Evergreen hemlocks intersperse with a kaleidoscope of fall colors as we bump along a gravel road that flanks the Middle Little River. While the main park road bustles with travelers looking to get a selfie with the splash of fall colors that adorn the mountains, we take the road less traveled to escape the crowds. It's worth the diversion.
Rippling waters lie upon the quiet of the mountain holler. The sound of the trees swaying in the autumn breeze weave into the sonic tapestry of the moment. Like the fleeting colors of autumn, the sounds are forever changing. One second is different from the last and so on through time and memorial. Change is inevitable. Change is unstoppable.
So goes autumn. It is the venerable season of change. There's perhaps no better place to spend it than in the Smokies.
We park just off the road and a soft murmur collects as everyone gathers their gear. We've got a short walk ahead of us, but the promise of pristine land leads us down an old logging road.
Ahead is more solitude, more water, and more places in which to take beautiful images. If I could design what Heaven looks like, it wouldn't be far off from this spot where I stand.
While it's late in the trip, we've already experienced so much. Deep Creek is the place where we start our travels and the waterfalls and water here are inexplicably handsome. It is a place where the fortuitous explorer finds a "gem" amongst the ancient rocks and intelligently designed latticework of stone and timber. On the first day at our initial stop, we linger longer than we probably should. It's hard to leave such a beautiful place.
After lunch and a hotel stop in Gatlinburg, we circle back out to watch what may arguably be the most beautiful sunset in the United States. It takes a while to drive here, but atop Clingman's Dome, you see the Smokies unfold below. The view is a panoramic snapshot of all that's beautiful about this place.
In the macro, mountains cleave into mountains and the tell-tale haze of "smoke" hangs in the valleys for as far as you can see. In the micro, a million stories are waiting in the hills. Upon each mountain, millions of trees anchor and reach into the Empyreal. Each tree creates a fold of shade here and lets in dappled sunlight there to usher in a microclimate and tiny ecosystem - each spot a little different from the last. At the intersection of all these elements lies the infinite promise of life.
Therein lies the rub: with over a half million acres at our disposal, where do you start? The good news is you never have to look far.While the season's been dry, water still cascades over rocks adorned with a verdancy that perpetually evades the national parks out west. Literally everywhere you look is like a postcard of sorts.
Still water reflects, from overhead, the hued varietals of the autumnal season. Flowing water, when shot with tried and true photographic techniques, displays as soft, cotton candy patches that take on a dreamy complexion. It's an easy place in which to lose yourself.
Sloughing the stochastic challenges of modernity isn't hard when you earnestly allow nature's embrace to completely and holistically take hold. Close your eyes for a minute and pay attention to only the sounds and aromas of the season changing. You'll see what I mean...
In the Oconaluftee Valley, the elk are winding down another rut. The rut is a seasonal affair where the bulls jockey for the affection of the cows and assemble the females into harems for breeding.
A lot of the action takes place on a broad meadow that flanks the Oconaluftee River - a place named by the Eastern Band of the Cherokees and runs through the Qualla Boundary. Elk were once extirpated from these hills but have made a triumphant comeback over the past quarter century after elk captured from out west were transplanted here.
Beyond the elk, a mountain farm stands and harkens back to simpler times when the valley sustained the pioneers. Just down the road from that, Mingus Mill still operates.
The mill, built in 1886, receives its power from a flume of water that runs down from a nearby creek. The water turns the machinery in the mill's innards and causes two massive millstones to rub together and grind wheat and corn into flour.
As the experience moves along, we visit place after place that tells a story and exudes a sense of time and place with each photo taken. We eventually end up in Cade's Cove where a graciously-sized loop winds through some of the best bear and white-tailed deer country in the park.
Pioneer cabins and churches dot the woods in various locations while the valley walls loom over the valley, whose seasonal nudge pushes it towards an annual slumber.
The beauty here is such that its sublimity is hard to capture in words or photos. It must be witnessed in person to fully encapsulate the experience.
After some wonderful meals and even more fruitful fellowship, the trip inevitably winds down. On the last evening, we find ourselves on an overlook watching the sun go down on the mountains.
In a season of unsettled weather, we've done well to have seen so many sunsets. Clear skies are often a rarity for an area that creates its own weather like hoarfrost, snow, or fog with little or no warning.
As the sun sets, the colors unfold both below and above the horizon. In the sky, the colors go from yellow to orange and red and then to blue. Below the horizon, the shadows rip in and out of the hollers and dance with the setting sun. Church bells ring through the mountains from an unseen chapel, and their echoes dance through the hills, and soon, they are a memory.
As the sun sinks, an inkiness envelops the landscape. Now, the day is a memory.
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