Just Making an Observation
Welcome back! I really want to delve into my week in North Carolina with strangers very soon, but I didn't set enough time aside this past week to give it the attention it deserves. Instead, let's talk about observation towers.
When I was in middle school, my family took a vacation to Gatlinburg, Tennessee. It was probably a spring break or fall break thing, and we rented a little cabin for a few days. We did all of the things that you do in Gatlinburg when you have a family with younger kids: playing mini golf, visiting the aquarium, looking around the shops, seeing a show, eating way too much breakfast food. We also visited Great Smoky Mountains National Park. It was the first time that I had ever gotten to visit a national park, and I was absolutely enthralled. As my dad wove our minivan through the winding mountainside roads, my face was glued to the window, wanting to see everything.
We drove up to Clingmans Dome, the highest point in the park. It also happens to be the highest point in Tennessee, the highest point on the Appalachian Trail, and the third highest point in mainland eastern North America. At this point, I hadn't been to the Rockies yet, and I had never seen the Grand Canyon, so the height of Clingmans was pretty astounding to a little Indiana girl. We got out of the van and made our way up the trail, and made it to the very top. At the top of Clingmans Dome there's an observation tower about 45 feet off the ground which affords you a view over the trees and across the surrounding mountains and into the surrounding states. I stopped at the base of the observation tower to catch my breath for a second, and felt the fear wash over me. I was, and still am, incredibly afraid of heights. My dad started up the ramp with my younger brother, and I tried to walk behind. I probably made it about 10 steps before I turned and ran back to the benches underneath that terrifying tower. All I could do was sit and wait for the rest of my family to come back down.
Eventually my dad came and sat with me, and as we were sitting, this woman with a huge pack came and sat near us. She opened the top compartment of the pack and started to make herself a peanut butter sandwich, entirely ignoring the opportunity to go up the observation tower ramp in favor of food. She asked my dad if there was a town nearby, and he responded that Gatlinburg was just outside the park boundaries. "Rad, I'll get the chance to shower today" she said. My dad asked her if she was doing the Appalachian Trail, which she was. In fact, she was a through-hiker. This was the first time I had ever met someone that was doing the AT. This was the first time I learned that the Appalachian Trail was a thing. I had a sneaking suspicion about this woman when she sat down, but when I learned what the AT was I knew for sure: this was the coolest person that I had ever met. She chatted with us for a few more minutes, finished her sandwich, picked up her pack, said goodbye, and continued her hike, still ignoring the observation tower that loomed above her. I couldn't help but think that what she was doing had to be pretty amazing for her to just walk by the observation tower. Eventually, my family regrouped and we headed back to the car, ready to continue our vacation.
So here I was, 12 years later, driving past the Great Smoky Mountains National Park sign for the first time since I was 13. This time I was by myself. This time I had the Grand Canyon and the Rocky Mountains to add some context to my idea of majesty. A lot had happened since I was in the park the last time. I don't think 13-year-old Lauren would have expected this of me. She wished for it, sure, but I don't know if she knew it was really possible. I knew, when I made the plan to drive to the end of the Blue Ridge Parkway and then head home through the park, that I wanted to stop at Clingmans. I really wanted to see what was at the top of that observation tower.
I hadn't been in the park very long at all when I saw the sign: "<-- Clingmans Dome." I made that left turn and started the drive to the trailhead. I don't remember it feeling as treacherous when I was little. My dad has always been the Driver in the family, so I guess I just didn't have to notice. But this time, I was the Driver, and it was terrifying. Again, heights. But it was also beautiful. Distractingly beautiful, which didn't really help the whole driving process. And, I started to get really nervous about the flippin' observation tower. Full-tilt, increased heart rate, knotted stomach, anticipated heights nervous. So, I pull into the parking lot at the trailhead with my body already freaking out. There's a stunning overlook, which is beautiful, and then there's the trailhead.
The Clingmans Dome trail is half a mile. Less than 900 yards from start to finish. And it's awful. When I was little, I remember it being steep, but I don't remember it being difficult. Probably because I was one of those kids that I saw on this trip that just run the whole thing like it's a flat paved track. But it's not a flat paved track, it's a paved trail on a 13% grade. And it kinda sucks. But luckily, there's a view off the side of the trail with stunning wildflowers and photo-ready mountain views. So, no, I don't need another break, I just wanted to capture this specific angle of the mountains that I couldn't quite capture 50 yards ago. At one of those "photo breaks," I was facing towards the mountains, not the mountainside/trees on the other side of the trail. I had gotten moving fairly early, so it was around 9, with the sun peeking over the crest of the giant mountain looming above us. And I just hear an older woman quietly say, "Oh my, look how the light is hitting the mist." Of course, I quickly turned to see what she was seeing. A couple people glanced over too, but quickly kept hiking. But it was incredible. This one fir was bathed in light, as if someone was shining a spotlight on it. If this woman had said nothing, I would have never noticed it. And the two of us watched, glanced at each other to exchange a quick smile, watched a little longer, and then continued on our respective ways, down for her and up for me.
As the trail began to level out towards the top, I had to start making my strategy. I figured the simplest thing to do would be to not hesitate. No breaks, no quick drink of water, no photos of the tower from below, just put one foot in front of the other until you make your way up all 375 feet of that ramp. And that's exactly what I did. Even when there were a couple of photo ops on the ramp, even when I wove my way around people pausing on their way, even when every step left me more and more exposed. I stepped onto the round platform, and looked at what was laid out below me.
I've always felt that there's something sacred about these mountains, but to see them covered in their beautiful blanket of green, to witness them stretching so far in all directions that they eventually just fade into the sky, it's something holy to witness. There was something that I had noticed as I came through the end of the Parkway from watching the sunrise, and I was curious if it would last the couple hours it would take for me to get to the top of Clingmans, and it did. The clouds had settled in a fluffy layer over the valley of part of the mountains, forming what looked like a cloud lake. And here, at the highest point of the park, the cloud lake was still there. I think it's safe to say that up there, in the Clingmans Dome observation tower, I cried. And there were so many people up there, getting to experience it too. How lucky for all of us. I finally asked someone to take my picture, even though I had been up since before sunrise and had run out of clothes that I could cobble into a coordinating outfit. I just needed that photo, not for proof, but as a reminder of what I felt in that moment.
Eventually, I had to make my way down so I could continue on my way home. I have this theory that there are two main types of hikers, especially on popular trails. There's the "you're almost there" guy, and I say guy because every hiker that I've met that falls into this category could best be stereotyped as "dad." And then there's the "it's worth it" hiker, who usually accompanies that phrase with a kind smile. I generally don't talk a lot to others on trails, mostly because I need to preserve my oxygen for, like, breathing, but I definitely fall into the "it's worth it" half of the population. So I made my way down the mountain, passing the sign that marked the Appalachian Trail, looking over the wildflowers and pines and undulating peaks, and turned to those heading up and made sure to say,
When I was in middle school, my family took a vacation to Gatlinburg, Tennessee. It was probably a spring break or fall break thing, and we rented a little cabin for a few days. We did all of the things that you do in Gatlinburg when you have a family with younger kids: playing mini golf, visiting the aquarium, looking around the shops, seeing a show, eating way too much breakfast food. We also visited Great Smoky Mountains National Park. It was the first time that I had ever gotten to visit a national park, and I was absolutely enthralled. As my dad wove our minivan through the winding mountainside roads, my face was glued to the window, wanting to see everything.
We drove up to Clingmans Dome, the highest point in the park. It also happens to be the highest point in Tennessee, the highest point on the Appalachian Trail, and the third highest point in mainland eastern North America. At this point, I hadn't been to the Rockies yet, and I had never seen the Grand Canyon, so the height of Clingmans was pretty astounding to a little Indiana girl. We got out of the van and made our way up the trail, and made it to the very top. At the top of Clingmans Dome there's an observation tower about 45 feet off the ground which affords you a view over the trees and across the surrounding mountains and into the surrounding states. I stopped at the base of the observation tower to catch my breath for a second, and felt the fear wash over me. I was, and still am, incredibly afraid of heights. My dad started up the ramp with my younger brother, and I tried to walk behind. I probably made it about 10 steps before I turned and ran back to the benches underneath that terrifying tower. All I could do was sit and wait for the rest of my family to come back down.
So here I was, 12 years later, driving past the Great Smoky Mountains National Park sign for the first time since I was 13. This time I was by myself. This time I had the Grand Canyon and the Rocky Mountains to add some context to my idea of majesty. A lot had happened since I was in the park the last time. I don't think 13-year-old Lauren would have expected this of me. She wished for it, sure, but I don't know if she knew it was really possible. I knew, when I made the plan to drive to the end of the Blue Ridge Parkway and then head home through the park, that I wanted to stop at Clingmans. I really wanted to see what was at the top of that observation tower.
I hadn't been in the park very long at all when I saw the sign: "<-- Clingmans Dome." I made that left turn and started the drive to the trailhead. I don't remember it feeling as treacherous when I was little. My dad has always been the Driver in the family, so I guess I just didn't have to notice. But this time, I was the Driver, and it was terrifying. Again, heights. But it was also beautiful. Distractingly beautiful, which didn't really help the whole driving process. And, I started to get really nervous about the flippin' observation tower. Full-tilt, increased heart rate, knotted stomach, anticipated heights nervous. So, I pull into the parking lot at the trailhead with my body already freaking out. There's a stunning overlook, which is beautiful, and then there's the trailhead.
The Clingmans Dome trail is half a mile. Less than 900 yards from start to finish. And it's awful. When I was little, I remember it being steep, but I don't remember it being difficult. Probably because I was one of those kids that I saw on this trip that just run the whole thing like it's a flat paved track. But it's not a flat paved track, it's a paved trail on a 13% grade. And it kinda sucks. But luckily, there's a view off the side of the trail with stunning wildflowers and photo-ready mountain views. So, no, I don't need another break, I just wanted to capture this specific angle of the mountains that I couldn't quite capture 50 yards ago. At one of those "photo breaks," I was facing towards the mountains, not the mountainside/trees on the other side of the trail. I had gotten moving fairly early, so it was around 9, with the sun peeking over the crest of the giant mountain looming above us. And I just hear an older woman quietly say, "Oh my, look how the light is hitting the mist." Of course, I quickly turned to see what she was seeing. A couple people glanced over too, but quickly kept hiking. But it was incredible. This one fir was bathed in light, as if someone was shining a spotlight on it. If this woman had said nothing, I would have never noticed it. And the two of us watched, glanced at each other to exchange a quick smile, watched a little longer, and then continued on our respective ways, down for her and up for me.
As the trail began to level out towards the top, I had to start making my strategy. I figured the simplest thing to do would be to not hesitate. No breaks, no quick drink of water, no photos of the tower from below, just put one foot in front of the other until you make your way up all 375 feet of that ramp. And that's exactly what I did. Even when there were a couple of photo ops on the ramp, even when I wove my way around people pausing on their way, even when every step left me more and more exposed. I stepped onto the round platform, and looked at what was laid out below me.
"It's worth it."
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