The first reason to return and complete the climb to the Haw Creek Overlook was a straightforward issue of unfinished business.  A few days earlier my wife and I had made it half way up, but simply ran out of time.  I was left with the feeling of a job half done, a mission uncompleted.  And I could feel the pull of those compelling elements of a climb; the pursuit of goal, and the physical, emotional, even spiritual challenge of an ascent.

The hike, starting at the Folk Art Center along the Blue Ridge Parkway, proceeded about 2.5 miles along the Mountain to Sea Trail up to the Haw Creek Overlook where a stunning view awaited.  Depending on what guide you read it was described as a hike of moderate difficulty that presented 900 feet of gain.  And it was a popular hike, one of the best convenient to Asheville, NC.

The second reason to return was less defined, almost ephemeral.  I had seen a cluster of green, low growing plants alongside the trail, an unexpected sight during late December, the dark days of the year, not a time for forest growth.  It was a fleeting impression, but that night the plants appeared to me in a dream, a dream infused with a sense of wonder about green growth during dark days. When I woke up with the dream images and feelings fresh in mind, I knew I had to go back and understand what I had seen.

A Wild Christmas Tree

I parked in the lot at the Folk Art Center, donned a fleece and a beret—the conditions were mild enough—grabbed my trekking poles, stuck a mini bottle of water in the back pocket of my hiking pants and climbed the steps to the Center where I found the intersection with  the Mountain to Sea Trail.  Through the windows of the Center I could see last minute Christmas shoppers searching for gifts among the mountain crafts; the paintings, carvings, weavings, textiles, jewelry and more.

At first the path was wide, covered with fine gravel and there were signs posted providing information on the trees that grew by the trail; a red maple, a tulip poplar, trees I knew well so I walked by. But when I came to the sign for the American chestnut situated in front of a huge decaying log I stopped.  The chestnut, a stately and abundant tree that once provided high quality lumber, generous shade and plentiful nuts for humans, beasts and birds, but had been totally decimated by a blight.  Some four billion chestnut trees died during the early 20^th century.

I felt a pang of sadness and a sense of loss for these trees that had once reigned tall through the forests of Eastern North America.   Recently I had read that new blight resistant hybrid strains of chestnut had been developed.  I decided I should get one of these new chestnut trees to plant in my yard and maybe even a second one to plant secretly in the woods, a private act of restoration.  I liked the way walking and experiencing things directly guided my decision making, giving me a vision for the future.

Further down the trail someone, perhaps an employee at the Folk Art Center, had hung tiny red ornaments on a small evergreen creating a wild Christmas tree.  I paused, gazed at the little tree and decided that not only was this my favorite Christmas tree of the year,  but that I also really liked the person or persons who had come up with this idea and brought it to decorative fruition.

Winter Orchids

Departing from the environs of the Folk Art Center I continued along the Mountain to Sea Trail (MST), a narrow trail now, marked by white blazes on the trees, its dirt and rock surface  coated with fallen leaves  ground fine by countless footsteps.  The MST, one of America’s famous through hiking trails, stretches almost 1200 miles from the high peaks of the Great Smoky Mountains to the sandy beaches of the Outer Banks.  An image of a solitary hiker came to mind, possessions in a backpack, stepping steadily down the trail, cloaked in a sense of forest communion, moving forward on a journey.  Maybe I was seeing a vision of myself.

Scanning the ground along the trail I looked for the green plants.  Funny, how faulty memory can be.  I thought I remembered where I had seen it but now I couldn’t find it.  I kept walking and searching and then, there they were a cluster of low, broad, spear-shaped, light green, faintly striped leaves. 

I kneeled down and snapped a photo with my Picture This app.  The percentage number churned closer and closer to 100%.  Ah!  It was a putty root orchid.  “An orchid”, I exclaimed out loud. That’s a plant for a humid tropical rain forest I thought.

I read more. The putty root orchid is actually common through the deciduous forests of North America.  And then this sentence blew me away, “The basal leaves die back in summer and grow in winter once the forest canopy has disappeared and it has more access to sunlight.”

Here was a plant that had evolved its growth pattern into a remarkable niche. Growing up in Wisconsin and living in Northeastern Pennsylvania I had the mindset that the forest shuts down in winter.  That is what I knew.  But the putty root orchid had adapted, had found a way to take advantage of the milder winter conditions.

I was clearly in a different climate, a more temperate and nurturing forest.  I had often felt there was something healthy and vibrant about these Blue Ridge Mountains; the elevation, the clean air, the long vistas, the people who had always lived here.  These forests seemed to have a more generous life sustaining force.

I also realized once again how nature insights can leap over the boundary from sensory impressions to emotional insights.  I was seeing a manifestation of adaptability and resilience.  The putty root orchid found a way to adapt to its environment, found a way to unexpectedly grow and prosper in dark, cold times.  I guessed I could do the same.

My steps lightened by what I had seen, I continued down the trail and after fifty yards saw another cluster of plants.  These leaves were wider and a solid light green.  I took a photo, ran it through the Picture This, and was stunned to have yet another orchid, this time the crane-fly orchid.

This crane fly grows in clusters, with connected roots with edible, starchy, potato-like corms.  Surely the Native Americans and early settlers knew this plant.  I read further that it offers beautiful white, yellow, purple and green flowers in summer.  I would simply have to return in the early summer to see these two orchids in bloom knowing that they used winter sunlight to create summer flowers.

Connections

Eyes out for more green I continued down the MST.  Next to the trail in an open area I spotted a thickly branched short bush still bearing leaves. Picture this identified it as dwarf honeysuckle, an invasive plant with origins in Europe and Asia, a robust disease resistant shrub with showy fragrant white flowers in early summer followed by red berries. Hummingbirds sip the nectar. Bees, butterflies and flies pollinate the tubular blossom. Tanagers, thrushes, robins, orioles and phoebes feed on the juicy berries and the thick foliage provides birds with spring nesting spots and year around cover. 

The word invasive has negative connotations and stirred mixed emotions.   I read that it competes with native species, and that the berries are mildly toxic to humans.  But on this December day its green foliage was a welcome sight. I spotted a pair of chickadees flitting within the thick branches.  I wondered just when does a plant transition from the category of invasive to native.  Maybe there was some kind of a continuum here, some gentler words to deal with this transition.  The chickadees certainly weren’t making any distinction.

Heading down a short steep hill I came to spot where the trail crosses the Blue Ridge Parkway. Stepping across the road I saw a man, younger than me, sitting on the back edge of his SUV putting on running shoes.  I was hiking; he would be running.  He was younger; I was older.  Yet, in that moment it seemed that we that we both felt a sense of camaraderie.  We were partners in being outside enjoying nature, partners in taking on a climbing challenge.

We greeted each other, commented on how good it was to be outside, and in some unspoken way encouraged each other.  During the social distancing of the pandemic such random social encounters often took on greater value.

I continued on the path, ascending through a stand of pitch pines, an arbor of green trees that filled the air with aromatic fragrance.  I heard steps behind me, edged off the trail and let my jogger friend pass, wished him a good run while he gave me a thumbs up for my hike.

Ascending

The trail grew steeper, up over rocks, around fallen trees, across exposed roots, ever higher.  It was hard enough for me to walk the narrow rocky, root laden trail even with help of trekking poles.  I couldn’t imagine running up the trail.

I climbed for another mile and began to notice those shifting, doubting, dramatic thoughts that always seem to accompany a climb or any daunting task for that matter.  I checked my pedometer to see how far I had come and wondered how much further I had to go. Doubts as to whether I would make it began to creep into my mind.  The wind was picking up, the temperature dropping.

I spoke with a hiker coming down who told me that I didn’t have that far to go.  He said to look for a marker and then turn left to the overlook.

There were birds around. I saw family groups of crows flying over the tree tops caw, caw, cawing back and forth.  I heard the evocative distant hoarse cr-r-ruck, cr-r-ruck croak of a raven.  A pileated woodpecker, crow sized, bright red top notch, long spikey bill flew across the trail, into the woods and landed on a dead tree. I paused, watched it began to hammer the tree, heard the loud resonant tap, tap, tap of its bill on the trunk followed by its loud kik-kik-kik-kik call.

My favorites were the Carolina chickadees who appeared out of the woods, perched on branches near the trail, squeaked and twittered and called chick-a-dee, dee, dee.  It was role reversal and humbling for it was the chickadees that spotted and studied me, not me finding and observing them. They were the lookouts and gossips of the forest sharing their observations and providing useful commentary for all the other birds and animals.

Summiting

A final steep climb and I reached a hill top.  I could hear cars whooshing down the Parkway and saw hints of an open vista through the trees.  Spotting a marker beside the trail I turned onto narrow path. Edging down the path I covered two descending loops and was surprised to arrive at a steep 15 foot high bank which I had to slide down to finally arrive at the open ground of the overlook.

I walked to the edge of the Parkway and took in the full panorama, an open views of a wide fertile valley sprinkled with clusters of neat houses and bisected by dark lines of roads and highways.  In the far distance stood a line of mountains veiled in a blue haze.  The view was as good as advertised.

Nearby a family speaking an unknown language took selfies.  A couple emerged from their car with big smiles and took in the view.  At the end of the outlook I found a wider path that led up to a cluster of rocks where more people sat and enjoyed in the view.  Everybody seems to like an expansive view of valley and mountains, a view that creates a send of awe, a view that must touch some deep, instinctive pleasure center in the brain.

Returning

Continuing up the rock face I found a wide path that joined the Mountain to Sea Trail, stepped back onto the trail and began my return.

A quarter of a mile down the trail I encountered a family spread out.  Two men who I presumed were the dad and an uncle were furthest up the trail. They both looked glum, tense, and annoyed.  A little further down the trail a woman and still further down a little girl standing petulantly in the woods.

I said, “You’re almost there.” 

The woman responded, “Yes, but we are held hostage by an eight year old who refuses to go any further.”

Ah, I got the dynamics; the little girl on strike, the men angry and frustrated, the mom caught in the middle.  And it felt like the mom was appealing for my help.

I looked over at the little and said “There are some big rocks to climb on at the top, really good climbing and even a garbage can to throw stuff in.” 

The little girl gave me a brief wide eyed look then darted through the woods back onto the trail and zipped up the hill past the men her legs and energy instantly restored.  Who knows? Maybe she just needed a reason to break the impasse.

Continuing my descent, less concerned now about my destination, I took more notice of the green in the forest.  I had seen ferns on my ascent and now stopped to take a picture and run it through my app.  It was Christmas fern, a native plant that prefers moist, shady woods. Its name comes from the fact that it remains green up to Christmas time.

In an open area by an abandoned road I found a stand of tall, skinny, dark green, snaky rough horsetail, another invasive, one that is pest resistant and helps to control erosion. A little further along I spotted shiny, pale striped leaves of spotted wintergreen growing near to the ground.  I saw holly trees with sharp-shaped, shiny, dark green leaves and bright red berries. I passed through stands of lush green rhododendrons with tan flower buds holding the promise of spring blooms.

Continuing down the trail I came to a damp rock face covered with mosses of various textures and shades of green.  Picture This informed me that the largest patch was common hairmoss, a type of moss that thrives in regions with high humidity and rain fall.

Picture This even offered a poem by William Barnes.

                                                Oh rain-bred moss that now dost hide,

                                                The timbers bark and wet rock’s side,

                                                Upshining to the sun, between

                                                The darksome storms, in lively green.

Yes the forest along the Blue Ridge Parkway was filled with lively green.

A Memento

Often on a hike I will pick up some object, a colored twig, a fallen acorn, a sea shell, a piece of bark, a bright red leaf, a unique rock, something I can take home and place on a wooden tray on my dresser, something that will remind me of the hike, that will bring back the feelings and thoughts.

But anything green that I took from this hike would only wither and turn brown.  Then I had an idea. When I reached the Folk Art Center I ducked inside and purchased a CD of classic bluegrass music.  These songs with the voices, tunes, rhythms, stories, and culture of the mountain people would serve as a good memento.

This wander walk was conducted along the Mountain to Sea Trail near Asheville, NC on December 23, 2020.  There are more stories of wander walks and sit spots on this website and a book about my year-long sit spot adventure, The Stillness of the Living Forest is available on Amazon and through Shanti Arts Publishing.