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.

White Rock Loop

 

I got off work at 11am and decided to check out a place called Buffalo Mountain State Park. Located very close to Johnson City, the park covers a small expanse of forested mountains, minuscule compared to the larger summits of Appalachia but beautiful nonetheless. Though the "peak" of fall foliage had passed, here in the lower elevations there was was still quite a bit of color on display. I followed windy roads towards the park, gazing upon the small, multi-colored mountains the entire way until finally entering the canopy. 

This was five days ago, on November 5th, and the weather that afternoon was absolutely perfect. High 60's, a light breeze, cloud-dotted skies and good visibility. I drove to a fork in the road, turning left to park at the desired trailhead. I had heard of something called the "White Rock Loop" about a week prior and had wanted to check it out ever since. According to the map, the loop would give me a nice sample of most of the park, circling its outer edges and hitting up three popular summits. I pulled into the small dirt lot, put on the parking brake, and then slid out of the car and onto the trail. 

It would seem that most do this hike counter-clockwise, following the trail up a drainage and then turning right to cross a small bridge. But I wanted to see the namesake "White Rock" first, so I'd be doing the loop clockwise, turning left at the bridge and immediately heading up out of the drainage to gain a forested ridge. Along the way, I found myself time and again looking straight up at the canopy. Every step farther down the trail offered a new perspective, a new collection of trees, new colors, new lighting. Some trees still had some green left in their leaves; paired with a bright yellow and afternoon sunlight they appeared like thousands of golden flakes suspended in the sky. Other trees were a mixture of oranges and reds, not as brilliant as the yellows but beautiful in their own, special way. I walked up a few switchbacks, following the trail as it made its way up the ridge, my feet slipping in the crunchy leaves, the trees gently swooshing overhead. All of it made for a rather peaceful walk, and I was enjoying every second of it.

C'mon now, don't take the shortcut!

At one point, I reached a junction with the "Wimp Shortcut." According to the map, this route steeply ascends the ridge, cutting out a large portion of a long switchback. Not wanting to cut the loop, I decided against taking the Wimp route, my decision highly influenced by the desire to see more fall colors. As I rounded the bend of the long switchback, I finally gained the ridge, walking in a forest of orange and red. For whatever reason, this was the most scenic part of the forest I'd seen thus far; had I taken the shortcut, I would've missed it entirely. I probably spent way too much time in this section taking pictures of the leaves, completely losing track of time. It wasn't until I met up with the other end of the Wimp Shortcut that I finally snapped to and continued trucking up to White Rock. 

A break in the trees, White Rock right

I gently gained elevation along the ridge, slowly closing the gap between me and White Rock. There were random moments when there'd be a break in the trees and a view to the east would open up, and I'd go off the trail and see what all there was to see. One of the breaks was quite large, a clearing of lichen-covered rocks with expansive views of the east and a clear view of rest of the ridge. Looking south, down the ridge, I could see another clearing in the trees, a large rock jutting out of the canopy with great authority. I figured that this had to be good ol' White Rock. Five minutes later and I was there, standing on the rock, looking at the best views I had seen all day. 

The view from White Rock

White Rock ended up being a collection of rocks, none of which were white. They were numerous and smooth, well-worn by the countless footsteps of those who've braved the trek to the top. I checked out most every outcropping, each one gifting me with the same spectacular view to the north and east. Much of Johnson City and Elizabethton could be seen, I-26 a small line jutting through patches of orange and green. Holston Ridge popped up in the distance, and far away, rising high above everything else, I could see Roan High Knob and Grassy Ridge Bald. It was neat to see everything from this angle; in fact, climbing a mountain is one of my favorite ways to orient myself with new territory. Each summit (if it has a decent view) offers a new perspective, putting much needed life in all those crazy contour lines on a map. I stayed at White Rock for a good ten minutes, soaking in the view, trying to orient myself as best I could. And then I set off down the trail, heading south, following the trail as it curved away from the ridge. 

Going down...

Random marker

I walked past a collection of radio towers, following the trail as it curved west. I climbed a small hump and then started down, rather steeply, back into the forest proper. The trail was well-marked with numerous signs and rectangular patches of white paint on several trees, and a good thing it was because the entire thing was buried in a blanket of leaves. Evidence of any trail at all could only be seen with careful observation, looking for the slightest indentation in the carpet of dry, crunchy leaves. 

I met some people who were doing the loop counter-clockwise, and travel was much easier afterwards as they had broken a path through the leaves. I continued going down, slipping, sliding, until finally going uphill yet again. At one point I passed a random marker on the side of the trail; why it was placed there I do not know. Not long after that, I reached a fork in the trail. I decided to head left toward "Tip Top," the highest peak in the park. It was only about .3 miles away, and I had plenty of daylight left, so I figured I'd give it a looksie. 

On the way to Tip Top

The way over to Tip Top was as scenic as ever, the trail following a gentle ridge all the way to the summit. The breeze was a tad stronger by this point, and with it came an occasional shower of leaves. I'd stop and watch as the forest rained leaves, all of them different colors, all of them glowing in the afternoon light. I'd never seen anything quite like it; a stupendous sight to see for sure.

Summit of Tip Top

Johnson City, TN

A small hump appeared ahead, the summit of Tip Top no doubt, and I climbed it without haste. On the summit there was a picnic table and a bench, as well as decent views of Unaka Mountain to the southeast and Johnson City to the north. For whatever reason, I enjoyed this spot much more than White Rock. Though White Rock had superior views, the summit of Tip Top felt a little more isolated, offering a glimpse of the rolling hills and mountains of Appalachia, colored red, orange and yellow on this lovely early November afternoon. I spent a long time on the summit, trying to point out landmarks, watching the leaves float in the wind, gazing at the sunlight dancing on the treetops. Reluctantly, I said my goodbyes and headed back to the fork. Once there I continued on the loop, heading down the mountain, taking pictures of the magnificent fall colors whenever the need arose. 

Down, down, down I went, following yet another ridge, descending deeper into the canopy. The downhill never stopped, proving to me that going clockwise is definitely the easier route. I only met two groups heading up, all of them walking at a steady pace, their faces showing the faintest of scowls spurned from the arduous toil physical activity. The trail eventually left the ridge, zig-zagging down into a dry creek bed. I was soon out of the sun and in the realm of shade. The temperature surprisingly got much colder, and I found myself forced to trot down the trail in order to warm myself. 

But the shade was short lived, and I soon found myself back in the sunshine. Eventually, I reached a sign marked "Sunset Point" and decided to check it out. Just off the trail was a bench and a nice view to the west. There were some people hanging around Sunset Point so I didn't stay long, continuing down the trail and nearing the end of the loop. 

View from "Sunset Point"

The last brief pit stop before the completion of the loop was a small little jaunt up to Huckleberry Knob, a tiny, open summit with nice views of the surrounding country. I could see the summit from the trail and decided I might as well head up there and check it out. On the top I found four benches and far superior views than those found at Sunset Point. A bucolic scene was on full display to the west and north of the summit; nothing but rolling hills, little homes, curvy roads, and patches of green grass. I took a few more pictures and then headed back down, almost done with the loop. 

The short path to Huckleberry Knob

There were more people out now, all of them heading uphill. The afternoon was growing long, the sun slowly falling across the sky. It seemed like most people were parked in the upper lot; this is where I would've gone had I made a right at the fork in the road near the entrance to the park. I passed the trail that led down into the upper lot, continuing my downhill walk through the forest back to where I had parked. I crossed the little bridge I'd seen earlier that afternoon, made a left, and completed the loop not much longer after that. The whole thing ended up being about five miles and change, with a fair amount of uphill and downhill—a nice, moderate outing and a great way to pass the time on a sunny November afternoon.