving or riding in a car as a means to an end. I think of it as an end in itself. I’m so enthralled by all the Americana out there that I always take the long way home (of course, “always” means “whenever the wife lets me”).

I was cleaning out the digital camera the other day and realized we had a lot of pictures that were getting old. I thought I’d throw them into a blog post just to get them online. They were taken at various parks, farms, small towns, and roadsides across North Carolina, South Carolina, and Georgia.

Click on the first image to enlarge, then use your right arrow key to advance:

Does the railroad picture above make anyone else think of Stand By Me?

By the time the bar opened, the tornado sirens started to wail. We didn’t think much of it as tornado sirens are pretty common in the deep South. Still, everyone kept an eye to the sky just in case. After a while, a murmur came from the back porch as it appeared that the storm was forming a funnel. The smart people dashed for cover in doorways and windowless rooms. The rest of us Darwin Award candidates ran outside to get a better look. Like I said, we had been drinking.

You can watch as the clouds darken and the funnel forms near the center of the screen. Eventually, the F3/F4 tornado churns through town throwing debris high into the air. It started to head toward the river, stalled, and (fortunately for us morons who were filming) veered along the tree line away from our house. As usual, it looks so much smaller in the video than it did in real life and you can’t really see the jetsam being bandied about. If I had kept filming for another minute, you would have gotten to see everyone scramble as the bottom fell out and drenched everyone in the yard. I think this was was the first time I’ve ever seen my father sprint. Ever.

The closest edge of the tornado was probably 1/4 mile away from the other side of the river. If the perimeter of the storm had moved any closer to us, it could have been very bad considering how many people we had at the event.

The aftermath of the storm was pure devastation. Considering the frequency and probability of a storm like this hitting the area, I was very disappointed in the emergency response (too soon to make a joke about putting an Auburn grad in charge?) There seemed to be no communication, no news released to the public, and no plan for evacuation. McFarland had been completely closed since the tornado touched down and most of the city had gone dark, literally and figuratively. Even when I left town at 4:00 am the next morning, the policemen at the overpass barricade at 82 & University couldn’t tell me if I-59 was passable or if University was clear of debris all the way until the interstate exit.

My drive through campus revealed no real damage that I could see. Immediately after The Strip, the power had already been restored (if it was ever lost). My biggest problem came in finding a place to get gas. I was turned away at two locations along 59 North until I finally found a place near the Talladega Super Speedway. The trees along the route were already damaged in a tornado the week prior, so that wasn’t out of the ordinary. The only major damage I saw was a pile of vehicles, including an eighteen-wheeler, that looked like a collection of crushed aluminum cans. A cell tower had been toppled and lay on the ground like a mangled slinky. Miles of interstate smelled like gasoline. It wasn’t pretty, but I’m sure it was nowhere near as bad as the scene at 15th Street and McFarland.

UPDATE: It’s been less than 48 hours since the storm killed over 300 and left countless Southerners homeless and out of work. In that short time frame, the comment spammers have already started exploiting the tragedy to sell their junk.

If Dante Alighieri was alive today, he’d create a special circle of hell for these people.

Click on the first image to enlarge. It may take a moment to load, then use your right arrow key to advance:

Along the trip, we went to a farmers’ market in Silva, NC, got some barbecue in Dillsboro, NC, visited Dry Falls, Bridal Veil Falls, drove through Highlands, NC, Cashiers, NC, and took back roads all the way back home. We were in the mountains almost the entire time. After 8½ hours of winding roads, my forearms were actually sore from turning the wheel.

Here are some pictures the wife took. Like I’ve said before, she’s a lot better with a camera than I am. Click on the first image to enlarge, then use your right arrow key to advance:

FUN FACT OF THE DAY: Henry Ford, always looking to minimize waste and increase efficiency, helped advance and popularize commercial charcoal briquets made from the wood that piled up at his plant. The charcoal briquets were marketed in conjunction with his cars along the lines of, “Discover America in your Ford. Spend time camping and cooking outdoors with Ford charcoal.” The briquets were later branded under his brother-in-law’s name, Kingsford. Eventually, lots of urbanites were driving through the countryside and their demand for clean places to sleep gave rise to the motel, a hotel for mototrists.

Stumphouse Tunnel has an interesting story:

The tunnel was first proposed in 1835 by residents of Charleston, South Carolina as a new and shorter route for the Blue Ridge Railroad between Charleston and the Ohio river valley area which until then was only accessible by bypassing the mountains entirely to the South and then traveling up north through Georgia and middle Tennessee. In 1852, 13 miles of tunnel were proposed to cross the Blue Ridge Mountains through South Carolina, North Carolina, and into Tennessee. Construction on the railway was begun in the late 1850s and was successful through most of South Carolina until hitting the mountains around Wallhalla in Oconee County. There Stumphouse tunnel along with three other tunnels was to be built.

Construction on Stumphouse tunnel began in 1856 when the George Collyer Company of London brought many Irish workers into the area for this project. Many of the workers lived in housing on top of Stumphouse mountain called Tunnel Hill. By 1859, the State of South Carolina had spent over a million dollars on the tunnel and refused to spend any more on the project, therefore the tunnel work was abandoned.

The tunnel is pretty imposing, especially when you consider that it was excavated largely by hand:

There are all kinds of ghost stories associated with the tunnel. Most of them are contrived at best, but that didn’t stop me from reciting them all to my wife before we entered the crypt-like cavern. She didn’t seem to bite on the ghost stories, but she really got scared when I casually noted that there could very well be a wounded animal in there, frightened, and ready to lash out at any threat. She grabbed the flashlight with one hand and my arm with the other. We entered at our own risk:

After you get about 1600 feet in, the remaining tunnel is blocked by an old, rusted gate. Standing alone in the dank darkness, I was reminded of Poe’s Cask of Amontillado. This is the view from the inside:

There are supposed to be graves on the mountain above the tunnel, but we hiked all over the place and didn’t see any marker stones. After hiking back down, we wandered across the park to Issaqueena Falls. Here’s the story behind the name:

[The] falls were apparently named after an Indian girl who discovered her tribe planned to attack a nearby community of white settlers.

She quickly dashed away on her horse to warn the settlers of their peril. During her ride, she named the places she passed – such as Mile Creek, Six Mile, Twelve Mile, and Eighteen Mile – until she finally reached the threatened settlement now known as Ninety Six.

Learning of her betrayal, Issaqueena’s tribe chased her to the falls, where the young maiden pretended jump but hid behind the wall of water instead. Assuming she was dead, the tribe called off its search and Issaqueena was able to make her escape.

This is one of the few waterfalls we’ve visited where you see the falls from above. You hear the roaring water as you approach and there’s a viewing area off to the side where you can take in the falls:

If you look at the picture above, you can see the hidden ledge just below the top where the water falls straight down. We wanted to hike down to it, but it was too muddy. We’ll get a picture behind the water wall next time we’re in the area.

UPDATE: We finally went back to the falls and got some pictures from the hidden ledge.

We moved away from DC just before the stadium was built and were amazed by the development in the surrounding area. Although still in the early stages of gentrification, the neighborhood is much nicer and more developed than it was when I lived there.

I used to go to a Taco Bell on South Capitol, about four blocks from where the stadium now sits. You had shout your order through three inches of Plexiglas to workers who were exemplars of incompetent disrespect. Once you placed your order, you waited 20 minutes to hear your number called. If you were lucky, you only had to entertain one or two con stories from panhandlers who lurked among the customers.

In order to get your food order, which was almost always wrong, the employees put the bag in a bulletproof compartment that had two doors. They couldn’t open their door unless yours was closed, and you couldn’t get your food until they secured the door on their side of the clear wall. Sometimes they left their door cracked and walked away to do who knows what in the back. If you tapped on the glass, the person working the register would shoot you a dark and piercing glare. The message was clear; “You just bought yourself another minute of waiting. Tap the glass again and see what happens.” You felt like a caged rat, wondering what trick you had to perform to get your cheese.

When the Gods of Taco Bell finally graced you with your grab bag of fast food, which may or may not include random side items from the KFC section of the menu, you had to run through a gauntlet of red-eyed bums to get back to your car. The whole endeavor was so bad that I eventually started driving out to Arlington to get my fix. That Taco Bell is now gone, and the whole area looks cleaner than ever before. I still wouldn’t want to be alone on the street after midnight, but the progress is impressive.