The pulse of Autumn

By Erik Hogan

I’ve hiked along the Chattooga River and these mountains and valleys my entire life. The crystalline streams flow through my veins. Damp soil and underlying rock aggregate to form my bones. I feel my own pulse in this earth; in this ground that gives rise to the enveloping vivid red and yellow autumnal foliage of the trees. Stepping into this forest feels like a return home. Yet, can I really call this land my own?

The land does not belong to me. Others have called this place home for generations past. William Bartram explored the area in the late 1700’s and this trail is an approximation of the route he took. At that time, this was the land of the Cherokee people, and I can only imagine that they experienced a connection with it similar to my own.

Here the trail is a flat and easy walk from the outset. The Chattooga flows broad and calm to the left. Across its waters is a flat expanse, now forested, that was once the site of the Cherokee town of Chattooga Old Town. What an experience it would be to meet another culture tied so closely to this land. Would drum beats resonate through the river valley? Cooking fire smoke hang heavy in the treetops? And the voices of a community, in an unfamiliar language, murmur like the river itself?

But it is empty now, shrouded in the day’s drizzle. Silence echoes through towering trees forming a cathedral for ghosts.

The foliage is brilliant; warm hues burst in striking contrast to the wet and cool conditions. Contorted trunks of sourwood explode vermilion in the understory. Yellow and red maple leaves scatter across the forest floor. The trail is blanketed with the broad notched leaves of towering tulip trees, some bright yellow and many a deep muted orange.

Hiking at a steady pace, I grow hot underneath the poncho. Its advantage, though, is plenty of ventilation. Sopping brown fern, waxy dogbane, and yellowroot brush my legs as I move, saturating my shoes. For a couple of hours I walk until reaching Warwoman Creek, where it is crossed by Earl’s Ford Rd.

It is 3 pm and I finally break for lunch. A woman and her two dogs relax on rocks in the river. We speak briefly of the conditions of the day and of my planned hike, but very soon I must move on.

The clouds begin to part and a breeze picks up. Ahead, down a short side trail is Dick’s Creek Falls. I visited and photographed this waterfall several years ago. The rocks and stream above the falls are very familiar as I once again lay eyes on it.

Dick’s Creek drops off of this precipice and plummets 60ft to the Chattooga River below. A vertical scrambling descent through rhododendron brings me to the roaring water at its base. It looks different down here than I remember, possibly due to the low water level now or just the fading of memory with time.

The waterfall is mostly recessed in shadow. I set my tripod and begin to make photographs. With the clearing skies above, the shadows help to keep the shining white of the flowing water from gleaming out of control.

Time slips by like the current of the stream while I am absorbed in photography. More clouds begin to gather overhead and the surrounding forest grows dark. Yet its still just 4:45. The more ground I can cover today means less for the following days, though. So, I pack my gear and start walking yet again.

The trail begins climbing through the hills, slowing progress. A strong gusty wind stirs the branches above and clears the sky once more. Shadows deepen. One element of this hike in late October I had not considered is how short the hours of daylight are. Morning and evenings I will be hiking by headlamp. Do I have enough battery power for that?

My feet begin to hurt in their wet shoes. I know this pain. It could be blisters, but also could just be the tenderness of saturated skin. How far can I make it today? The map shows several upcoming campsite possibilities. I keep pushing. A long climb follows Bob Gap and it is a fatigued struggle. Darkness falls after 7 pm. A campsite at the next hilltop is the goal, but once there I cannot find any place to pitch my tent. I hate to backtrack, but must do so slightly to get to the last good site. I have come 14 miles since starting the trail at noon.

Pitching camp is a familiar routine, smooth and efficient. The peak of my tepee style tent rises with the propped trekking pole in just a few minutes. I then heat dinner and eat hurriedly, anticipating an exhausted crawl under my quilt to my inflated sleeping pad and pillow. First, I must hang my food bag at a safe height away from bears. The only real possibility is actually a perfectly bent tree. Its just a bit too close to my tent than I would like at only about 20 yards away.

This has been a very long day. There is a small blister on my right foot, but I’ll wait till morning to put tape over it. Laying in the darkness and wind above, I think again of the Cherokee and how they related to this land. And then I wonder about the inverse- how the land itself experienced those people? And how the land perceives me now? Does the land welcome me as part of its own? Or am I merely passing through? The thoughts accompany me as I drift away to sleep.

Erik Hogan is an Athens police officer whose photography focuses on capturing the beauty of nature.