The Hike
By Barclay
The hike started along an old fire road fairly flat, wooded, and full of pesky mosquitos, the canopy over us kept an off and on drizzle from getting to us. It's already away from the man made noises of cars and trucks, having driven into the woods about 4 miles to the parking lot. There are numerous small creeks and drainage trickles along this early path, as we jog left and right and over the rocky path that has not been driven on in years. The canopy also keeps the light and wind from coming through much as it is very green, darker than the day outside of our wooded tunnel. A lot of moss grows on the north side of most rocks that are not directly in reaching of feet as people ascend the mountain along this way to the top. Our destination is not completely etched in stone, no pun intended, because, never having been here, we just don't know what we get as a reward. There has to be a reward.
The birds by the hundreds are filling the wonderful sounds of the hillside, with water, chipmunks, squirrels, all chiming in to surround us. About an hour into the hike, those sounds change levels of intensity and focus due to water rushing now drowning out most other noises. We side track the path to get a view of what is being heard so prominently. It's a high bluff we stop on at the river's edge overlooking a cascading flume with white sun bleached granite opposed by the blackness where time has cracked pieces that were washed down stream by the current. It's loud, rushing, and white with the foam from the turbulence. It’s beautiful.
We get passed on the trail by the store on legs. Two well-toned hikers, so we thought at first, carrying a lot of food. As it is on the trail, we started up a short conversation that allowed us the knowledge of the task they were assigned. There is a hut with shelter in the high country where we are heading and they make these treks up to 6 times a day back and forth to get the provisions (that's the word he used) to the shelter. There is a lot of traffic there this time of year and they need a lot of restocking for the overnighters on the trail. We are on an annex it seems to the Appalachian Trail, a well-worn path running more than 1500 miles from Maine to Georgia. The pack weighs in at 75 lbs., and is make shifted of cardboard, sticks and duct tape, the universal survival equipment. Over the day, we are passed in both directions by these deliveries on legs many times, and the same ones. They are moving well beyond our pace to make it up and down and then pass us again. Ah youth and stamina.
The hike moves to a flat that opens to a mountain marsh after a very old log bridge crossing a beaver-dammed brook. This has the softer touch of the trickling water through the sticks of the dam than that of the earlier rapids over the rocks. We are enveloped by the peaceful sound that caresses the ears and brings focus to the softer landscape of the marsh ahead. As we cross the bridge, mountain marsh grass abounds and the trees dissipate to expose a wilderness view of the rocky peaks beyond the opening. We are greeted around the bend by a series of elevated boardwalks and bridges over the pond like marsh. There are wild flowers of various colors along the stands of grass and the sweet smells of an unknown fragrance from one or maybe it's the mix. There is no wind and the open water is still like glass, casting near perfect reflections of the high peaks beyond. Birds here abound as well, but the type of bird has changed. Warblers, a lot of red winged black birds, and an unknown species all join to echo a hauntingly wondrous song as we trek along. The image makes us think there just needs to be a moose here, seeming like the perfect place for them to hang out and have lunch, but none are seen. As we near the edge of the pond and marsh, an enormous beaver home is seen across the water. This has to be the largest we have ever seen sitting up ten feet above the waterline and twenty-five feet across. Again the effects of weather are visible with the very light grey of the oh so weathered logs and sticks piled up to keep the beavers dry.
We increase our elevation a few more yards as we pass another cascade with little water in it. Ahead we see the reason being a new family of beavers has taken up residence in the next pond. Around the corner the view opens up and the next ridge of peaks is envisioned before us. We notice they seem lower than before, with more clarity and detail, but that of course is because we are higher up in elevation, and so much closer to them. At this point we also start to notice the background cacophony of water falling. It is quiet right now, but unmistakable. We pick up pace to get there. The next view through the trees at the high pond's edge is over the cliff the glimmer of water on the rocks up high glistening in from the clearing skies' light. To the right is what looks like a home on the hill right next to it. We all do a double take as it seems an unlikely spot to build and then how did it get there. There are no roads. We sense our destination now is set, and feel the anticipation to reach it.
At the end of this next pond, after craning and stretching at every opportunity for a better look ahead, we reach one of those points of decision. A fork in the path where we will not have time to do both. We want to do both. The left fork treks through the gorge we thought we set out for. The trail sign lets us know it’s an 8 mile loop out and back. The right fork will take us to the hut. We also notice the unmistakable trail marks of the Appalachian Trail which is either direction we choose. After a few moments of discussion, we decide waterfalls are always great. We have been drawn to it for a while and that is where we headed, still yearning for the gorge trail, though sometimes one or the other is how it has to be. On the upside, we have a future destination on a different hike.
We make our way through some well-worn and rounded rocks surrounded by many tall growing weeds, and a lot of tree debris. It's curious because, although the pond is still at our side through the brush and low mountain laurel and other alpine growth, it seems out of place for the overflow a pond might cause. Further contemplation brings us to the conclusion that the waterfall overflowed many times over the years and we just trekked through the results. The wildness of nature is sometimes so awe-inspiring it’s hard to comprehend the force that would be needed to make this happen. And so far from the river that caused it. At the next bend with the waterfall crashing inescapably enveloping our ears, we see the base of the falls. It's a litter of boulders and rocks, reflections and shadows, flickering splash of water as it comes down the mountain. Photo time and plenty of it. Long shots close ups, alone and with us as proof we ascended to this point.