On Sunday, October 13, 2013, we went over to the North Carolina High Country to hike Grandfather Mountain during the peak color change. Unfortunately, it was cloudy and drizzling.
As we drove down the Blue Ridge Parkway towards Blowing Rock, the skies below 4000 feet cleared and created ideal conditions for these photos showing the fall colors and reflections on Julian Price Lake.
On January 17 and 18, an unusually powerful snowstorm clipped across the Southern Appalachians, dropping over 13″ of fresh snow in the coalfield counties of Southwest Virginia and the high country of North Carolina. On January 18, Beech Mountain ski area reported the highest one-day snowfall of any area in the lower 48 states (for that day).
The following photos are from Beech Mountain on January 19:
The Alpine-like base area looked like a resort out West:
There was snow as far as could be seen. This is the view looking north into Tennessee and Virginia:
On Saturday, December 22, 2012 we went on a winter backpacking trip that was extremely cold but rewarded us with incredible conditions for photography: massive hoarfrost, remnants from a snowstorm, and true alpenglow lighting—a rare combination anywhere, but especially in the South.
As the evening sun set, the entire sky in the east (the direction opposite from the sun) began to glow pink with a purplish band at the horizon. The rime-encrusted trees and brush, which had their own bluish-white hue, looked otherworldly. The side of the mountain basked in the alpenglow. In the course of my life I have seen this phenomenon on occasion in the Rockies and in the Alps, but never so pronounced in our region as it was this evening.
For a comparison with the same phenomenon on the Matterhorn in Switzerland, see this photo. While the orange light from a sunset is itself beautiful, true alpenglow—when the entire sky is lit with light seemingly emanating from behind or even within the mountains, in the opposite direction from the sun—is amazing.
Looking towards where the sun was setting revealed another interesting effect—purple mountains with an orange sky.
As we continued to take pictures until almost all of the light was gone, we were reminded that part of the reason for the great conditions was the cold. And it was getting colder by the minute. Operating the cameras and standing still, the chill began to invade us. Toes and fingers burned. As the last good light disappeared, we continued onward to make camp somewhere near the top of the mountain.
Our planned out-and-back route was straightforward: A one-day hike from the Elk Garden area of the Mount Rogers National Recreation Area up to the highest parts of the southern side of Mount Rogers near the famous Thomas Knob shelter; an overnight in the shelter or at a tent site somewhere in the vicinity; and a return back via the Appalachian Trail and the Virginia Highlands Horse Trail. These trails roughly parallel the Grayson County-Smyth County line for about five miles along the mountain ridge.
As we approached the mountain, you could clearly see the delineation where the frost began to accent the freshly fallen snow. While you could see the snow between the trees on the bottom half of the mountain, on the top half of the mountain everything—literally every single thing—was covered with brilliant white frost.
Donning my 44-pound backpack full of winter camping gear and camera equipment, I crossed the road and started up the Virginia Highlands Horse Trail. The hike started through trees, which glistened overhead. The skies were bright to the west, where the sun was already dropping, but were a dark cobalt blue in other directions.
The frost coated everything. Tree branches were twice or more their size due to the hoarfrost.
Once up in the balds, you could see great distances. The mountains to the south had snow but little frost; to the north across the valley, Clinch Mountain had frost on its largest southern-exposed face, known as the Bear Town area.
The contrast between blue and white was dramatic.
Hiking in this winter wonderland, you could easily imagine yourself in another part of the United States, or another part of the world, hiking in the Arctic or in true Alpine conditions.
The Frasier firs and other trees at the highest elevations looked almost fake with their limbs and branches so heavily laden with frost.
The moon rose dramatically in the East, signalling that this was the shortest day of the year, the winter solstice.
The entire hike, as awesome as it was, was merely the opening act for the light show we were about to watch.
As we rounded the first bend that allowed us a view to the eastern horizon, the whole mountain became aglow in amazing colors.
The photos we took do not adequately show the overwhelming color of the scene. The periphery as well as the main view to the east were bursting with palettes of pink and purple. In the photo below, I used my camera’s panorama feature to show a 180 degree view.
The entire episode of amazing light lasted less than one-half hour. Even the fading light was beautiful, as captured below.
The sunlight disappeared, and the moonlight began to illuminate the mountain. It was not a full moon, but it was sufficient such that you could walk without a headlamp once your eyes adjusted.
The light show over, we set out to make our camp. The temperature seemed to plummet by the minute. The winds, which were not insignificant while we were obsessed with photography, seemed to increase in strength and become more ominous. It was definitely getting colder.
There would be a price to pay to for the incredible optic conditions: suffering through a brutal night of cold and wind.
The Pain Factor
The next day, when we returned to our vehicle, an older gentleman walked into the parking lot from the other direction–coming down off of Whitetop Mountain. A large white beard, accompanied by a red union shirt, made the man appear as a slim Santa Clause coming from the snowy woods to inspect his winter kingdom. The man was none other than Damascus Dave, a well-known and experienced thru-hiker and outfitter in the region.
He greeted us. “Isn’t it beautiful? That hoarfrost, or rime ice, or whatever you want to call it—it’s whiter than snow.” Then he asked, “Did y’all overnight up there?”
We told him we had, and we began discussing the wind gusts and how cold it got last night. We talked about gear for a while, and how while we were prepared, it was still extremely cold.
“Well, it was pretty cold last night,” he said. “And, I reckon you can’t camp up there in this kind of weather and not experience some pain. No getting around it. That’s just part of it.”
As I stood there in the parking lot, tired but satisfied, I realized that he spoke the truth.
When it comes to hardcore winter camping, especially if you are seeking exposed ridgetops, vistas, and the coldest weather with the most snow, there will be some pain. Not insufferable pain. Certainly not the Beck Weathers’ level of pain. Not nearly the level of pain a depicted in Cold, the movie about climbing Gasherbrum II, a 26,000′ mountain, in the middle of winter. But there is unquestionably some serious discomfort—some pain—involved. It’s truly a case of “no pain, no gain.”
We weren’t cold while hiking. (In fact, while climbing it’s pretty easy to actually overheat.) We moderated our hike so that our pace kept us warm but didn’t cause us to overheat. But when we stopped, the whipping wind would quickly steal body heat. We had to put on our down jackets when we stopped. (You don’t want to overdress, risking sweating too much and the dreaded “wetting out” inside your jacket, but you have to dress sufficiently to keep warm.) It’s a balancing act to maintain warmth in these conditions. Preparation, proper clothing, and layering is key.
However, regardless of your dressing properly, setting up camp when it is really cold can be difficult. The cold seeps through your gloves, burning and then numbing your digits, making it increasingly difficult for you to manipulate them. For example, holding aluminum tent poles firmly while setting up a tent just saps the heat from your hands. Simple tasks require greater concentration and mental focus when it’s freezing and your hands are numb. Standing around while doing these kinds of tasks causes your feet to get cold, too.
By the time we had set up our tent, the water in our one-liter water bottles had almost completely frozen. The sandwich I brought for dinner had frozen. And the gas canister that would allow us to warm up some water for coffee and oatmeal was not functional.
That night, I slept in my 15 degree-rated sleeping bag on a sleeping pad, with polar fleece pants, two undershirts, a fleece jacket, wearing a down jacket, a hat, and gloves. My feet were covered with wool socks and insulated slippers. And yet, my feet and hands were still cold. My friend, who brought his 0 degree-rated “Never Summer” down sleeping bag, fared no better. Let’s just say, it was very cold.
We warmed our water by placing it in our sleeping bags, along with a host of other gear that was generally uncomfortable to have there: batteries from my camera; my headlamp; additional food; the gas canister; and various other items.
The wind was blowing interminably, with gusts that seemed Everest-like. In putting up our tent, we staked through the first inch of frozen ground down into the soft earth, and used some additional rocks to keep if from moving. Nonetheless, the tent flapped incessantly through the night, and the intermittent gusts seemed to have enough force to blow us off the mountain.
Despite the good weather window reported on the news and on the Internet the previous day, the temperatures plunged and the wind whipped with increasing intensity through the night. Using the heat inside our sleeping bags, we were able to thaw the iced-through water bottles.
Little did we know that although the weather was predicted to improve at the lower elevations, the recorded temperature (single digits) and wind chill (below zero) was the coldest in December 2012, and wind gusts were recorded at 65 miles per hour at the Grayson Highlands State Park Weather Station, almost 1500 vertical feet below where we were camping on the exposed ridge at over 5400′.
If we had not been adequately prepared that evening, an uncomfortable night could have been much worse. Instead, we awoke the next morning, broke camp, and went back to the Thomas Knob shelter to brew some coffee to warm up before the hike back to the trailhead. As expected, as we hiked back down the mountain, it got warmer and the winds subsided.
By the time we returned to the parking lot, it was comfortable enough wearing just our fleece sweaters to stand around and chat with Dave regarding harrowing experiences he had heard about in this area. (Many folks have actually been in some real danger up on the mountain). While not uniquely cold, the weather we had experienced was extreme, especially for this region. For us part-time adventurers, you might even call the weather conditions epic.
The evening sunlight, true alpenglow, and whole experience made this a fitting winter solstice backpacking trip, a perfect prelude for Christmas and the New Year. The suffering part? Yes, it was definitely worth it. Meaningful achievement, even something as relatively inconsequential as a winter overnighter, requires some striving and involves a little or more discomfort. It’s in part the difficulty that makes it rewarding. If it were easy, everyone would be doing it, and the solitude sought after in these kinds of trips would not exist.
And for the record, yes, I actually did carry with me and wear insulated slippers.
At the end of this summer I was schooled by a scrappy, short-statured octogenarian on flycasting technique. It was none other than the man, the myth, the legend—Bernard “Lefty” Kreh. In a field on the banks of the Middle Fork of the Holston River in Southwestern Virginia, Lefty Kreh demonstrated flycasting techniques to a group of about 20 fishermen and women.
If you are or have been seriously into freshwater or saltwater fishing of any kind in the last 45 years, you probably have heard of or run across Lefty Kreh. He has written a dozen books, written innumerable articles on all types of fishing in most every outdoor magazine, has his own fly, “Lefty’s Deceiver,” a famous saltwater fly, and even has his own line of fly rods. He is best known for his wealth of knowledge regarding saltwater fishing and fly fishing, especially flycasting.
Lefty may have more knowledge about the dynamics of flycasting than anyone else alive. The man can cast a fly line 50 feet without a rod (with his bare hands), and he can cast a 5-weight fly line about 100 feet with just the top section (just about 1 foot) of a fly rod. His casting with a rod appears effortless, although he can explain the physics principles behind what he is able to demonstrate.
Lefty taught us both roll-casting and traditional back-casting techniques.
Lefty also showed us leader-tying knots, knots he has personally tested on his stress-testing machinery. “The machine doesn’t lie,” Lefty said. For example, the key to a good clinch knot or improved clinch knot? Six turns. Not five; not seven—six.
True to form, while demonstrating how to cast a streamer with a sinking flyline, Lefty “accidentally” caught a 12-13 inch smallmouth bass while stripping the line back to demonstrate another cast.
If you ever have the opportunity to meet this man, or get some lessons from him, or just hear some of his stories and be inspired that you can still enjoy the great outdoors with exhuberance after the age of 80 years, I highly recommend participating in one of his clinics or presentations.
Special thanks to Chris Walters, fellow outdoorsman and fly fisherman, for inviting me to attend this special event.
This night I did an evening mountain bike ride on the Virginia Creeper Trail. The sky was clear and the air was cold.
Crossing the railroad tracks on Pecan Street, a gigantic November moon appeared to rise directly over the tracks. By the time I got home and got my camera, the moon had moved slightly and was not quite as dramatic, but still impressive.
In the photo above, Jupiter appears as the largest star in the sky and is to the right over the moon. Airline contrails reflect the moonlight in both the foreground and background on a northeastern axis, while railroad tracks glisten from the street lamps in town on a northeastern axis.
The scene is reminiscent of The Polar Express, in which children take the train through the night to the North Pole.
Shady Valley, Tennessee is an idyllic circular mountain valley nestled between Bristol and Mountain City. Surprisingly remote for being relatively close to the Tri-Cities, Shady Valley retains a rural, agrarian charm.
Route 421, the main road through the valley, is well known across the region as a favorite for motorcyclists and ordinary cyclists because it is one of the twistiest and scenic highways in the area. Bicyclists can also ride several one-lane country roads around the valley, and the road from Damascus is the best way to access Shady Valley from Abingdon.
I tend to think of Shady Valley as Tennessee’s analog to Burkes Garden. With few houses on the hillsides and national forests on the perimeter of the valley, Shady Valley has one of the best mountain viewsheds in Northeast Tennessee.