April Fools Camping in the Black Balsams

“Times have changed here on Walton’s mountain…”

People are having weddings on days like Monday and Thursday now. For some it’s to cut down on a guest list that’s hard to cut, so they figure the guests will do it for them. For others it’s a question of budget. Venues are often cheaper on days other than Saturday. Maybe some moon-lit individuals get engaged and discover that Wednesday is the favored day for both.

The wedding we were headed to was in the Western Flatlands of Tennessee, on a Thursday. It was a wedding I really wanted to attend, so despite the fact that it would involve driving across enemy territory on a Thursday, I considered it as worth it. I jest about it being enemy territory, though it isn’t the nicest drive. To be fair, I’m a little bit hard on most states bordering North Carolina, whether or not they deserve it. Tennessee has beautiful spots, but the drive through it on 40 ain’t it.

Thursday weddings have advantages for guests, one of them being the long weekend afterward, just right for camping. We considered a spot in Tennessee near some falls, but thanks to all campgrounds being full, realized that it would be advantageous to go nearer home so that the drive on Sunday was less. Particularly since the drive home after camping always smells strongly of wood smoke and day old creek water and deoderant. As it turned out we were to be glad the drive wasn’t longer, which I’ll talk about presently.

We divvied up camping duties. Someone figured out meals, and which utensils we’d need so as not to end up with duplicates. Someone brought a camp stove. Someone else brought coffee supplies. My job was to scout the area via maps, and figure out a general location to camp that would be near water sources and trails. You can camp pretty much anywhere you want in that area, with the proviso that you keep campfires inside designated rings.

Upon Dom’s advice I scouted the Balsams for good camping, found the general location, and then some of the party went ahead to find a specific camp spot. I had a few fallbacks, but we didn’t need them. We were out of cell service by the time we got near the spot, so when we saw some of our cars we whipped over and peered down a steep hill. Surely they weren’t thinking of camping down there? I glanced nervously at the not-packed-for-back-packing supplies and gamely pulled on wood’s shoes and picked my way down about 150’ of steep rock-trail. Another 100’ deposited us into…

Magic. It was a secluded flat area at a fork in the creek, with a falls just beyond. We couldn’t see the falls, but crossing the near branch of the creek and rounding a baby cliff brought one to a pretty, little falls. The whole area sparkled with new green and tiny rock glitter and sunlight on rushing creek water. It felt like backcountry campsites, only right by the road. It was worth hauling the supplies down the hill, yes.

Baby Brooklyn got wrapped up quickly, because the day had only topped out in the low 60s while in the flatlands, and we were now up around 4000’ elevation. A chill was quickly creeping up on us.

Chilling some ale for later.

In the camp, all was bonhomie. We trundled about setting up camp, gathering wood, and starting to cook. There’s nothing like the first evening of camp. The creek burbled, the baby ate dirt, the adults restored order to the mayhem of hauling all the camping supplies down that hill along with about 50 blankets a piece. It was supposed to hit the 30s that night. I had never personally camped in such cold temperatures before and knew my sleeping bag wasn’t rated for it. As my friend Abby says “I own a southern sleeping bag.”

I had brought two sleeping bags and two blankets and a whole fleece ensemble to wear to sleep, and I was nervously feeling the air was getting sharper and sharper. With that many blankets, I was going to be all right, anyway, but I was curious if the hammock-folks would be ok. Hammocks are wonderful in summer, but on April 1st in the mountains they might not cut it.

This trusty little tent is a favorite. Maybe it’s just because I put up with terrible tents for years, but there’s something to be said for staying dry at night.

What ho, dinner.

The night got cold. I was able to convince myself for most of the night that I was sufficiently warm, except that my nose got colder and colder and colder and it bothered me. It was one of those halfway times when one is too tired not to sleep, but the conditions for sleep are not properly met. Still, all things considered it was quite comfortable and I only wondered three times if that noise was a bear finding the food we risked not slinging up a tree.

The next morning dawned and clear and cold. Very cold. Someone got a small fire going and I zapped my face with creek water, which made the air feel suddenly warmer. The usual method of bathing in the creek was rejected as a terrible idea. It was too cold.

Most of the hammock-folk did not have a good night, unfortunately. A few of them were down right miserable. The morning fire continued to sulk from the wet wood and deposited ash all over us frequently. Thanks to the camp stove, we had a topping good breakfast of pancakes and bacon and slushy orange juice.

FLAT LAUREL CREEK TRAIL TO SAM KNOB

Partly to warm up, and partly to see the Sam Knob area, a few of us set off for a hike after breakfast. One of the areas that I’ve been wanting to see in NC is the Grayson Highlands, but as it turns out, this hike had all the wide meadows and sweeping views that I had been craving. The distance was around 3.5 miles to the top with an easy trail. We took Flat Laurel Creek up to the Sam Knob Trail, which took us through the meadows, and then up the final ascent.

Everything was still brown, with rhododendrons for green and not much else. I’m looking forward to going back when everything is alive with green and meadow flowers. Meanwhile the blues did not stop blueing, and were lovely at the top.

We covered the 7 mile round trip in about 3.5 hours, which felt decent until the next day when my body staged a protest. Still, we got back to camp in time to cook dinner.

We also came back to a bunch of our compatriots discussing going home that evening yet. Baby Brookie wouldn’t keep her hands under the blankets the previous night, and her one hand had stayed swollen and hot all day. It wasn't worth potentially damaging the baby, so her parents decided to take her home. The longer the rest of us thought about it, the more the thought of home, a hot shower, and one’s own bed called with a siren’s song. We were only about three hours away, after all. We could clean up camp, licketty-split, drive home, and have a lovely relaxed Sunday.

We decided for this: there would be one last raging fire with the firewood we had procured up the road, with dinner, stories read aloud around the campfire, and tea to finish up. We would come back when it was warm.

As most of us were sitting around discussing this Sam calmly said to Philip, “she’s stealing your cooler.”

The Yeti was left up by the trail head because it wasn’t worth hauling down that steep trail, but apparently somebody thought it was fair game. It was a lady in a truck, and we had seen her hanging around the campsite already last night, then again that morning, then again that afternoon. I’m not sure she had quite all her marbles, and she wasn’t a good thief. Philip sprinted up the trail and by the time she had the cooler on her truck and was getting it to take off, Philip had cleared the top, and lifted the cooler just as she drove out from under it. We’re really hoping she didn’t see him and got home to an empty truck bed.

At any rate, thank God we would have our dinner that night.

Hot food. Cold beer. Good company.

We had a lovely last evening. We cleaned up camp, ate dinner, Rosetta read aloud to us, we stared in the fire and conversed much and little. Around 10, we left for home.

The way home was not uneventful. One of the cars had a blown tire with no spare, so we loaded two people into my car alongside the four already in it. No showers, dead tired, all smelling of wet wood fire smoke, and no space. We put the four girls in the back seat because it just made the most sense with sizing, but as one of them commented “if you move the space you were in fills up and you won’t get it back.”

I was so, so, so glad to get home. It was 2 a.m. and I think I spent a good hour just looking at my house. That’s an exaggeration, but there are some times when home is extra sweet home.

But I can’t wait to go back to this camping spot in hot summer, when all those waterfalls and mountain pools will feel wonderful, and the rocks hot and comforting to dry off on afterward. We may have been April Fool’s to go camping this time of year, but I will take this kind of foolish any day of the week.

Good times.

Signing off,

L.