by Tim Homan
The forecast for the following two days called for cold and rain, with a chance of sleet or snow showers in the mountains. By the time the next decent day rolled around, I was sick with a sore throat and severe cold. I didn't hike again until mid-December. I read the weather forecasts in the newspaper every day, watched the weather on TV every evening. The mountains were becoming colder and receiving steady precipitation, a bad combination.
Rain fell off and on for two days just before I was well enough for hard hiking, so I opted to walk and work the first half of Section 2 of the Bartram Trail-the segment from Rabun County's Warwoman Road to Sandy Ford Road-rather than risk West Fork's ford at higher water. I left home under starlight, fully expecting to walk nearly 14 miles of empty trail and lonely road. I pulled onto the shoulder of Warwoman Road and started walking in the soft gray and gauzy light of early dawn. Rhododendron leaves drooped down and curled inward against the cold and frost flowers crunched underfoot as I passed through the Warwoman Dell Recreation Area.
The forecast for the next two days was favorable, clear with highs in the low fifties for Gainesville both days. The second day was supposed to be slightly cooler with increasing clouds in the afternoon. I decided upon the second day to give the West Fork's small, steep-sided watershed another twenty-four hours to drain off the pulse of recent rain. The ford's colder water was a given; its depth and freighting force were the potential problems.
I started out through a stand of tall white pine, their tiered tops lit up by morning's first light. Three turkey-all female, just down from their tree-top roosts-ran toward the river, tilting comically from side to side as they picked up speed.
After crossing the bridge over Dicks Creek, I followed the sidepath to one of North Georgia's most beautiful scenes. The stream's final plunge splashed at least 45 to 50 feet down a slide of water-worn rock to a huge boulder and the Chattooga River below. The fall was in fine high-water form; the runoff from recent rains covered most of the rockface with foaming white. The ice fringing the waterfall's outer edges glistened as daylight widened along the river. In front of the falls, the Chattooga flowed fast and full as it boomed over a 60- to 65-yard wide, bank-to-bank drop-Georgia across to South Carolina, a Class 4 rapid named Dicks Creek Ledge.
The river was not in flood; its glide-water runs were still mostly clear, its pools still darker green with additional depth. But it was all too obvious the Chattooga was flowing wider and deeper and faster than in mid-November. Normally I would have taken more time to appreciate the ledge, its water white and shattered to full froth, lit and alive with early morning sun sparkle. But on this day the power and shining beauty of the rapids added to my dread.
Beyond where the Bartram (3) closely parallels the Chattooga, the track veers away from the river and closely follows Warwoman Creek, a large and scenic stream surprisingly wide and flowing bank-to-bank full after December rain. I turned right onto Earls Ford Road and quickly stopped at Warwoman ford-deeper, colder, and far wider than just a month before. The higher water, at least a foot or more, had backed up into the road cut a good 40 feet beyond November's starting point. The deeper center of the normal ford was opaque green; it looked at least 3 feet deep.
I took off my boots and socks and pants. I stepped into the shallow stretch of the stream and kept going on tire-packed gravel without pause. The water's numbing sting was almost immediately painful. The ice-cube cold creek rose to over crotch deep for a few strides in the green center. Nerve endings crackled their code reds to my brain for relief. Cussing helped. That was the worst of it, except for the needling pain that continued to pulse in the chilly breeze for a few moments after I was out.
My memory made comparisons with mid-November, tried to solve an equation with one potentially dicey unknown. After feeling Warwoman's depth and surprisingly pushy current, I was worried, apprehensive, a little nervous. The West Fork, a larger Chattooga tributary normally wider and significantly deeper than Warwoman Creek, would probably be belly button deep, possibly even deeper. I decided to stall, to slow my pace down in order to give the afternoon leisure to reach its greatest warmth and give the ford another hour or two to decrease its depth as much as the additional time would allow.
In the early afternoon, a quick-moving formation of gray-bottomed clouds darkened the sky. The breeze quickened and the temperature fell a few degrees without the sun, mid-forties best bare-skin guess. My focus frequently wandered to water cold and high ahead. The day's trek felt like a long and easy prelude to upcoming pain. The West Fork ford (4) was going to be a hard penance to pay for a moment's inattention.
I arrived at the ford around three-thirty in the afternoon. The clouds had flown by without followers, and the sun was shining again, a plus. I gauged the temperature at upper forties, good hiking weather on a sunny day, not so good for fording. Like the Chattooga, the West Fork water was gliding its way to the Atlantic full and fast, not in flood, but with the usual higher volume after substantial rainfall in the cold season when trees have stopped their daily drinking.
I sat down and planned strategy, another five minutes of stalling. The trick was to stay on my feet and to regain my footing if the river bumped me off the bottom. Swimming should be the last resort, attempted only if you are being carried downriver in the clutches of the current. I scanned the opposite bank downstream to check for sweepers or sawyers that might cause trouble if I had to swim. All good, nothing except rhododendron, which would provide good handholds if necessary.
I would bushwhack upstream for 10 to 15 yards and ford on the diagonal. That way, if the West Fork knocks me off my feet a couple of times I can give ground and still come out at the trail-cut landing. I began coaching myself: You must remain calm; you need to step with a steady slow and confident rhythm. Your body is going to scream bloody murder; adrenaline and prodding pain are going to hold your mind hostage and demand more speed. Your mind must block your body out; you must somehow ignore or drown out the signal fires flooding through your nervous system. Remember, no bitching and moaning allowed when you're a volunteer. Get it done, go home.
I opened the doubled trash compactor bags inside my daypack. At the bottom-stowed in a regular garbage bag-were towel, assorted spare clothes, and longjohns. I took the longjohns and towel out and began to strip, cramming each item into the trash compactor bags as it came off. I placed the towel atop the longjohns, twisted the opening of the bags to a narrow neck, folded the end down, and tied it off with a short piece of rope.
I stand at the edge of the West Fork, feet in the frigid water-gulping down deep breaths, no longer believing my earlier temperature estimation-naked save the glasses and ballcap on my head and pack on my back. I step into the current and feel the sudden shoving weight of the water. I plant both sticks, keep moving with short and somewhat steady strides. The river's cold touch nips sharply at my calves. The buzzing, bee-sting pain kicks in first, closely followed by the numbing sensation. Remain calm. Keep moving. Ignore those blaring alarm bells; ignore those panicky pain receptors.
The river wraps around my legs higher and higher. The flow feels both faster and colder than Warwoman Creek, and I'm not even a third of the way across. Lower thigh … mid-thigh. The stream sweeps around my upper thighs. The long freezing nights had put an extra chill in water already cold in November.
I suck back a quick catch of breath when I step above crotch deep. The pressing surge of the West Fork becomes more powerful toward the middle, causing me to brace harder and take slower and shorter steps. The wintry water swallows my waist, rises up to my belly button. The whole weight of the river rushes against me, a decidedly unfriendly shove. All of my sensory systems crackle and sizzle, buzz and bite and burn with warning and pain. All systems save a stubborn knot of will are in open and frantic rebellion, holler holy hell for me to cease and desist. Don't panic. Keep moving. Don't … panic.
I take a short step that doesn't land. The bone-cold current elbows me off my feet and fetches me a couple of yards closer toward Tugaloo Lake. My adrenal gland fires off a full shot, a jolting dose of instant strength and energy. I fight down the urge to swim. I lean over, try to run under water while I plant my sticks forward. My left foot touches riverbed sand while I try to pull forward with my sticks. The steady thrust of the West Fork floats me downstream again, but I manage some swimming kicks before straightening up and trying to plant my sticks again. The water is below belly button; I land four points of contact. Legs and hiking sticks brace hard against the adversarial prod of the mountain stream.
Stick, step. No deeper. Past the middle now. The gelid water surrounds my waist; the worst is over. Below my waist and shallower with every lengthening stride. Cowering on the fence 15 feet back, my mind becomes a cartwheeling cheerleader. Upper thighs, mid-thighs … knees. I try to run for it, but my legs are too heavy and numb for the task.
I step out of the icy river and slowly climb the low bank into the spanking breeze. My legs come out of the West Fork nearly as pink as a Roseate Spoonbill, skin taut and goose pimpled, aching and alive with the cold. I begin to shiver in violent spasms. I sit down, take off my pack, unzip the top pocket on the second try, and grab my small pocket knife. I turn my daypack upside down and shake; I use the knife to slice open the trash compactor bags and yank out the towel. I stand up with difficulty and start drying off in a quivering frenzy. The sun feels good on my skin. I can hear the hammer of my adrenaline-soaked heart banging away in both ears.
Dry enough, I shake into the longjohns, top and bottom. I feel warmer already. The buzzing beehive living in my legs subsides to simmer. I put on the rest of my clothes like I'm a cold drunk and start walking as fast as I am able, which is fast enough to generate heat. The shaking stops, the numbness fades. I pick up the tempo between note-taking stops. I am energized by the cold and the adrenaline, relieved the ford is finally behind me … again.
The next day I drove FS 42 to Big Stamp Gap, the AT's first road crossing north of Springer Mountain. I walked the 1.6 miles up to the southernmost white blaze at the rock-slab overlook (5) and ate a snack sitting beside the bronze backpacker. I wrote down the plaque's inscription again, then went to work as I backtracked downhill to my car. In the afternoon, I hiked the AT south from Woody Gap to the stand of tall, straight-boled tuliptrees in Liss Gap, then turned around and worked my way a little over 2 miles back to Woody.
Four days later, on Saturday December 20, Linda and I set up a shuttle between roaded gaps, Hightower and Big Stamp. The early morning wind was ferociously cold as I locked my car at Hightower. I was prepared for the weather-ski mask, longjohns, gloves, and layers-and comforted by the facts that gaps are often the windiest spots in the mountains, and that most of the day's route would be down low in the woods.
The trail followed the wide treadway of an old woods road across small headwater streams and through tunnels of rhododendron, their glossy evergreen leaves again drooped straight down and furled inward like ready-made cigar wrappers. The high-profile AT crossed the footbridge over Chester Creek and FS 58 in quick succession at Three Forks, where Stover, Long, and Chester Creeks flow together at right angles, gaining water volume and losing their names to Noontootla Creek. Near the end of my day's work, I picked up the pace as the Appalachian Trail skirted the northern slope of Hawk Mountain before gradually descending into the still whipping wind at Hightower Gap.
The next Saturday, December 27, I left home in the dark so I could arrive at Hightower Gap as soon as possible after first light. A few days earlier a cold rain had soaked Gainesville; further north and higher up, 4 to 6 inches of snow had fallen in the mountains. The forecast called for a cold and clear day. The five-day forecast predicted more cold and possibly more snow for the North Georgia mountains; I was afraid if I waited another week for warmer weather, the snow might pile even higher across the AT's tread. Even though it would be cold, I wanted to start hiking at first good light so that I could take advantage of the hard crust for as long as the snow allowed.
After turning off Highway 60, which snakes through the mountains northwest of Dahlonega, I drove FS 69 toward its junction with FS 42 at Hightower Gap. Three-quarters of a mile short of the gap, my tires crunched across the snow line, only an inch or two thick at first. The snow quickly deepened to impassable for a two-wheel-drive vehicle heading uphill, so I turned the car around, parked on the edge of the road, and started walking. The crust held my weight with little give as the Earth spun into the daily miracle of dawn. In twenty minute's time I was at the gap-temperature in the high teens best guess, no wind at all-and ready to work.
The sunrise, a wash of deep pink painted on the undersides of the clouds to the east, was temporary payment for the cold. The hardwood slopes were a two-tone landscape of snow white and tree gray, silhouetted by the soft yellow of first light. Where the route led through the cover of evergreen heath shrubs, I frequently read the trailside register of Ruffed Grouse, eastern cottontail, and bobcat tracks.
I followed the white plumes of my breath into the glorious morning; the now strong winter light stretched out crystalline blue and cloudless to all visible horizons. On the way up to the stand of straight tuliptrees topping Sassafras Mountain, I walked beneath the line of cliffs I remembered from the end of November, the snow now accentuating the size of the treeless space. Crunch, crunch, crunch, across the road at Cooper Gap. No boot prints ahead, a single set behind. The silence of the winter woods returned each time I halted to take notes.
Atop the flat summit of Justus Mountain, capped and covered with snow, I walked to the left well away from the AT and found an open, between-the-trees view, by far the best of the day. The rounded horizon line rolled on and on, white mountains and cloudless blue sky rising and falling in seamless tandem, their dichromatic curves a sharp-edged beauty. Out in the near distance to the northeast, the snow-whitened summits of the three highest peaks shimmered in the morning sunlight. All three thrust their final touch of sky above 4,000 feet, making them big-for-Georgia mountains. The two peaks humped high and shining like giant beacons close together were definitely Blood (4,461 feet, the highest point along the AT in Georgia) to the right and its neighbor in battle gore, Slaughter (4,338 feet) to the left. A few miles further north, Coosa Bald lifted its snow-shiny crown up to about 4,285 feet.
By the time I crossed Blackwell Creek, halfway through the day's mileage, the crust had thawed and each step collapsed a few inches before the snow compacted enough to catch my weight. This time, I took a long break at Gooch Gap Shelter, where I melted snow with my backpacking stove and drank two cups of hot chocolate. Warm enough and rested, I followed the narrow white slot in the forest slowly up from then back down to the named gaps. Gooch Gap. Grassy Gap about a mile further. Liss Gap and off the clock.
Done … again. The hard penance of the West Fork ford had been more than repaid by the day's white and sun-bright beauty. Mildly dreaded the night before, the year's and guide book's last hike-mountains glowing in the distance, the Appalachian Trail's winding line of sparkling snow-turned out to be an unexpected joy.
Footnotes:
(3)In 1980 the footpath that sometimes closely follows the Chattooga River from Sandy Ford Road to Georgia Highway 28 belonged to the Bartram Trail. In subsequent years that segment's one treadway had two names: Bartram Trail and Chattooga River Trail. The newest forest service Chattooga National Wild and Scenic River map (2018) has demoted the Bartram. That section is now designated the Chattooga River Trail-one track, one trail name.
(4)Both of the former fords-Warwoman Creek and West Fork Chattooga River-have been bypassed by iron-rail bridges: a nearly 70-foot-long span over Warwoman and a 115-footer over the West Fork. Neither bridge is located at the site of the former ford.
(5)I sat beside the bronze backpacker again in the spring of 2019. Young trees have steadily encroached upon the former opening surrounding the slab-rock outcrop. The once wide-open view is now a narrow V, and the green curtain is closing in every year.
