Waterfall chasing

By Erik Hogan

Trout lilies are blooming. A delicate yellow bloom rising from between mottled leathery green leaves catches my attention. The few I saw earlier on the shaded banks of the creek were downcast, petals demurely folded. Sunlight has become harsh now in the late morning, but this flower stands radiant. Scanning the surrounding forest, I am suddenly aware that the hillside is covered in them.

Perhaps I can capture a stunning photo of the lily. If I take time here, I may yet come away with a small victory in what feels like a day of setbacks and defeats. Sprawling prone on the damp leaf litter with the sun to my back, I inch as close as the focus of my 50mm camera lens will allow. A squirrel rustles in the leaves uphill, but I tune it out. The aroma of rich earth lingers over the ground, comforting as a warm blanket, but I tune that out as well. With breath held, I press the shutter button. Zooming in on the LCD display reveals that the image is not sharp.

Can I prop my camera on something rather than holding it? What is my shutter speed, ISO, aperture? Re-focus. Let the heartrate settle and hold as still as possible. Click. It’s still not as sharp as I want.

Try again. Re-focus. All of my mental attunement is directed at this lily. All except that small part of my subconscious that hears the persistent noise in the leaves uphill and thinks it’s not a squirrel. A deer maybe? I will look in a minute.

Hold the breath. Press the shutter button. Zoom in on the display. Yes, this photo looks sharp!

My body reacts faster than my mind understands why, launching me to my feet. Violent crashing through the leaves above. The sudden adrenaline spike feels like a moment of freefall. All of the hair on my arms and neck raises. I look uphill just in time to see a mass of dark fur racing down directly towards me.

It’s too late to react. The thing is already upon me by the time my mind orients to it just enough to think “WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!?!”

The Canyon of Five Falls has lingered in the dark corners of my mind for two years. A remote section of five dramatic rapids along the Chattooga River between Georgia and South Carolina, I was only able to visit a portion of the canyon on my first venture to it. I’ve wanted to return; dreamed of those fierce waters ever since.

There are no trails that lead to the canyon. The difficulty of reaching it has been my only hesitation to go back. The previous route took me up a steep and sketchy scramble through rhododendron covered cliffs. There must be a better way.

Maps reveal a possibility. Camp Creek Rd gets close. Shooting off from it, a short Forest Service Rd looks like a place I could park the truck. From there, a short bushwhack through creek valleys should lead to the southern end of the canyon. Once in the canyon, I am confident I could rock hop my way through it to the north. So that’s the plan.

Two days of rain leading up to this should make for high water flow in the canyon. Even in the dark before sunrise I can see that the skies are overcast. And those clouds are projected to last through lunchtime. Perfect conditions for photography.

My excitement begins to build as the daylight grows and I reach the low mountains of North Georgia. Dense fog settles in and I am already imagining misty moody photo compositions. A panicked coyote skitters across the highway ahead of me.

It is still very early, but as I turn onto Camp Creek Rd and begin driving down the length of it the fog suddenly lifts entirely. Houses line the road. I have a long way to go yet, but begin to wonder about where I can park that won’t be a problem for a resident. And now the clouds above are already beginning to part. The day is beautiful, but an uneasy feeling of time pressure builds.

And then the road ends. A house sits just off to the left, but ahead is a glaring red stop sign and other signs emphatically warning End of the Road. Vehicles associated with the house are parked on the shoulders, making it difficult to turn around.

I am only halfway down what the map shows as Camp Creek Rd. This early on a Saturday morning, I won’t knock on that door to ask what lies beyond the signs. And I also clearly can’t park here and start hiking. Is the adventure over before the day has even begun?

Water Gauge Rd! I passed the sign a little while back. That is the road I took to access the canyon the last time. Out comes the mapping app. That trail along the Chattooga ends at Camp Creek. I could bushwhack up the creek and skirt around the south side of the hill I scrambled over two years ago. From there, a pass through a low elevation notch should give me access to the canyon. It is worth a try.

I hurry, but had forgotten how long and slow of a drive Water Gauge Rd is. The dirt track is marred by ruts and pits, turned into ruddy pools after the recent rains. I’m grateful to be back in my four wheel drive truck for this. All the while that promised cloud cover shifts, cracks, and opens up to the blue sky beyond.

The end of the road is just as I remember it. I hasten to park, grab my gear, and start down the trail. At the very end of February, buds on branches are everywhere, but few have unfurled into new leaves. The forest is still highlighted by beech trees, greedily clinging to last years coppery foliage.

The hike to the Chattooga is short. Even so, the number of fresh blown down trees is readily apparent. Some have been cleared from the trail. Some haven’t. How many storms have thrashed this land since my last visit? Fortunately, so far most of the trees are small. Soon the river sprawls ahead, wide, languorous, and brilliantly greenish blue.

The trail parallels the river, heading downstream. Another short walk leads to the confluence of Camp Creek and the Chattooga. There is no bridge and my destination is ultimately on the far side of the creek. I skip across. Here the trail ends and the bushwhacking begins.

The terrain on this side of the creek immediately becomes steep. Loose and damp underfoot, the earth easily gives way. I push further, struggling with every step. It is a fight against vegetation ranging up and down the hillside. A grappling match with gnarled and woody rhododendron.

Ahead the topography is precipitous. Larger downed trees block the way, as well. I cannot continue here. The opposite side of this ravine looks easier. Flatter. Scrambling down into the creek I gingerly making my way across slick green clad rocks and up the far bank.

A different challenge emerges here. This slope is covered in dog hobble. The wiry shrub, as its name implies, tangles the legs and makes any progress grueling and slow.

Sweat rolls down my face. I check the map, but the marker for my position has hardly moved. More struggle advances me just a bit further up the ravine, but then steeper terrain again blocks the route.

Sunlight is hitting the treetops. That cloud cover that was promised is mostly gone. The only option left is to try to rock hop directly through the creek, but maneuvering this way is little more than a crawl, slick and stooped low.

The creek bends around a massive mossy boulder on the left bank, leaving a wide pool ahead. I see no way around. Do I plunge ahead, soaking my shoes and dealing with those consequences? But it is such a warm day. Couldn’t I just take off my shoes and walk in the water?

Water in this mountain stream is shockingly, painfully cold. A few steps is all it takes for the pain to well up into my core and for my mind to scream for release. A few steps, though, is all I need. Just enough to get from one large rock to the next.

And so I grind my way up Camp Creek. Slowly. Carefully. A progression that seems to be measured in inches. Inches stretched into minutes, long series of minutes, by the weight of adversity. The cold has made my feet sensitive, and the stream conceals. Below the water are many, many rocks. Some I can see. Others lay just below benign looking stretches of smooth sand. Each one I find is a jarring and hurtful pause.

Camp Creek’s beauty is undeniable, though. It is small, but majestic in an unassuming kind of manner. I creep past numerous delightful cascades of water carousing through collections of venerable boulders, a celebration of the juxtaposition of motion and stillness as old as the mountains themselves.

Persistence leads to progress, if such slow forward movement can even be described as such. By now I’ve learned to ignore the cold of the water entirely, but the unpredictable jagged rocks I step on I cannot. Every footfall becomes a calculated risk.

How late is the day now? Mid morning, at least. I check the map. It does not look to be that much further, but I then compare the distance to how far I’ve come. It does not look good.

Ultimately, this is not impossible. I could get there. But it is the cost of getting there that leads me to recognize defeat. The clouds have all dissipated, meaning sunlight on the river in the canyon would be harsh. Unforgiving, even. And just getting to the canyon would take me a good portion of the rest of the day.

A deep breath in as I survey my surroundings. And then turn around.

The return downstream allows me to take my time and enjoy being where I am, without a destination ahead. Simply, I exist in a creek in the mountains completely alone, yet surrounded by life and natural processes more ancient and complex than I can possibly conceive. Moss draped hollows infinitely older than all of humanity. And yet, there is belonging here. Understanding. I am part of this place and, though I stand solidly akin to a boulder in this frigid flowing creek, the water flows through me, as well.

I stop on the way back to make several photographs

of the cascades along the lower portion of Camp Creek. Who else has ever come this way? Who else has photographed these scenes? Possibly no one.

Back at the Chattooga River one more idea comes to me. A vague memory of reading about a waterfall or rapids lying a short distance upstream. I now have time to explore, so why not?

This may or may not be an official trail. It seems to follow an old road bed, but quickly becomes choked with fallen trees. Some I can circumnavigate by climbing uphill around the upturned root balls. Others I clamber over or crawl underneath.

The day is brilliant. The sunlight warm. The torrents of the Chattooga move through rapids below and gleam with light so bright I cannot look at it for long. Copper beech leaves seem to glow with a radiance all of their own. I realize that despite failing to reach the Canyon of Five Falls today, I am very happy.

Looking down at just that moment, I see a superb feather lying at my feet. A gift from the wild. I tuck the feather in a loop on my pack strap.

If this was a trail I had been following, it dwindles into a mere suggestion. The point I intended to reach isn’t much further, but the terrain has become very steep, dropping 50 yards or more to the river below. And then, an impossible tangle of blown down trees and knotted rhododendrons stands before me. This is as far as I go.

I accept this defeat, as well. But then, scanning the landscape, I notice the abundance of trout lilies blooming all around me. How best to capture them in a photo? I’ll lie down, get as close as I can.

My concentration is interrupted by a crashing through the leaves uphill. I jump up just in time as an animal comes rushing down at me. It’s gotten to me by the time I realize it is a dog! A floppy eared tan dog with a large radio collar! And immediately behind it come five more!

Panting. Tails wagging. Somehow not barking or baying. These dogs seem ecstatic, elated to have found me here. They rush up to me, sniff around, jump up, paw my chest, disappear into the rhododendrons only to come crashing back and enthusiastically discover me all over again. My cheeks grow sore from smiling so wide.

I’ve not often been so confused in the wild. At any moment I expect some camouflaged hunter to come following behind them. But no one comes. No voice calls them. It isn’t any hunting season that I am aware of, but these dogs all share the same collars. They are obviously here for some related purpose.

Steadily I make my way back. The dogs follow along for quite a while. Some fall off behind me but one or two persist, disappearing and returning at widening intervals to check on me.

I make it back to the short trail that leads to my parked truck. The mysterious dogs have all stopped following, preferring to run rampant in the remote forested hillsides along the Chattooga.

I grab my pack strap and realize that the feather stashed there has fallen out somewhere along the way. I drop my hand, brushing the pocket of my pants. That’s when I notice my pocket knife has fallen out, also lost in the forest. That was a good knife. It had been with me for many, many miles. Fortune gives, and then she takes even more. All I can do is laugh to myself, alone in the convocation of trees.

It has been a great day to fail.

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