Permanent SAG: Across the Road

One of the things consort and I enjoy most here in Northeast Tennessee is hiking. To reach two of our favorite trails requires driving about 30 to 40 minutes. This seemed like a lot of time until I started comparing it to other places we've camped. While camped in a suburb of Phoenix, it took about 30 to 40 minutes to get just about anywhere. Traffic. When we're parked for the winter in Brownsville, it's a 20-minute drive to the grocery store. Distance. Here in Tennessee the time is spent traversing the winding, twisting roads.

Directly across the road from our campsite, I've noticed a road entering a property for sale that intrigues me. I asked our friends about it and they said the property had been for sale for decades. I asked what they thought about consort and I hiking the trail, and their response, No problem. In fact, another set of campers had asked about nearby hiking trails and our friends recommended it. The hikers later said it was the most difficult hike they had encountered in this area. This, of course, piqued my interest. After some discussion, and a few throw-downs of "How bad can it be," we decided to give it a try.

At the onset of the trail, and off to one side, are the remnants of an old stone house. There isn't much still standing, just a chimney and a partial wall. It looks quite enchanting, which made me wonder if mythical beings, like woodland elves, might exist unperceived in the dense forest.

Hiking farther up the trail, we came to a shallow creek. Our friend D tells us if we veer off the path and follow the creek, we will find caves and, eventually, the spring that is the source of the creek. We haven't been that adventurous -- yet. Following the creek would require footwear more substantial than tennis shoes and, possibly, even a machete.

We hiked a little farther up the rough path and came to a wooden cabin. It sets in a small, level clearing surrounded by the forest. No running water, no electricity, but there is a sleeping loft, a fireplace, and a porch overgrown with vines. Both consort and I fell in love with the remoteness of the cabin in this serene setting, not to mention the challenge of a "fixer-upper," but that's another story for another day.

We stopped at the cabin to catch our breath and hydrate. The woods are relatively cool, but the humidity is high. The path we followed was very rocky necessitating eyes-on-the-ground to avoid falling or twisting an ankle.

We reached the cabin after only 20 minutes of hiking, about three-quarters of a mile. That sure doesn't sound like much time or distance and, although rocky, the trail really wasn't difficult. And what I mean by that is, we did not have to climb over, between, or around tumbled boulders!

What made the trek so difficult was the gain in elevation. We started the hike from the campground at an elevation of 2,040; the cabin is at an elevation of 2,330, meaning a gain of 290 feet. Again, that doesn't sound like a lot, does it? According to Fitbit, and a little research on my part, a 290-foot gain in elevation is equal to 29 flights of stairs, which we climbed in about 20 minutes. That would explain our shortness of breath and rapid heart rates -- you know, as opposed to just being old and out of shape.

We've hiked this trail several times now and have yet to reach the top of the mountain. We've hiked past the cabin, gaining another 50 feet in elevation, but are always compelled to stop. I admit that I am the driving force behind our stopping. For whatever reason, each time we hike this trail, I am overcome with dry-heaves. It is completely miserable for me and unpleasant, at best, for consort. But it does not deter me. My goal for our remaining time here at Roan Creek is to finally reach the top of the mountain (without dry heaving, if that's possible).

One day not too long ago, the daughter of our friends here at the campground was visiting. She is an avid hiker and kayaker, and just about half my age. Consort, D.O.G., and I were headed out early one morning to hike the mountain and asked this sweet girl if she'd like to go with us. She happily agreed. We grabbed some bottles of water and our hiking sticks, then set off.

Let me just say right here that she talked most of the way up to the cabin. I was huffing and puffing and kept glancing her direction to see if she was affected by our gabbing. It appeared she had more than enough oxygen to do both. Being the wonderfully polite person that I am, I attempted to keep up my end of the conversation between gasps for air. About halfway to the cabin I had to stop and attempt to catch my breath. At that point I confessed that I could not both hike and talk. If I opened my mouth, it would be solely for the purpose of sucking in precious oxygen.

At the 290-foot elevation mark, we once again had to stop for my convulsive dry-heaves. I love this girl! She acted as though nothing were amiss. She and consort stood a ways up the trail and seemed to be having a wonderful conversation while I hugged a tree at the side of the trail and kecked.

After regaining control of my digestive system, the three of us discussed whether to continue on up the mountain or head back down. Consort and I decided it was in our best interests to head down the mountain while we/I still could. She decided to go forward. None of us thought it could be much farther to the top of the mountain, possibly just a few more switchback roads ahead. Seriously, how bad can it be?

Consort and I made our way down the mountain, back across the road, and fell into our camp chairs by the creek. Our friend came by and asked what had happened to his daughter. We explained that we had given up, and his daughter had continued on.

A couple of hours passed before this sweet girl made her way back to our campsite. She was red-faced and polishing off bottles of water. She said we were only about a third of the way up the mountain at the point where we stopped. She didn't check the elevation when she reached the summit, but did say the trail became much steeper. She complained about the lack of view from the top of the mountain, saying, When you put that much effort into a hike, you expect to be rewarded with spectacular views. She promised we were not missing anything by not reaching the top.

Before she left that day, she told me that while she was climbing that last difficult bit to reach the summit, she began to wonder if my invite to hike was a setup. Did I send her on to the top so I'd know what the trail was like? How difficult it would be? What the view at the top was? My reputation of one-who-tries-never-to-exert-herself seems to have reached far and wide.