Great Smoky Mountains (ii): Cherohala & Maple Springs

The next morning, after a few hours of unrestful sleep in my car in a deserted lot, I set off on the Cherohala Skyway. At just before dawn, the light was very faint and there was a dense fog as I reached higher elevations. The Skyway is, like Shenandoah's Skyline Drive, one of the many national parks' scenic byways and, I believe, the most costly in Great Smoky Mountains Park. As I drove over and around the peaks, the sun disappeared alternately behind trees, clouds, fogs, and mountains. As I rounded certain bends, I'd find myself at the perfect vantage point to view the sunrise. Overlooking a valley or framing the sun between mountains, the clouds filtering the morning sun into individual shafts of light.

I turned off into Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest, where there is a short trail leading to the Maple Springs Observation Point. After passing through a short stretch of dense forest, I arrived at a wooden platform that extends from a narrow formation and juts out from the rock. From there I watched the sun complete its ascent over the shrouded valleys below. It was quiet and peaceful.



After the sun rose higher in the sky and the temperature became uncomfortable, I passed through the rest of the park and started my drive back home. I drank a lot of caffeine on this trip and I don't normally. I think I'm getting caffeine headaches.

Great Smoky Mountains (i): Gatlinburg, Charlie, & Rocks

This has become kind of my de-stress formula: drive somewhere alone, hike, listen to a lot of This American Life. I've found its effectiveness lies in exhaustion and diversion. Long drives and strenuous hikes are draining to the point where my ability to concentrate is reduced to single subjects - staying awake at the wheel or my next step. During stretches of drives without the threat of spontaneous naps, TAL is so thoroughly immersive that my own thoughts and feelings are replaced by those of the people in each episode. In recent years, it's become a good way to clear my head. I've been in need of some decompression, so I undertook a quick and dirty road trip this weekend. The first for my new car, perhaps of many.



On Friday night, I took a nap for a few hours after work and left my house at around 1am. I was heading to Great Smoky Mountains National Park in Tennessee. I drove through the night and arrived at the outskirts of the park just before noon. Before I go into anything else, I need to point out that Gatlinburg (the town just outside one of the main entrances to the park) is utterly repulsive. Imagine a trashy beach boardwalk mixed with a county fair and spread it out over a 10 mile stretch of road and you'll have an idea of what this town is like. Kitschy amusements and rides, arcades, novelty attractions, souvenir shops, untold numbers of KFCs, every manner of mini-golf courses - all rendered in oppressively bright, garish primary colors. I couldn't fathom what the hordes of tank-top clad, overweight white families were doing in this nightmare of uncultured consumer purgatory right in the shadow of the Smokies. The only redeeming thing about this place was the abundance of Chik-fil-As.

When I finally passed through Gatlinburg and entered the park, the byways were still pretty clogged with families milling about. It wasn't until I got to the section of the Appalachian Trail that I was headed to that the crowds thinned. I was hiking a 10 mile section to a place called Charlie's Bunion. So named for some historical guy and a foot injury or something. The bunion in question is a rocky outcropping along a high headland a couple of miles off from the AT. This section runs along the peaks such that it feels like walking atop the spine of the Appalachians at around 5-6000 feet and there are views of both sides of the range. Like I mentioned before, part of what I enjoy about hiking is the opportunity to tire myself out to the point of no longer thinking about everything. The other part is the sheer silence and solitude one can achieve sometimes. Nothing but the sound of gravel crunching underfoot, the Doppler buzzing of flying insects, the twittering of birds, the glug-glug of the water in my backpack, my labored breathing. Only the occasional and faint echo of voices of fellow hikers to dispel the illusion of isolation.



I'm not sure if this is unusual or not, but I really enjoy the sound of rocks against rocks. On particularly rocky portions of trails I'll deliberately drag my feet to push rocks into one another just to hear them clink and clack. There's just something so gratifyingly tactile about it. I guess it might be similar to how people love to pop bubble wrap, but less about the feel so much as the sound of it.



I'm going to leave the rest of this post for tomorrow. While my body has always proven to be extraordinarily resilient - in that I slept 3 hours Friday night, drove 9 hours, hiked for 7 hours, slept 2 hours, hiked again, then drove another 9 hours back home, all while eating only one real meal, and am still conscious - I'm reaching a point where I'm going to crash in spectacular fashion. I'm having trouble focusing my vision and my depth perception is getting very unreliable. Tomorrow will be tiring, but this weekend was a good opportunity to clear some cobwebs.

Monday awaits.

Nova Scotia (v): Halifax, Cape Breton, & Irene

From Peggys Cove, Halifax is less than an hour drive away. While following the coastal route was straightforward and more or less devoid of any opportunities to get lost, making my way into the city was a little trickier. Without my phone or a detailed map, I aimed myself toward Halifax and hoped for the best. I took a couple of wrong turns, but I made it to downtown Halifax before too long. Halifax is pretty small and actually not that interesting. I've been to cooler cities. I checked out a few major tourist sites, including a large fort-topped hill in the center of the town. I then went down to the boardwalk to grab something to eat. You can see the two snack shacks: beaver tails (?!) and fish and chips. Silly Canadians. I had previously considered spending more time in Halifax, but I didn't feel compelled to. After lunch, I got back in my car and headed out for Cape Breton.



Up until then I had been on the coastal route, but the road to Cape Breton crossed the interior of Nova Scotia. Most of the population seemed concentrated in the outer edges of Nova Scotia and the interior was mostly empty and pock marked by lakes. I didn't make any stops and got to the island a little before sunset. I got on the Cabot Trail, which is the road that loops around the park, and headed counter-clockwise. It was too late to attempt any hikes, so the next series is just views of the winding, cliff-top coastal roads and the sky and ocean in different stages of the sunset.



At the northern tip of the park, there is a small town with a couple of restaurants and an inn. I ate dinner there, which consisted of fish that had been caught that day, and then doubled back to where the trail hit some of the highest points in the park. I attempted to do some astrophotography, but my poor 40D is showing its age. It doesn't seem up to super long exposures anymore and was never really able to handle very high ISOs. I got a handful of too-noisy shots of the Milky Way and a couple of star trails, but they're not really usable. If you want to contribute to the "Buy Brian A New Camera" fund, please let me know.

After a couple of hours of wandering around in the dark, I made my way back to the mini-town and parked my car and slept until just before sunrise. I woke up and immediately made my way to the eastern coast to catch the sunrise. After a little while of making my way down the eastern loop, I turned off into a small fishing village that was just beginning to stir and the fishermen were preparing their boats for the day. At this point I'd accumulated more than enough pictures of lighthouses, but at the of the road was another lighthouse atop a low headland overlooking the water. The clouds and morning sun created a backdrop I couldn't leave unphotographed.

I continued south from the village for a bit and turned off again to follow a beach trail on foot. It led to a rocky outcropping that jutted out into the water. I went up onto the rocks and stood at the edge as the waves crashed violently on the darkened stones below me. The sun was climbing steadily in the sky and the clouds broke the fledgling sun-rays into light and dark, blue and red. The coast arced forward on either side of me and I wondered at what motivates me to drive thousands of miles just to be alone, surrounded by rocks, trees, and water.



From there I made my way to the trailhead of a hike I had planned on doing. Unfortunately, as soon as I parked my car, Irene crashed the party. The rain began lightly - a light mist that was almost imperceptible enough for me to still consider doing the hike - but Irene soon extinguished the clean light of the new day and cast it into the murky darkness of late evening. Storm clouds rolled in thick and unforgiving and the rain became hard and pelting. I had originally planned on staying the entire day in the park, but knowing that the rain wouldn't stop until Irene had passed, I decided to just start the drive back to Boston. There wouldn't be any point in staying. So, I dialed in and drove the 15 hours back to Boston straight, passing through the entirety of Hurricane Irene.

The return journey was pretty uninteresting - nothing but black skies, wiper blades, and the barely visible tail lights of the cars ahead of me. Just as I made it back into the city, the sky cleared. I got back to my apartment, plugged myself back into the internet and found out what had happened in the world in the previous five days, and passed out. Another road trip over, but as a bonus, here's a shot of what my passenger seat looks like during these things:

Nova Scotia (iv): Lunenburg, Mahone Bay, & Peggys Cove

I woke up in my car in Lunenburg right before sunrise. I rubbed the grogginess out of my eyes and the stiffness out of my neck and made my way down to the docks. Lunenburg is an historic port town and is known for its jewel-toned buildings. The brightly colored homes, sailboats, and the warm, yellow light of dawn made for a very painterly scene.



Before the sun rose too far above the horizon, I got back into my car and continued along the coast. Just down the road was Mahone Bay. Another small historic town, Mahone Bay is mostly known for its three prominent churches from the 1800's: Trinity United, Saint John's Lutheran, and Saint James Anglican. The churches are often seen on postcards and travel ads for Nova Scotia.



The third in this succession of Nova Scotia landmarks was Peggys Cove. A small fishing village, with a population of less than 50, that is home to the "most photographed lighthouse in North America." After you turn into the village and pass the small wooden houses, stacks of lobster cages, and grounded rowboats, the road ends in a small gravel turn off. Over a small grassy hill is an expansive rocky plateau that leads to the ocean. At the edge of the plateau overlooking the powerful, crashing waves is Peggys Point Lighthouse. As I approached it, the fog was still dense and I could only make out the dark outline of the monolith. The mist began to dissipate and the lighthouse and shore began to resolve and flush with color. It's easy to see why it's so prolifically photographed. Peggys Point is as iconic as a lighthouse can get.



I passed through these three scenes in only a couple of hours. In the remainder of the day I passed through Halifax and drove north to Cape Breton. I'll get to those next time.

On another note: I've completed my first week of the semester. It's been rainy and cold all week and I've been somewhat distracted for various reasons. Fortunately, it's supposed to clear up tomorrow and, hopefully, so will my disposition. I will use the weekend to recharge and brace myself for the prospect of doing school work again.

Nova Scotia (iii): South Shore

Upon arriving at the ferry at Saint John, I found it suspiciously empty. It was then that I learned that Canada is actually one hour ahead of the United States. I thought I had made it to the ferry an hour early, but I actually arrived five minutes late and watched as the Princess of Acadia sailed out into the Bay of Fundy in the murky, overcast dusk. So that evening I found a hotel room and grabbed dinner at a local bar and got my last full night's rest and shower for the rest of the trip.

As it turns out, it was fortunate that I missed the ferry the previous evening. The clouds had dissipated and the next morning was clear and sunny. I arrived at the ferry extra early to avoid any complications and boarded the Princess at 11am and sailed at noon.



After making landfall in Digby, I set off along the coastal road going counter clockwise. The coast is peppered with countless turnoff loops, tracing the contours of the shoreline, that weave in and out of fishing villages and tourist watering holes. I made my way through many of them, but the more interesting ones weren't until the next day closer to Halifax. I did find a nice secluded lighthouse over a rock strewn beach covered in wildflowers. It was near sunset and the beach was shrouded in mist and the light was diffuse and ghostly. If you look closely, you can see the light refracting in the mist and creating a small, faint rainbow around the lighthouse in the first shot. As I explored the beach the lighthouse let out a deafening blast every 30 seconds. It took me several minutes to stop flinching at it.



As night fell, I drove for as long as I could without falling asleep. I made it all the way to Lunenburg, which is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and parked my car on a secluded side street and got a few hours of sleep. I'll pick up here in the next post, but now I have to go to my last first day of class. For now, here are some shots of the sunset over the bay:

Nova Scotia (ii): Precipice Trail

The Precipice Trail is actually in Acadia National Park in Maine not Nova Scotia. I read about this particular trail while looking into Acadia National Park and was drawn by the descriptions of ascending the sheer, vertical face of Champlain Mountain. It's billed as a "non-technical climb" and ominous signs warned off the height-phobic.

The trail begins with a straightforward rock scramble, but once it reaches the base of the mountain it becomes extremely vertical. While normal trails ascend in switchbacks of more forgiving grades, Precipice immediately launches into a series of climbs and ladder-like portions that zig-zag up the 1,000 foot cliff. The trail itself is only a little over a mile long, but it was pretty strenuous. Not having worked out much this summer, I reached the summit with quivering quads and calves on the verge of cramping.



I left Boston a little before Hurricane Irene arrived and essentially raced it up the coast. I beat it to Nova Scotia by a few days, but I'll talk about that later. In Maine, I think I got the very tip of it. There was partial cloud cover that got heavier as the day wore on, but, while on the hike, the sun came in and out. The summit was, at regular intervals, enveloped by passing clouds - the thin sliver of the forested shoreline and ocean intermittently obscured like different stages of a Hiroshi Sugimoto seascape series. The ocean, of course, is also what made this hike so different from the others I've been on. It's quite a difference to see an endless expanse of water from height instead of mountains and forests. Descending was considerably more unnerving. Lowering yourself over a rock ledge trying to find the first foothold then looking down to see 1,000 feet of nothing below you is not something you can quite get used to.

I had to hurry down, against the protests of my worn out legs, because I had scheduled my visit to Acadia to leave me enough time to get to Saint John, New Brunswick in time for the last ferry of the day to Digby, Nova Scotia. I returned to my car exactly on schedule and the drive to Saint John went smoothly, but I missed the ferry for a very stupid reason. I'll explain why in the next post. In the meantime, I'm driving home tomorrow to drop off the car and will be hanging out for a few days before flying back to Boston to begin my last semester of school, hopefully ever.

Nova Scotia (i): 2,641, 750, 37, 512*

I got back from Nova Scotia a couple of hours ago. I headed home a day early because Hurricane Irene decided to make her appearance. The numbers in the title are thus: 2,641 miles driven (that's from MD->Boston->NS->Boston), 750 pictures taken, 37 episodes of This American Life listened to, and what seems like 512 bug bites (maybe an exaggeration). I just took my first shower since Thursday and am now going to go sleep in a bed for the first time in three nights.

Stay tuned for more. For now, enjoy this super posed shot of a sunset over the Atlantic from Cape Breton.

Yukon Ho!

Well, I'm going to the opposite end of Canada from the Yukon. Tomorrow I'll be packing the car and heading up to Nova Scotia. I'll be making a stop in Boston to drop off my stuff at my apartment and then continuing north. I'm going to try to fit in the Precipice Trail in Acadia National Park if I have time before making the 8pm ferry from Saint John, New Brunswick to Digby, Nova Scotia. From Digby I'll be looping around the southern tip of NS and making my way to Halifax and then to Cape Breton Highlands National Park. I'm looking forward to the open road, ocean, horizon, forests, and hours of This American Life.

Stay tuned for pictures/stories.

Mighty Mississippi (Alternative Spring Break)

A couple of weeks ago, a classmate mentioned that the Alternative Spring Break program at BU still needed chaperones for a number of their trips. Without any other significant plans for my break and on somewhat of a whim I volunteered. So, this morning I returned with sunburns, mud-encrusted Nikes, and a stiff neck (from two 36-hour van rides) from a week in Natchez, Mississippi.



Excluding myself, our group consisted of 10 undergraduates averaging around 20 years old, 9 of which were girls. Not a social dynamic I'm normally accustomed to (I've never heard so much Beyonce and Rihanna in my life), but it wasn't unbearable. We spent the week volunteering at the Natchez Children's Home, but only some of our time was spent working with the kids. The majority of the week was spent helping prepare a garden for planting, general landscaping, and some interior work. Much of this work was in the company of the home's resident handy-man, Calvin, a former-mechanic turned Baptist preacher, and Buddy Miller, an aged, eccentric, independently wealthy southern farmer.



I don't think I had any clearly formed expectations of what kind of work I'd be doing when I elected to come on the trip, but getting to work with my hands was a nice reprieve from school. As I'm cresting the middle of graduate school, it's been easy to get stuck in high-minded ideas of approaching development and poverty from the mindset that theory and math are the major tools for change, but this week has been a helpful reminder that there is a lot work to be done that is not intellectually glamorous.

On another note, the culture in small-town Mississippi is archetypal of what one might expect the south to be like. People are welcoming and involved, waistlines are larger (I saw a KFC BUFFET), and there is a confounding mix of intransigent conservatism and a disarming lack of political hostility. A reporter from a local paper, the unexpectedly named Natchez Democrat, came to the home one day to write a piece on our trip (the story can be found here). I'm quoted saying something pretty inane and the writing is comparatively pedestrian (it's no NYT or Economist), but the amazing part was that the following day almost everyone we encountered had read about us. The story had run on the front page and we were the big news of the day (next to the unprecedented changes to the historical tableaux/pageant). It was a little surreal.

I can't say that I don't miss having a week to relax and do nothing, but it was a rewarding experience. Now I need to go listen to something that will drown out Rihanna's "S & M" from my brain.



Incidentally, I also turned 25 a little over a week ago. What up, quarter life.

Sunrise At 10,000 Feet

Without the time or energy to spend multiple days camping in Yellowstone midway through a 4,500 mile solo road-trip, I instead spent a marathon day and a half driving around the entire park seeing as much as I could. I spent that night driving around Lake Yellowstone (the highest lake in North America) hunting for spots to attempt star-trail photography. One thing I failed to account for when packing for my trip was that, even in July, it is really cold overnight at high elevations. At around 10,000 ft. up, it was in the mid-30's when I attempted to take a short nap in my car by the lake. After about an hour of shivering under all the clothes and towels I had packed, I gave up and headed to the spot where I would catch the sunrise.



Leaving my car in a small turn off, I made my way through a patch of woods in the pitch-black moments just before dawn. Alternating between using my flashlight and walking blind in the dark, I savored that childhood impulse to run from invisible assailants lurking in the inky shadows around me. I emerged from the woods just as the pale pinks and oranges of early morning were spilling over the mountains at the opposite end of the water. I don't know why I refuse to dress warmly when I know I'm going to be in the cold only temporarily, but I sat down in the dirt there in shorts and a t-shirt, shivering while I waited for the sun. At 6:17 am on the morning of July 25 there was only the soft, warm glow radiating out from the horizon up across the sky and down over the clear, calm waters toward my feet, only the sounds of my trembling, foggy breaths and the lake's gentle waves that are so different from the ocean's roaring crashes. The world did not exist outside of that moment.

While talking with a friend the other day I mentioned, somewhat facetiously, that I wished I could just skip 2011. Not because I expect it to be particularly unenjoyable, but because this one year represents a task to be completed before I move on to the next stage in my life and career. It's always the anticipation of things that make them more than they are. I think that's why I like road-trips so much: it lets me continually surprise myself with anonymous, road-side moments of quiet serenity that let me tune out the rest of the world.

Cross Country Redux

Since April 2009, I've gone on three separate cross country road trips. Despite enduring D.C. traffic for years, I really enjoy driving. Perhaps less so in the monotony of freeway traffic, but I find it a calming experience. Driving is primarily an observational activity and once the mania of urban/suburban life peels back, there are few things I find more peace in than driving through an idyllic countryside and watching America unfold through my windshield. Without a plane to catch or reservations to keep, being on the road affords a liberating sense of anonymity. I find it much easier to quiet my mind and be still during these times.



I'm disappointingly untraveled abroad, but through these trips I think I've seen more of America than most have. I'm happy to say that America is gripping and diverse. Rolling through new cities, wandering around national parks, or just stopping to admire the desert, with just a few tanks of gas I've found more than enough beauty and adventure within our own borders.



As if to illustrate the wandering spirit of the road trip, this took much more time and ended up being way longer than I had anticipated. As I went back through my archive of photos and retraced my steps across the country, I felt a similar sense of meandering.