Mt. Rogers

 12/01/25

It's wintertime. Chilly weather, strange lighting, cloudy skies, fleeting daylight. The pace of life has slowed, drifting along at a leisurely pace, conserving precious energy until the warmer weather returns in spring. Laziness is key. Without it, nothing would survive. 

And that's why I slept in until 10am, waking from a long slumber with no goals in mind for the day. But I felt that I had to do something with my time on this earth; couldn't just loaf around in the house and rot all day long. So I got the idea to go and check out Mt. Rogers in Virginia, asking my Mom if she'd like to join me. She agreed, and we set out around 10:30.

It would take us almost 2 hours just to get to the trailhead, but that was of no issue. Like I mentioned earlier, winter is a time of leisure, and so we drove up the road without hurry, enjoying a slow, curvy, easygoing ride through the country. Up Highway 91, through the tiny towns of Hunter and Winner. Vacant buildings, old and worn, cracked streets, no one about. All around us, bordering the road, stood hundreds and hundreds of densely packed trees. Every one of them was bare, a forest of brown and grey skeletons stretching as far as the eye could see. The ridge line of some low-lying mountains looked just like a patchy beard on the face of a hillbilly, a sight that can only be seen when the trees are completely bare. In the summer, this whole place will take on a drastically different look. But as of now, it shall remain patchy and bare, the forest silent and gray, taking it easy as the temps just keep getting colder and colder.

Up a mountain, down a mountain, into the town of Shady Valley. The country store at the crossroads with Highway 421 was super busy, its parking lot filled with an astounding three cars. And we drove right on by, continuing down the road, wondering how and why we missed the valley's famous "Cranberry  Festival" that occurs every October. 

After passing through the tiny town, we soon entered a forest, driving along a narrow road next to a rushing creek. The walls soon rose above us, and we found ourselves driving through a canyon, the rocks on the sides of the road dripping with icicles. We rounded a corner and came upon a huge wall of crumbly rock, the road cutting a circular hole straight through it. I later found out that this feature, called Backbone Rock, is known as "The World's Shortest Tunnel." And I can see why; the whole thing is no more than 20ft long. Pretty dang short tunnel. Once you're in...you're out. 

It wasn't long after passing through Backbone Rock when we crossed the border into Virginia and entered the sleepy town of Damascus. Why this town is named as such I do not know. Personally, I couldn't see any correlation with the famed city of Arabia at all; no mosques, palaces, citadels or shrines of any kind. Perhaps the kitchen knives in the local Damascus Diner use the famed steel for which the Syrian capital is known. Who's to say. We drove straight through town, barely anyone out walking around in the chilly late-morning weather. 

We turned left onto Highway 58 and then ascended through the mountains, driving through a canyon with tall trees and rushing water. The scenery had begun to change; evergreen pines joined the mix of bald trees, and the rushing water and the crumbly rocks reminded me of western Montana. On we went, driving through this beautiful place, passing by several deer hunters camped out in various pullouts along the side of the road.

Eventually, we left the 58 and drove through Konnarock, a tiny mountain community so unassuming you wouldn't even know you were driving through it unless you payed close attention. We made a right onto Whitetop road, quickly gaining elevation through the mountains until we reached our destination: Elk Garden trailhead. 

Deer hunters occupied most of the parking lot, perhaps gathering there as a sort of meet-up before the big hunt. We got out of the car, stretched our legs, and then crossed the road to begin our hike up the mountain. To the west rose Whitetop Mountain, a heavily forested bump whose summit can be accessed by a well-graded dirt road. To the northeast rose a smaller bump, behind which, obscured from view, lay Mt. Rogers. We passed through a gate, walking through a wide open Appalachian Bald, the wind icy and frigid. We immediately began to ascend the small bump, noticing a lone pony munching in the distance. 

Mt. Rogers came into view once we surmounted the bump, appearing as a gentle mound of earth carpeted with barren trees and a green hat of evergreens covering its summit. In the distance a brown pony darted off into the woods, running like mad. This was the second of many ponies we'd see during the course of the hike; apparently the area around Mt. Rogers is home to a herd of wild ponies, a fact we were not privy too until after we returned home. Thinking they belonged to a rancher, we enjoyed observing them nonetheless. Ponies, wild or not, are always interesting to see. 

We walked down the small bump, entering the trees and escaping the wind. We passed a fence and entered the Lewis Fork Wilderness, the surrounding foliage bare and cold as ever. Through the spindly branches appeared views to the northwest, rolling mountains, bumpy ridges, all of it quite scenic. Every now and then, as we made our way up the trail, we'd make acquaintance with frozen features of various sorts, whether it be several small icicles, a dusting of snow, or just a big ol' wall of ice with water flowing visibly underneath from some unknown spring. We pressed on, taking lots of pictures of the ice and trees, the early afternoon winter lighting making it seem much later than it actually was. 

A backpacker walked down the trail, followed by two day hikers dressed in synthetic long sleeves and trail running vests. And then came a lone deer hunter, orange vest, rifle, and a belt full of bullets, who wished us well and informed us that it was very beautiful out today. He was the last person we met; after that, we had the whole rest of the trail to ourselves, save for a small group of backpackers we saw off in the distance at the junction with the summit trail and a lone photographer taking pictures in the twilight near the end of our hike.

We made it to Deep Gap, a flat area that had plenty of space to set up a tent. From there it was mostly uphill all the way to the summit of Mt. Rogers. We followed the trail as it skirted around the mountain to the south, slowly gaining elevation through the spindly trees. And then we'd go down, out of the spindly trees, into a forest mixed with ferns, pines, and the like. Ice covered much of the trail, requiring much diligence and careful footing. We eventually reached a low point, and then started gaining elevation once again, ascending through a dense forest of bare deciduous trees and evergreen pines. It didn't feel as though we were in southwestern Virginia; walking through these woods, it was as though we had been transported hundreds of miles north. Like the drive out of Damascus, this section of forest reminded me of places much farther away, like Washington state and northwestern Montana. But then the illusion was broken; the trees mostly disappeared, and we were back in an open expanse with views stretching out to the south and east, the gentle rolling slopes of the Appalachians reminding us that yes, we were indeed still in the south. 

And we continued up the trail, reaching a junction, taking the left path that would lead us to the summit. As we climbed, we once again entered the land of trees, finally having made it to the "green hat" of evergreens we'd seen earlier. It was freezin' under those trees, our breath visible in the air, the dirt under our feet hard as granite. Everything was silent and frigid; nothing moved, the ferns and moss frozen stiff, the trees like stone. All of the rocks were covered in a slick coating of ice, requiring us to take our time lest we risk a slip and fall. Finally, after about 2½ hours, we made it to the forested summit. 

Mt. Rogers summit

No views, but that was ok. I'd learned that Mt. Rogers is home to a unique environment of spruce-fir forest only found in a few other places in Southern Appalachia. Sitting underneath their canopy, it was nice to just relax and enjoy their quiet company. And quiet is was; nothing but the sound of our own voices could be heard in the chilly air. We spent no more than ten minutes on the summit, most of that time spent drinking icy water and eating cold granola bars. And then we had enough of just sitting around and began the descent back to the car. With the fading daylight, it would only get colder. 

We walked down the trail, moving much faster this time. Down, down, down, out of the evergreens, back to the open expanse, into the mixed forest. We stopped at one point, leaving the trail to gain access to a bald. We left the forest and took a break on the cold, brown grass, sipping more frigid water and enjoying the views to the south. Down below, at a saddle or sorts, we could see two ponies munching away. My mom tried calling them over, but this did not work. She only managed to get their attention, have them walk just a little closer, and then lose interest and continue with their munching. Meanwhile, I spent the time trying to make out the hazy mountains in the distance, attempting to put names to the various bumps and knobs I could see on the horizon. This too did not work. They were just rolling mountains to me, wild and unknown. 

We packed up shop and hit the trail, moving at a decent pace back to Deep Gap and beyond. We reached the fence, now leaving the Lewis Fork Wilderness. The trees vanished and we were soon back to the bald, the nearly-full moon shining bright in the fading daylight. We ascended the small bump, the parking lot now visible. No more deer hunters; they had long since gone to who knows where. We saw a person off to the side taking pictures of the twilight, trying their best to get the best shot possible. And then we descended the bump, my mom taking videos of a lone pony eating dinner in the distance, the last one we'd see that day. And then we left the trail, crossed the road, and hopped in the car, turning the heater on full blast and driving out of there just as the last rays of sunlight crested the horizon. 

We retraced out steps, driving through Konnarock, Damascus, and Backbone Rock, the canvas tents of the deer hunters set up on the side of the road pouring smoke into the night. Down the road, off into Shady Valley, the country store parking lot now filled with five cars instead of three. We drove on, winding up and down the curvy roads, driving through the dark of the countryside and into the lights of civilization. Dinner that night was ordered from Cootie Brown's. And that about sums up the day. Though we got a late start, everything worked out just fine. The long drive, the beautiful countryside, the quiet forest—all of it was excellent; much better than spending the day cooped up indoors. 

Big Bald via Spivey Gap

 11/07/25

I awoke at a reasonable hour, inhaled some breakfast and then hit the road. Didn't think twice on what to bring; figured a single bottle of water, fleece jacket and windbreaker would do the trick. Didn't bring no food. No food at all. Who needs food? The day was looking to be around 14 miles with about 4,000ft of elevation gain. Not too easy, not too hard. I expected to finish the whole thing before I so much as got a wee bit hungry. Fun fact: I was stupendously incorrect in that assumption.

Anywho, the goal of the day was to hike up to Big Bald from a place called Spivey (pronounced SPY-VEE, as my coworker later corrected me) Gap. I'd follow the well-travelled Appalachian Trail all the way up, and then follow it all the way down. Nothing more than a nice and simple out-n-back through some beautiful country. After seeing the barren summit of Big Bald from atop Pinnacle Mountain, I just knew I had to see what was up there. 

I followed curvy country roads through loosely populated areas to get to Spivey Gap. Lots of twists, turns, ups and downs; driving that road was like driving on the back of a gigantic, coiled serpent. The morning was cool and calm, not a hint of any wind, with most of the trees in the higher elevations completely barren of color. 

I overshot the parking lot, having to turn around and double back up the road. I found the lot, which was just a small dirt pullout on the side of the road. One other truck pulled in just as I got there, a man and his dog sitting at the wheel. I gathered my things, tightened my shoes, and then set off up the trail. 

Nobody was out and about; just me, the leaf-encrusted trail, and the silent trees. I started going uphill and kept on going uphill. That was the theme of the day: up, up, up and more up. Up through the forest, up stone steps, up wooden logs, up long switchbacks. It was easy going on a beautifully maintained trail, but it sure got the blood pumpin'. Before I knew it I had shed my fleece and was out walking in my shirt sleeves. 

At one point, a good ways up the trail, I came to a section of disaster. Before me lay a massive swath of blown-down trees. I've never seen so much deadfall in my entire life; really put into perspective the insane power and destruction of Hurricane Helene. It appeared that Helene had blown down a whole chunk of forest—ZAM—like nothing. 

More impressive, however, was the trail maintenance through this section. I can not imagine how much hard work and dedication was put into this stretch of the AT; the whole trail was spotless, every tree blocking the path had been chopped up and cast aside. Carolina Mountain Club, wherever you're at, thank you for taking the time to clear and maintain this trail. Your efforts were greatly appreciated by yours truly. 

A disaster

After the section of blowdown, I followed a series of steep little switchbacks to gain the first of the three summits I'd be visiting that day: High Rocks. Yep, this was gonna be a triple summit day (not including climbing them again on the way back, yikes!), and I was eager to get this first one out of the way. I left the AT for a short spur trail that took me the rest of the way to the top. Not a whole lot going on at High Rocks, just a bunch of, well, big ol' high rocks on the summit. A fairly flat one gave me nice views of the surrounding country, particularly to the west. In the distance I could make out Little Bald, the second summit of the day. It looked a lot farther than expected, but no matter, for I knew that somewhere behind it, obstructed from view, lay its larger sibling: Big Bald. And Big Bald is where I needed to go. So I left High Rocks, followed the short spur trail and got back on the AT, heading downhill, back into the woods. 

Spur trail for High Rocks

High Rocks Summit

Little Bald in the distance

This descent was a little disheartening. It's always a bummer to lose elevation when you've worked so hard gaining it. But that's the name of the game for the Appalachian Trail; it's up and down, up and down and it goes like that for 2,198 miles. Lucky for me, I'd only be doing about .6% of that on this hike, so I wasn't stressin' too bad. I coasted downhill, using gravity to my advantage, the trail so deeply buried in leaves I found myself entirely dependent on the white markings on the trees for guidance. After going up a little bit and down a lot, I finally reached a section of steady uphill. At last. Little Bald, here I come. 

Headin' up...

Views begin to appear

Recent trail work near Little Bald summit

The trail slowly made its way up to the summit of Little Bald. I'd walk through some forest, find a break in the trees, see some views, and then I'd be back in the forest again, back to crunchy leaves and barren bushes and no sign of humanity. That was, until, I heard something traipsing down the trail a short ways ahead, out of my field of vision. I was almost at the summit of Little Bald, just a few more switchbacks to go, and then here comes this old guy running down the trail in nothing but shorts, a black windbreaker, and the smallest, cheapest, rinky-dink lookin' backpack I've ever seen. He gave me a nod and kept on runnin, down the trail and out of sight. Where he came from, I do not know. He was a man on a mission, that's for sure. 

Past Little Bald, over to Big Bald

I reached the "summit" of Little Bald, which I found to be a bit of a misnomer. Covered in trees and dense foliage, there was nothing "bald" about this summit at all. I left the AT, following an even shorter use path to try and find a benchmark. The search was for naught. Oh well. I'd check it out on the way back. 

Descending Little Bald turned out to be the most pleasant part of the whole hike. I found myself on a ridge of sorts, the AT heading right down the middle, cutting a clean route through the forest. Because most of the trees at this elevation had lost their leaves, I was gifted with pretty decent views on either side of this ridge. To my left (southeast) I could see distant mountains, some of the tallest found east of the Mississippi. To my right (northwest) were more mountains of Appalachia, all of them unknown to me, all of them a mystery. A slight breeze had picked up out of nowhere, prompting the tippy tops of the barren trees to begin their mountain serenade. Whoosh, swoosh, swish, shoosh. The trees hummed along and I walked alone, following this path through the woods, its sides highlighted with soft, green grass. I was so distracted by the beauty and peace that I didn't even mind the downhill. 

But eventually the peace had to end and soon I saw signs of humanity; footprints here, a guerrilla campsite there. And then there were bear boxes and a posted sign indicating the location of a shelter. Ahh yes. Back to civilization, back to the task at hand. Big Bald wasn't too far off. I continued down the trail, deciding to visit the shelter on my return.

The trees became shorter, the foliage less prolific. I crossed a dirt road, noticing tire tracks etched into the mud. I followed the route until it spit me out onto a barren scene mostly devoid of any woody foliage. Ahh yes. Now this was more like it. The balder the landscape, the closer I knew I was to reaching my goal. 

I made haste through this patchy section at the request of a posted sign informing hikers that this was a bird-sensitive area. No dilly dallying allowed! So I trucked along at a good clip, not wanting to invoke the wrath of any birds (or ornithologists for that matter). A curve here, a corner there, and then—behold!—there it was...the summit of Big Bald. At long last. It was in my sight. Now I just had to walk over and climb it. 

Big Bald

A freezing gust of wind smacked me in the face, forcing me to don my windbreaker. Good thing I brought it 'cause brother, it was rippin' up there. Without any trees to impede its progress, the wind was free to do whatever it wanted. And what it wanted was to blow into my face for the next twenty minutes. 

Of course, there was another brief downhill section before the last little jaunt to the summit. It looked flat at first, but alas, it was not. I descended a bit to another dirt road that led down to a community or resort of some kind. Various cottages could be seen, some of them no more than a quarter mile from the summit. There was a lady walking her dog down this road, back to the community or resort or whatever it was. Said, "sure is a nice day huh?" And I said "Yeah. Just a bit windy." And she said "yeah" and then we parted ways. 

Instead of following the road, I continued straight and followed the trail the rest of the way to the top. There was a family up there; a mother, father, daughter, and the dog, a poodle of some kind. The daughter was taking graduation pics, her gown flapping around in the icy wind. Not a single one of them looked too happy to be up there. Just had to get the perfect shot and then get the heck out of there. 

I threw down my pack and looked around. Unobstructed, 360° panoramic views. Yep. Doesn't get much better than that. Out of all the mountains I've climbed in the Appalachians so far, this one had the best views. Despite the hazy weather, I could still see pretty much everything there was to see, whether it be Mt. Mitchell to the southeast, Roan High Knob to the east, or the towns of Erwin and Unicoi to the northeast. North, south, and west revealed a vast landscape of rolling mountains, all of it unfamiliar territory. I stayed for a bit, performing my summit rituals, the wind bouncing off my back, faraway mountains extending in all directions. I looked around at these distant peaks, pondering their secrets, their mysteries. The strange thing about climbing mountains, I've found, is that once you climb one, you spend a good chunk of time on the summit picking out others that you want to climb later. Heck, that's what led me to climb Big Bald in the first place: I saw it from a lookout tower the day prior and thought, "gee, I wonder what that one's like." So I gazed at these mountains, daydreaming about exploring them someday, the wind ripping through the grass, the daughter striking poses, the dog laying in the dirt, the mother and father taking turns with the camera. 

Southeast(ish)

South(ish)

West

North

East

I took one last look and then set off down the trail, back from whence I came. When I crossed the dirt road and starting heading up to that bird-sensitive area, I turned around and noticed that the family was still at the summit. Still hadn't gotten the right shot, I suppose.

Round a corner, back in the shrubs, down, down down. I jogged most of the way, careful not to trip on a root or something. I eventually made it back to the junction with the shelter, so I left the trail and ran on over to check it out. What I found was a quaint little wooden structure with ample room inside, a nice outdoor fire pit, and a "shelter journal" chronicling the trials and tribulations of those who had visited the place in the past. Most entries were from people backpacking or thu-hiking the AT, but some were just random folks like myself that decided to go out on a day hike. The most recent entry was from two days prior from a guy who went for "an extended lunch break." I placed my signature, hung around for a bit, and then set off down the trail, the wind not so bad now that I was back in the protection of the forest. 

Bald Mountain Shelter

The Privy

Back on the trail...

Lots of walking, minimal jogging. There came a rumble, then a growl. It was my stomach. The thing was bummin' 'cause it didn't have no fuel. I downed some water to shut it up, but that didn't work. It was as mad as ever, rumblin' and growlin' with no sign of stopping. I soon came to regret my decision in bringing no food. Oh well. You'd think I'd know better by this point in my life. And that's flattering, 'cause you'd be giving me too much credit. I'm a simple dude that learns things the hard way. First lesson was dehydration and how to prevent it. It took a few tries, but I eventually figured it out. So now that I've passed my lesson in hydrating myself, perhaps it's time to learn about proper nutrition. In any case, I'm getting off topic. Back to the story!

I reached the summit of Little Bald yet again, this time going off trail and whackin' through the sticks to find a benchmark of some kind. I walked all along that dang hill and didn't find nothin'. Indifferent, I hopped back on the trail and trotted my way down, watching my step, slipping on some leaves every now and then. Since the graduation family, I hadn't seen a single person on the trail. I fell back into a mindless groove, coasting down the trail at a good pace, throwing on leg in front of the other. 

Little Bald "summit"

As I was trotting down the trail I reached something akin to a "runner's high;" no doubt a byproduct of my foolish decision to forgo all caloric intake. I felt amazing, absolutely fantastic. My trot turned into a jog, and soon I was just like that old guy I'd seen earlier. Maybe he was just as hungry as I was. Who knows. But man I felt great, like a tremendous burden had been lifted off of my soul. I was flying down that trail, feelin' light as a feather, feelin' like I could outlast the Energizer Bunny, feelin' like I could keep going and going forever. I passed a guy wearing a sun hoody and long shorts making his way down, and then, not too long after that, passed another guy who was making his way up. They were the last two people I'd see for the rest of the day. From then on, it was just me, the woods, and this sweet sweet endorphin rush that I never wanted to end. 

I stopped for a moment, taking a quick hiatus at a guerrilla campsite along the side of the trail. I was going so quick I was missing out on the point entirely. I ain't no trailrunner; I take things slow dangit! So I stopped and sat down on a log and looked into the woods, listening to the wind blowing through the tippy tops of the trees, watching as it carried away the remaining leaves and scattered them around like multicolored snow. And I sat there and looked around, and took a few breaths and brought myself into the present and simply existed then and there, smelling the crisp air, watching the light pass through the golden leaves, feeling the roughness of the bark on the log. Satisfied, I got up, dusted off my bum, and then started up the last climb of the day: High Rocks.

Guerilla Campsite

Having already reached the summit, I walked right on by the spur trail and continued on my merry way back to Spivey Gap. And good thing it was downhill. That climb up to High Rocks just about killed my endorphin rush, leaving me feeling heavy and slow. If I had to go up another hill, well, it woulda sucked, plain and simple. When I got to the section of blowdown, I stopped once again, not to admire the beauty and ground myself in the present, but because I needed a damn break. I sat in the dirt, my head in my hands, saying to myself on repeat in my head, "why didn't you bring food? why didn't you bring food?" I sat there for ten minutes, sucked it up, owned my mistake, and then walked on out of there. I made it back to the car, threw my pack on the passenger seat and then drove on out of there, down the curvy road, out of the mountains, back to the highway, bound for the refrigerator. Leftover enchiladas have never tasted so good in my life...

Though the whole hike took me just over 4½ hours, it felt much, much longer, especially that last section from High Rocks to the trailhead. Funny enough, this was the farthest I'd hiked since climbing Monte Arido back in May. It was high time for me to go on another lengthy hike, and this one definitely satisfied the need. Big Bald ended up being a pretty decent summit, and I'm certain to go up there again on a super clear day, maybe this time from Sam's Gap just to change things up a bit. 

Pinnacle Mountain Fire Tower

Last week, on November 6th, I awoke with a strong desire to see a lookout tower. It had been a while since I'd last been in one, that being the Nordhoff Lookout Tower back in July. In fact, now that I think about it, I haven't really visited that many lookout towers...like at all.  Like, what? C'mon now! What am I doing with my life? Lookout towers are some of the coolest things ever. There's hundreds of thousands of them across the globe. And yet, I've barely seen even a fraction of 'em. Slide Mountain, Hi Mountain, Thorn Point, Buck Rock, Nordhoff, and the Cuyama Lookout Tower just about cover it for me. A measly selection of towers at best. I've gotta do better. 

There's something neat about a lookout tower. The architecture of it all, just a big ol' tower rising out of the ground, a spindly mass of steel and wood standing tall above the land, offering a bird's-eye view to whoever dares the climb. Lucky for me, East Tennessee and North Carolina have a plethora of lookout towers, many of them easy to access. I wanted to see one that required a wee bit of effort, just enough to get the blood pumpin' and lungs suckin'. The one on top of Pinnacle Mountain seemed to offer just that, so I set off on the drive to the trailhead, the skies crispy and clear. 

The trailhead lays off I-26, just outside of Unicoi, TN. I pulled into the dirt lot on the side of the road, a few other vehicles scattered around. I walked over to the restrooms where a map of the area was on display, highlighting the route to the top of the tower in bold color. I studied the route for a second, tightened my shoes, and then started up the trail at a steady pace. 

I had the whole thing to myself for a while, just me and the birds and the lovely fall foliage. Like the day prior at Buffalo Mountain State Park, the colors were absolutely amazing, all of them made better by the light of the mid-morning sun. I once again found myself stopping far too often to take pictures of the wonderful scene that surrounded me. Who woulda known that something as simple as leaves could be so pretty? 

I eventually passed a mile marker in the trail, a small, rectangular wooden object with a basic sketch of a lookout tower etched into its surface. These were a nice touch as they helped gauge my progress up the trail. From my understanding, the route would be nearly 5 miles long, slowly gaining elevation through a dense forest with almost no views until reaching the top. These markers helped me understand that yes, I was making progress. Pretty as the scenery was, it all looked very similar. I was kinda just moseying along though the woods, evidence of my gaining any significant elevation only evident in my legs. It wasn't until I was well past mile marker 2 where I started seeing some views through patches in the trees. I continued along, the weather still nice and clear. 

I passed by an old gentleman, the first person I'd seen all day. "Boy, you walk fast" he said. Dressed casually, sporting a long beard and carrying a big ol' walking stick, the guy looked like he knew these woods well. "I guess so" I said. "Going to the top?" he said to me. "Yep, and I'll see you there." At that he laughed, then replied "I don't think so." We parted ways, I continuing along with a steady gait, he with his easy-going, lackadaisical shuffle. 

It wasn't long after that when I saw two more folks, both of them trail runners. One of them passed me not much longer after I passed the old man, completely leaving me in the dust. The other one was heading back down, running fast, dirt kicking up at his heals. He took one look at me, said "Sup" and then was gone. After that it was back to solitude, back to silence. 

I came to a wide dirt road just past mile marker 3, the whole thing covered in crunchy leaves. There were no signs, no indication of where to go. A truck was parked by a locked gate, the road beyond which I suspected led to the lookout tower. But I didn't wanna walk on no road, so I looked around for the trail. I found one, straight across the road and to the right. The first indication that this was an extremely incorrect choice were the trail markers, which were red. And we all know that red=bad. Just look at Star Wars. The second indication that this was an extremely incorrect choice was that I heard a big ol' rumblin in the distance, an angry engine, the sounds of an off-road vehicle tearin' its way up the trail at breakneck pace. And the third, and most telling, indication was that I was going downhill. Yep. Ain't no lookout tower gonna be downhill. That's just plain silly!

The road

 

The correct trail

So I hightailed it back to the road, looking for another sign. I found it almost immediately; the proper trail was right in front of me the whole time. Just had to go straight and a little to the left. Green diamond-shaped markers identified the trail. And as we all know, green means go...so I went. Just as I was heading down the trail, a guy on a dirt bike drifted around the corner of the incorrect route, flying off the trail and onto the road. He bypassed the gate and kicked it into overdrive as he sped on up the road to the tower, the sound of his engine louder than my thoughts. 

Almost there...

This next part of the trail was definitely the most peaceful; only met one other group who were on their way down. The forest opened up a bit, some pines entered the mix, and I started to see views to the north and west. Tip Top, the summit I had climbed the day prior, could be seen in the distance, a small and unassuming little bump on a heavily forested mound of rolling hills. I followed the trail, gently gaining elevation, one step after the next, gazing up at the tall trees, observing the change in their leaves, watching as some broke free and drifted in the wind. I went up a switchback, then another and then I caught up with another group, two older guys who had never before been to the tower. We reached the top as a group, each one of us gazing upon the magnificent structure for the very first time. "Wow" said one of the old guys. "Didn't think I'd make it."

This was by far the tallest lookout tower I've ever seen. The thing must've been at least 40ft. The older guys took off their packs and rested a bit, whereas I eagerly climbed the steep, narrow staircase to the top. I remember them being a tad rickety, highly reminiscent of Thorn Point, but perhaps this was a by-product of my imagination. Those things were long and steep and high. Though I'm not afraid of heights, these things definitely gave me a bit of an adrenaline rush, dare I say a bit of vertigo. The mind can play devious tricks on itself. But no matter. I desperately wanted to see the view at the top, so I trucked on up there without breaking stride.

View North(ish)

View East(ish)

A little south, a little west

Up top, I discovered the tower to be completely open to the elements. Perhaps at one time it was a functional fire tower, fitted with walls and windows and a stove and whatnot, but as of right now it's strictly an observation tower. All metal, all open, with a big ol' picture of a compass painted on the ceiling. 

By some miracle, the weather remained perfect. Panoramic views stretched off in every direction, the visibility utterly insane; I was able to see for miles and miles and miles. And the forest that surrounded me didn't even look real, appearing as if some giant had unloaded a can of multicolored spray paint upon the treetops. Deep green and gray in the higher mountains, sharp, fiery orange and red and yellow everywhere else. And to think that the "peak" of these fall colors had already passed, to think what this place looked like then, to imagine a scene even more insane than what I was already witnessing, it was impossible. I probably spent 30 minutes up in that blasted tower, gazing in each direction again and again and again, walking from one side of the tower to the next, trying to fully absorb the scene that lay before me. I've never seen so many trees, an entire forest, look so red. I became entranced by the sublime nature of it all, completely losing track of time. 

And then something flew into my hat and I snapped out of it. And then something flew into my face, and then my shirt, and then my leg. And before I knew it, I was surrounded by hundreds of ladybugs. Red, orange, yellow—they looked just like the fall foliage that lay before me. And they floated in the wind and buzzed around, their goals and aspirations a mystery to me. I brushed them off my clothes, and then they'd come right back, landing on my arm, my foot, my shirt. I couldn't get rid of them. Down below I heard one of the old men laugh "Look at all these damn bugs!" "Sure are a lot of them" replied his friend. They had gathered their stuff and were heading up the stairs.

I met them at the top, we chatted a minute, mostly about the swarm of ladybugs, and then I wished them a good rest of their day and set off down the steep, vertigo-inducing stairs. There were even more ladybugs at the base of the tower; perhaps that's where they had set up base. I didn't stick around to find out. Though nice at first, ladybugs can turn mean at the flip of a switch. Them suckers will bite, and bite hard. Not very ladylike in my opinion; maybe it's just the males that do that. I set off down the trail before they could turn mean, brushing off the remaining hitchhikers as I went. 

I trotted most the rest of the way down, stopping to walk when I darn well felt like it. Didn't see too many people making their way up, didn't see anyone heading back down. Though there were numerous mountain bike tracks, I didn't see a single rider all day long. It was a nice, easygoing, gentle downhill the whole rest of the way, my mind still thinking about the view I'd seen at the top. It replayed in my memory as I crossed the dirt road, as I rounded the turns of the switchbacks, as I exited the trail and started my car and drove on out of there. 

There was a particular mountain to the south, rising high above most everything else, that had caught my interest in particular. Later that evening I discovered that this mountain had a name, and a trail to reach it. I decided, then and there, that I'd climb it in the morning. So I turned in, falling asleep at a fairly reasonable hour, the image of those millions of red, red trees still burned into my mind. It had been an excellent day in the woods, with a superb lookout tower to top it off. I'm sure to visit more in the future.