Cataloochee

Cataloochee Valley in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park calls to me from time to time. And because I continue to return to this unique niche of the park with its remnants of community life, abundance of wildlife and picturesque stream-lined trails I bear witness to the valley’s continued evolution of place. My shared history began much later than the Woodys’ and Caldwells’, the Hannahs’ and Palmers’, leaving their family cabins and homes to make way for the national park although I have encountered some of these families gathered for a reunion outside of the small white clapboard church in the small, green cut field that spreads from the road to the church. Once, starting out on a hike I met a man whose family had lived in the valley and his earliest memories, though scant and vague, recalled life in Cataloochee.

My introduction to hiking began in the valley. Intrigued by trails named Boogerman Loop and Pretty Hollow Gap and inspired by the spectacle of golds, yellows and reds that in autumn burst from the valley I repeatedly returned. Few people traveled the road then that wound its way past abandoned cars and farm equipment, packs of barking dogs and modest homes along its dusty one-lane and peaked at the gates to the national park. The small, intimate campground always had sites waiting for us and we would hike all day and only cross paths with one or two other groups.
The elk returned and changed the face of Cataloochee. People came and formed spontaneous parades that crept along the valley road hoping to catch a glimpse of the animals and then finding the whole herd grazing and people watching. We learned the tag numbers of the elk and tracked the antler growth of the male who bore the number one. We watched as calves, protected by a group of cows joined the herd and lamented the deaths of some of the original pioneers. Impatient tourists, anxious to cross elk sightings off of their vacation to do lists drive the valley road quickly, missing the deer at the edge of the woods or the turkeys feeding in the long grass. Others enjoy the valley at a more leisurely pace and wander through the settlement’s abandoned structures and dip their feet into the icy waters.

Craig and I brought our own children to gawk at the elk and carried them on our backs through the woods and into coves. We taught them to rock hop across narrow forks and encouraged them to test their skills in deeper, fast-moving waters. The heavy scent of galax mingled with the sweet, damp smell of the forest permeated the air where we walked sometimes at the snail’s pace of a tired toddler. The children, coaxed with m&m-laden trail mix and the possibility of a bear sighting managed longer and more difficult hikes. Once, misjudging the daylight hours and the time it would take us to hike the Boogerman loop, we finished the last two miles in darkness under a moon-lit sky. Lucky for us that the last leg of the trail followed Cadlwell Fork and that a full moon shone down on us. Craig carried Lise on his back over log bridges with missing handrails and our friend Tom carried Miren on his shoulders and together they looked for bears. The evening ended magically when we finally emerged from the trail to the open field of the valley. All of the cars and people had gone and we enjoyed in awed silence the silhouettes of the elk grazing under the white light of the moon.

Craig once proclaimed a beautiful, straight, short-leaf pine, an elder of his clan, who stands along the road into the valley his favorite tree. Each time we drive back down into the valley the children race to be the first to see it. We are known to risk our lives after a heavy snow while Craig navigates the icy road to the park gates. Relieved, we park in front of the closed gates and carry our sleds into the untouched snow. Craig’s tree is more amazing in person and we stop to admire it on our way down the road and use it as a resting point on our walk back up (now cold and wet and walking uphill pulling tired kids behind). The dog circles it before darting energetically after scents.

A recent clear, crisp summer day called us back and we hiked into Little Cataloochee and down to Big Cataloochee with the family, a friend of Miren’s and Karlota, a Spanish college student who is spending the summer with us. The cabins along the trail served as elaborate sets for young girls imagining themselves as mountain homesteaders. Karlota marveled at the differences between the Basque Country of Spain that she calls home and the Smoky Mountains, both beautiful but so foreign to each other. Karlota is not so foreign to us. Her easy going nature and general loveliness has already found a place in all of our hearts and she feels like family. Rem enjoys his ride in the backpack for the first three or four miles or so and then leaves it for the freedom of walking. I remind Craig that at least we did our climbing before Rem decided to set our pace.

We linger along a creek, rhododendron blossoms floating in the water and watch the children brave the cold. Craig skips rocks and Rem does, too by throwing handfuls of rocks in the same direction. Miren and her friend continue a conversation that started hours ago with few breaks during the five mile hike. Lise moves from Craig, to Karlota, to Rem to me. So much of her experiences are in the sharing. Cataloochee is perfect for that. Each visit brings something new but also calls forward our shared history, even if it is only a speck in the timeline of these mountains.

The mountains are like my children, breathtakingly beautiful, ever changing. They are familiar yet surprising and I always want to be with them, studying their uniqueness, enveloping myself in their unpredictability, seeing them and loving them in the moment and knowing I will always want to be in their midst.