Plunging an amazing 411 feet, Upper Whitewater Falls in southwest North Carolina is the highest waterfall east of the Rockies. Located in a fairly rugged, little-visited area, the upper falls are easily accessible via a short paved path bordered by wildflowers, moss-covered boulders, and dense forest.

Upper Whitewater Falls in Sapphire, North Carolina

Tiny wildflowers border the path through dense forest

More wildflowers

A 154-step staircase leads to a lower observation deck and an even better head-on view.

Closer views from the lower observation deck

A closeup of one portion of the 411-foot cascade

From the observation deck, a second stairway descends to a half-mile spur trail that drops 600 feet to the Whitewater River and Foothills Trail. There are no additional views of the upper falls from the trail, however it leads south to the South Carolina border and to Lower Whitewater Falls, which drops an additional 400 feet. With limited time on this trip I was unable to hike the Foothills Trail, but the Upper Falls were well worth the 30 miles I had to detour on my route between Cashiers, North Carolina and Atlanta.

You might also like:

After five weeks on the road it was time to head home, but not before one last day of hiking. From the North Carolina mountain town of Cashiers, I mapped a route past Gorges State Park, which opened to the public this past May. Located atop the Blue Ridge Escarpment, this newest North Carolina park is the source of five mountain streams that gradually descend toward the South Carolina border, where they suddenly plunge over spectacular falls and rush through steep-walled gorges.

With only one afternoon at my disposal I decided on a duo of one-mile round-trip hikes. The first, marked “strenuous,” descended sharply to a wooden platform overhanging Bearwalow Creek, where Upper Bearwallow Falls dropped 200 feet into the gorge. Pretty – but a bit anticlimactic after others I have seen around Transylvania County. And almost not worth the straight-up, half-mile ascent that had me gasping for air.

Upper Bearwallow Falls in North Carolina's new Gorges State Park

After catching my breath I crossed the parking lot to access the “moderate” Bearwallow Valley Overlook trail. I eyeballed the spongy, leaf-littered path leading up through dense pine forest skeptically; it certainly looked too steep to be considered moderate. But I had come this far; there was no turning back. Up I went. And up. And up some more. Trees thinned at the top of the ridge, offering peeks of a wide valley backed by blue-green mountains. In the distance, an observation platform promised a chance to rest while enjoying spectacular views, but when I stepped out onto the wooden deck I found a view totally ruined by transmission towers and power lines.

Bearwallow Valley Overlook trail leads to a view of electric towers and high tension wires strung across the valley

An educational display explained that this land was donated by Duke Power, which originally acquired the property because its steep topography and mountain streams were ideal for hydroelectric generation. Between 1968 and 1973 Duke dammed up the rivers, creating Lake Jocassee and Lake Keowee, which provide for more than 4,300 megawatts of electricity from hydro and nuclear plants serving customers in North and South Carolina. In the late 1990′s, after determining they would not need all of the holdings for power generation, Duke donated more than 45,000 acres to the two states, with the stipulation that the lands would be preserved as a natural resource.

While I appreciate that Duke went to great lengths to construct towers in a manner least intrusive to the environment, and that the park would certainly not even exist had they not acquired the land to begin with, I found it bizarre that one of the premiere trails in the park led to a view of a giant steel tower and miles of wires crossing an otherwise exquisite valley. I know they have to be there; I just don’t want to look at them them after I’ve hiked half a mile straight uphill.

You might also like:

Phony teepees, gold panning operations, and stores overflowing with “Indian” souvenirs stamped “Made in Taiwan” dominate the main street in Cherokee, North Carolina. On the sidewalks, performers with not a whit of Indian blood don garish costumes and perform steps bearing little resemblance to actual Cherokee ceremonial dance. In a shopping center parking lot, kids line up to ride a mechanical bull, while down the street, giant arrows direct tourists to a live bear display. Although located within the Reservation lands of the Eastern Band of the Cherokee Indians, it would be easy to dismiss the town of Cherokee as just another tourist trap and drive right on through. But don’t. Instead, turn at the Cherokee Museum and drive to the top of hill to Oconaluftee Indian Village, where an authentic Cherokee experience awaits.

Main highway running through Cherokee, North Carolina is strewn with touristy attractions and gift stores

The Cherokees in Western North Carolina today descend from those who those who hid in the hills, defying removal during the infamous Trail of Tears mandated by President Andrew Jackson, and others who returned, many on foot. Gradually they created a sovereign nation of 100 square miles and, in 1948, established the Cherokee Historical Association to carry out their mission of preserving the history and culture of the Cherokee People. Oconaluftee Indian Village and its sister operation, the Unto These Hills Outdoor Drama are central to those efforts.

Traditional Cherokee log cabin with mud wattle in the chinks

Cherokee sweat lodge

War dance re-enacted in the sacred square

The first surprise for most who visit Oconaluftee is the absence of teepees. Cherokee lived in structures initially constructed of wattle and daub spread over a framework of tree limbs, and later in cabins of notched logs with a mixture of mud, straw and animal hair filling the chinks between logs. The cabins surrounded a centrally located, seven-sided Main Lodge, where the tribe gathered each day to discuss issues facing the community. Every Cherokee was a member of one of seven clans, each of which had specific responsibilities within the tribe: members of the Deer clan were relay messengers, Wild Potato clan members oversaw crops and planting, Paint clan was in charge of producing paint for war and dances, Bird clan collected eagle feathers for decoration and ceremonies, Blue clan members were doctors and were responsible for the well-being of children, a Wolf clan member was the chief during war time, and Long Hair clan provided the chief during peace time. Inside the Main Lodge, each person sat in the area assigned to their clan; it was forbidden to sit with another clan, just as it was forbidden to marry within one’s own clan.

Traditional basket weaving

Throughout the day at Oconaluftee, presentations in the Main Lodge teach visitors about Cherokee culture and history and dispel some of the more common misconceptions about the tribe. I learned that the Cherokee lived a pastoral life, hunting for game and farming the surrounding land, taking care to rotate crops and let fields lie fallow when crops showed signs that the soil was becoming depleted. In an adjacent sacred square, authentic war dances and reenactments of the Cherokee’s battle with British troops were conducted. Around the outer perimeter of the village, Indian artisans demonstrated traditional crafts of bow and arrow making, basketry, weaving, beading, carving, and dugout canoe construction.

Mythical heads of the seven Cherokee clans take the stage at the beginning of Unto These Hills Outdoor Drama

Following dinner in town, I boarded one of the free buses provided by the tribe and headed back up the mountainside to attend Unto These Hills, one of the longest running outdoor dramas in the U.S. As daylight faded a fog machine shrouded the stage in mist. A chill ran up my spine as, one by one, the seven mythical heads of the clans stepped onto the stage, clad in shimmering white robes and elaborate masks. The two-hour play portrayed the story of the Cherokee, tracing them through the zenith of their power, through the heartbreak of the Trail of Tears, and ending in the present day, where the Cherokee people continue to rewrite their place in the world.

Cherokee warriors perform a war dance prior to joining forces with Andrew Jackson, where they help U.S. forces defeat Creek Indians at the Battle of Horsehsoe Bend

Cast takes a final bow at the conclusion of "Unto These Hills"

Cherokee, North Carolina’s unique, authentic side hides beneath a crassly commercial and overly touristy exterior, but once discovered it is an extremely rewarding experience not to be missed.

You might also like:

Deep within North Carolina’s Nantahala Forest, a glittering emerald valley is encircled by 5,000-foot high peaks. Sunshine streams down through crisp pine-scented air, illuminating the craggy stone faces of Yellow Mountain, Rock Mountain, and Chimney Top that stand sentinel around the valley. In the surrounding woods, spongy footpaths carpeted with last winter’s detritus follow rushing creeks to thundering waterfalls. Mountain roads snake past wildflower-choked fields, neatly manicured crimson barns, and tiny hamlets on their way to spectacular mountaintop vistas.

What is this mystical place? Have I been magically transported to Eden? No. This is Cashiers, North Carolina, as close to heaven as a mortal can hope to be.

Path allows visitors to walk behind Dry Falls

This tiny town, located at the junction of U.S. Rt 64 and NC 107 in far southwest North Carolina, perches at the southern crest of the Blue Ridge Mountains. With little more than a mile of quaint shops and inns, the focus in Cashiers is on the outdoors. Visitors who are not physically inclined can explore the exquisite landscape with a ride on the Great Smoky Mountains Railroad. The 53-mile scenic rail journey crosses two tunnels and 25 bridges on its spectacular route across fertile valleys and through river gorges.

Side view of Dry Falls

Active sports enthusiasts revel in the choice of activities. The Nantahala, Ocoee, and Chattooga Rivers are a rite of passage for whitewater kayakers. Fly fishermen flock to area streams and rivers, and rock climbers head for the thousand-foot cliffs of Whiteside Mountain. Biking, golf, horseback riding, ATV adventures, winter snow skiing – all this and more is readily available in lovely little Cashiers.

Hikers are delighted by miles of maintained trails, many of which lead to waterfalls that tumble from mountaintops. My passion for hiking was satiated on the trail to Whitewater Falls, the highest waterfall in the eastern United States.

At the end of this Utopian day I looked around for a place to stay and found the Laurelwood Mountain Inn. Located on four wooded acres atop a hill in the center of town, the inn offered accommodations ranging from standard rooms to isolated cabins. I chose a standard room – a bargain at $80 – and was delighted by the rustic wood interior, complete with comfy queen bed, writing desk, and sparkling clean bathroom with an oversize shower.

Everything about the Laurelwood Mountain Inn appealed to me. Just days earlier, I had paid $120 per night at one of the “chain” motels, where I had to choose between unplugging a lamp or the alarm clock in order to work on my laptop from the comfort of my bed. At this mom and pop gem, it was obvious that a great deal of thought had gone into designing a room for the ultimate comfort of the guest.

Photo courtesy of Laurelwood Mountain Inn

The "standard" rooms at Laurelwood Mountain Inn

The next morning I was fortunate to meet Bob Dewes, one of the owners. Bob and Lise’ (pronounce Lisa)  purchased the Laurelwood in June of 1995. After spending many years in the “corporate rat race” they gave up the big city life and moved to the mountains. They are now living their dream of running their own family business. Since purchasing the Inn, they have made many improvements to the existing rooms, built the log building with the suites, and a freestanding log cabin. They also purchased eight acres of land that adjoined the original property, ensuring that guests have a quiet spot to kick back and relax.

Roadside Bridal Veil Falls was the easiest one of all to see

Driving beneath Bridal Veil Falls

I hated to leave, but the road beckoned once again. With one loving look back at the Laurelwood, I turned onto Rt. 64 and headed west toward yet more waterfalls and trails. This time the most intriguing was also the easiest to access – I actually drove under Bridal Veil Falls! A bit further along I found Dry Falls, Upper Cullasaja Falls, and Lower Cullasaja Falls. Ah, so many waterfalls; so little time.

As I crossed the border into Georgia, I softly chanted: Cashiers, Cashiers, Cashiers. Was it all in my imagination, or was it real? It was real, I knew. But it was also a little slice of heaven on earth.

You might also like:

It’s not unusual for my travels to take on a theme. Past tours have found me checking out beaches, National Parks, botanical gardens, or historic landmarks. This trip became an unexpected search for waterfalls. It started simply enough. I wanted to do some extended hiking – one of my passions in life. The first trail I chose led to Hickory Nut Falls at Chimney Rock, North Carolina, which was running spectacularly due to the recent abundant rains. Realizing that this could be a once in a lifetime opportunity, I quickly decided to focus on discovering as many waterfalls as possible during this trip.

Serendipitously, my route led me to Brevard, North Carolina. Transylvania County, where Brevard is located, advertises itself as the “Land of Waterfalls” and claims to have some 450 cataracts within its boundaries. For four days I ferreted out waterfalls. Some were easily reached, being located just feet from the highway. Others required long hikes. A few could only be accessed by bushwacking a trail through the forest or climbing down rock faces. But it was worth the effort, because I captured amazing photos of spectacular waterfalls and mountain scenery.

Hooker Falls, DuPont State Forest, Brevard, North Carolina

On day one I began in the DuPont State Forest. Located in the Blue Ridge Mountains near Brevard, the site’s 10,400 acres of forest feature four major waterfalls on the Little River and several on the Grassy Creek. The original 7600 acre forest was established in 1996 through a generous bargain sale from the DuPont Corporation. The 2200 acre tract in the middle of the original State Forest, containing High Falls, Triple Falls, and Bridal Veil Falls was acquired by the State in 2000, after the State of North Carolina Council of State invoked its power of eminent domain. The action was taken against a real estate developer who was building a large residential housing development in the center of the State Forest. As a result, these natural wonders will be protected in perpetuity, and as an added bonus, the graveled roads cut in by the developer now serve as excellent hiking trails.

From the Hooker Falls parking lot, I took a short 1/4 walk on a fairly level path to Hooker Falls, then retraced my steps to cross the highway and begin the more strenuous treks to Triple Falls (0.5 mile), the foot of High Falls (0.8 mile), and then on to the top of High Falls via Covered Bridge Trail (0.22 mile). All are one-way distances.

One of dozens of mini falls along the Little River on the way to Triple Falls, DuPont State Forest, Brevard, North Carolina

In addition to seeing waterfalls at their best, I was fortunate to arrive when the Mountain Laurel was in bloom. Giant bushes heavy with blooms bordered the trails, their snowball-shaped blossoms ranging from the palest pink to a deeper rose.

Mountain Laurel

Triple Falls, DuPont State Forest, Brevard, North Carolina

My initial view of Triple Falls was from above. A massive volume of water roared down the mountainside, forming three major falls at this particular point in the river. A bit further along the trail I descended to the foot of the third cascade via a staircase and picked my way over water-smoothed granite boulders to the rushing river. I stood just inches from the third waterfall; the torrent thundered past, obliterating all other sound and shaking the solid rock beneath my feet.

Smooth rocks bordering the river allowed me to easily climb up to the second level, which was not as precipitous a drop as the lower cascade. Even so, giant logs had been scoured and tossed up on shore. Some foolhardy teens were swimming in the frothy pool at the base of these falls. I held my breath as one young man got caught by the current and was nearly swept down the mountainside. Fortunately, at his closest approach to the falls, the whitewater pushed him back toward the edge of the river and he was able to clamber out onto dry rocks.

At the base of Triple Falls, DuPont State Forest, Brevard, North Carolina

Midway up Triple Falls, DuPont State Forest, Brevard, North Carolina

Mesmerized by the beauty and immense power of Triple Falls, I sat cross-legged on a sun-baked boulder and watched the river rush by for the better part of an hour. I could have stayed there all day, but there were more waterfalls to see. Thunderheads were beginning to gather as I trekked toward High Falls, so I quickened my pace, hoping to make it to the covered bridge at the top of the falls before the rain. Luck was with me. Skies were gray when I arrived at the bridge, but broke up on my way back down the mountain, providing me with a stunning view of High Falls framed by ominous black clouds. Satisfied, I scurried back down the mountain to the parking lot; the first fat drops falling as I drove away. The trails in DuPont Forest provide access to six waterfalls, as well as numerous mountaintops, lakes, and rivers.

High Falls, DuPont State Forest, Brevard, North Carolina

Covered Bridge atop High Falls, DuPont State Forest, Brevard, North Carolina

On day two I drove north on U.S. Route 276 from Brevard into the Pisgah National Forest. My first stop was Looking Glass Falls, located just a few feet from the highway and accessed via a stone stairway built into the cliff. At the bottom, visitors climbed out on boulders and sat quietly, awed by the thundering cascade pouring off the cliff and sparkling rainbows dancing off the churning water. A few hardy souls (mostly kids) were swimming in the icy pool at the foot of the falls, keeping a respectable distance from treacherous currents.

Rainbow at the base of Looking Glass Falls, Pisgah National Forest, Brevard, North Carolina

Visitors to Looking Glass Falls climb out onto boulders to view the torrent tumbling off the cliff

Just a short distance up the road was the pull-off for Moore Cove Falls. This waterfall required a 1.4 mile round trip hike on a moderately difficult trail that was rocky in places and muddy in others. It was well worth the effort to see this 50-foot waterfall, tucked into a verdant patch of forest that glittered like emeralds in the late afternoon sunlight.

Moore Cove Falls, Pisgah National Forest, Brevard, North Carolina

Trail to Moore Cove Falls turns emerald green in late afternoon sun

Next came Sliding Rock, an outcropping of granite that protrudes from the mountain like the gently sloping brow of a sleeping giant. Worn smooth by eons of rushing creek water, Sliding Rock is an enormous water slide popular with kids. Grasping a metal railing installed on one side of the dome, they make their way to the top of the slippery rock and ride the whitewater to the bottom, squealing in delight all the way down. Sliding Rock is also easily accessed by an improved pathway. Restrooms and changing rooms are available on site, and there is a $1.00 per person entrance fee.

Kids climb up Sliding Rock and shimmy down on their rear ends, riding the whitewater to the bottom

Riding the rapids at Sliding Rock, Pisgah National Forest, Brevard, North Carolina

For the final stop of the day I backtracked to Forest Service Road 475 and drove 1.5 miles to the gravel road intersection just beyond the State Fish Hatchery (FS 475B). Slightly more than a mile later I found a small pull-off on the right and a trailhead that led a short distance up the mountain through deeply peaceful forest. I topped a final rise and followed the curving trail into a hidden cove, where an exquisite ribbon waterfall spilled over a high rock outcropping. This was Slick Rock Falls. Although I knew the road was just below, it  felt as if I’d magically stepped into a secluded Shangri-La. Water fell gently on the rocks and burbled in the stream below, birds chirped, and the late afternoon sun illuminated everything in a golden glow. A perfect ending to a perfect day.

Slick Rock Falls, Pisgah National Forest, Brevard, North Carolina

Lemon Falls, Pisgah National Forest, Brevard, North Carolina

Although I though it unlikely I would find scenery more beautiful than I had already seen, on day three I drove north on State Route 215 and turned right on Macedonia Church Road, in search of Lemon Falls. My directory said it was located very close to the road, but also advised “you may have to search for a path through the Rhododendron.” Guided by the sounds of falling water, I pulled over onto a grassy strip on the left side of the road, exactly 0.6 miles after turning onto Macedonia Church Road. The falls were slightly visible through the forest, but there was no discernible path. Finally discovering a slight opening, I pushed through the dense brush and, using tree roots and overhanging branches, shimmied down the cliff to the foot of the falls. The climb back up left me scraped and muddy, but the photos I took were spectacular and justified the trouble.

Back to SR 215, I turned left and headed up the mountain another 7.8 miles to the Living Waters Ministry Church, pulling over near the rock pile that marks the parking area on the side of the road. A small path led down the bank to a wider trail that branched left and right and followed French Broad River. To the right the path led to twin cataracts: French Broad Falls on the main river and Mill Shoals Falls, which tumbles over jumbled rocks next to an old mill.

French Broad Falls, Pisgah National Forest, Brevard, North Carolina

Mill Shoals Fals, Pisgah National Forest, Brevard, North Carolina

Returning to my entry point, I followed the trail downstream toward Bird Rock Falls. The river descended rapidly in this direction, creating dozens of smaller cataracts along the way. Wherever possible, I scrambled down the bank to take photographs. At the end of the trail I ducked through Rhododendron and Laurel to get back to the river and found myself in a sheer-walled canyon of black-streaked rock.  Straight ahead, a pencil-thin rivulet wove down the immense rock face; to my right to the long expanse of Bird Rock Falls rushed down the smooth granite river bed. I sat on a sun-warmed flat rock, drinking in the beauty, awed by the magnificence of Mother Nature. These lands are owned by the Ministry, which graciously maintain the trails and encourages free public use.

Mini falls along the path to Bird Rock Falls, Pisgah National Forest, Brevard, North Carolina

Smaller falls on the French Broad River, on the way to Bird Rock Falls

Another mini waterfall on the French Broad River

Bird Rock Falls roars through a sheer-walled canyon

Still not satiated, I continued up the mountain, destined for the Summey Cove trailhead. This four-mile round trip trail, rated “more difficult” because it requires a fairly steep climb up a mountain, leads to Courthouse Falls, which falls 45 feet to a large pool in a picturesque cove. A group of young daredevils were jumping off the high cliffs into the pool; these same young men told me I could have driven down FS 140 and walked 1/3 mile to the falls, rather than making the four-mile trek. Groan. Oh well, at least I got my daily exercise.

Courthouse Falls, Pisgah National Forest, Brevard, North Carolina

It was early evening by the time I made it back to my car, but I still had one more waterfall on my list as I headed out of North Carolina. At Lake Toxaway I pulled off into the parking lot of a restaurant perched on the cliff next to Toxaway Falls, a spillway for the dam that created the lake. Plodding to the bottom of an access road, I snapped a couple of quick photos, too tired to really care how they turned out, and then retired to the restaurant for a well-deserved feast.

Toxaway Falls at Lake Toxaway, North Carolina

Toxaway Falls at Lake Toxaway, North Carolina

Tomorrow I will be in northeast Georgia, where I will visit a few more waterfalls, but the title “Land of Waterfalls” belongs to North Carolina, hands down.

You might also like:

Although rain never puts a damper on my travels, sunny skies are usually preferable when I am on the road. There is, however, one exception; rain is a bonus when hunting waterfalls. Since I was in southwestern North Carolina for my annual real estate continuing education classes, I decided to hike to Hickory Nut Falls, located at the base of the 315-foot high granite monolith in Chimney Rock State Park.

Entrance to Chimney Rock State Park. Note the "chimney" on the left side of the mountain peak.

An elevator leads from the visitor's center to the top of Chimney Rock

I have always been intrigued by this solitary rock column protruding from the canyon floor. I wondered about the geologic forces that had formed it and the family that had painstakingly built a wooden walkway to the top. But it was reading about the elevator that had been blasted through 258 feet of solid rock in the center of the pinnacle that finally made me get in the car and drive to Chimney Rock Park back in 2006.

My reticence was unusual; normally I am up for a road trip on the spur of the moment. In this case, however, I had been avoiding Chimney Rock because once there, I would have no choice but to climb to the top. I am afraid of few things, but because I once fell down a 25 foot cliff, I am shaky about climbing rocks, especially where there are no guard rails or precipitous drops. The elevator changed things, though.

Stairs hug granite cliffs and wind through crevices on the way to the top

The rock was shrouded in fog when I arrived. “That doesn’t look so intimidating,” I thought. White mist swirling around the towering monolith fooled me into thinking the climb would be less intimidating than I had imagined, so I opted for the stairs rather than the cowardly elevator. Initially the path was easy. Wide steps at the bottom of the valley led up a gentle slope through thick green forest. When I reached bare rock the going got rougher. Wooden walkways spanned chasms and stairways hung precariously from vertical rock faces. I clutched the handrails and kept climbing.

Leveling out, the trail followed a long arc around a giant granite dome and then seemed to end. “What on earth…?” I wondered. Just then, I noticed a narrow crack in the rock that was barely wide enough for a person to squeeze through. Rough wooden planks had been crammed between the rock walls, leading up through the crevice. There was not a handrail in sight. I started to hyperventilate. “Calm down, you can do this,” I told myself. I tightened the straps of my backpack and started up, placing my palms flat against the rock walls on either side to maintain my balance. Halfway up, the crevice narrowed and curved at the precise spot where an overhead boulder jutted downward. To get through, I would have to let go of the rock walls while simultaneously twisting to the left and ducking under the boulder.

Steps in this narrow crevice require a near vertical ascent, with no handrails

Taking a deep breath, I crouched down and tried to get through, but my backpack was in the way. Terrified, I steadied myself and tried again. And again. Until I was shaking like a leaf. “I’ll just go back and take the elevator,” I thought. Carefully, I braced myself against the rock walls and turned around.

Until that moment, I was unaware that my ascent had been nearly vertical. But now, looking backward, the steps beneath my feet were not visible and the sensation was one of hanging in mid-air. I froze. There was absolutely no way I could go back down; I would have to find a way past the boulder. Turning again, I removed my backpack and shoved it around the boulder, balancing it on an upper step. Slowly I ducked and crawled, stopping every couple of steps to push the backpack ahead of me. Finally, I felt the earth under my feet and breathed a sign of relief. After that, the rest of the trail was a breeze. At the top, as If rewarding me for my tenacity, the fog parted to reveal amazing views of the valley. I was gratified and immensely proud of my accomplishment. But I took the elevator down.

On this visit I had no intention of climbing the rock. My plan was to revisit Hickory Nut Falls to see if nine straight days of rain had changed the cataract. Three years ago, the gentle Broad River slipped over the granite lip and splashed into a pool at the base of the cliff. People waded in the water and picked their way over boulders to have their photos taken in front of the falls. This time a torrent spewed over the clifftop and crashed to the valley floor. The path to the once placid pool was barricaded; no one was wading today. As I snapped photos, ominous gray clouds gathered above. Thunder rumbled, lightning crackled, and the heavens hurled more rain on an already soaked landscape.

Hickory Nut Falls in 2006, during a dry spell

Hickory Nut Falls today, followng ten days of heavy rain

For more than an hour, I huddled under rocky outcrops and beneath tree roots protruding from overhead cliffs, trying to at least keep my camera equipment dry. Every so often, the rain would abate, allowing me to dash down the trail until the deluge resumed. Along the path, every overhang spawned a temporary waterfall, providing amazing photographs.

Opportunistic waterfalls sprout from cliff faces during rainstorms

A feathery, rain-spawned waterfall seeps through overhanging tree roots

The town of Chimney Rock in southwestern North Carolina nestles in a verdant valley, surrounded by mountains

By the time I got back to the car I was drenched but I’d captured some spectacular photos! Back down in the town of Chimney Rock I had a late lunch and dried off while I planned my route for the next few days. The continuing rain made the decision easy – tomorrow I’m bound for Transylvania County and the town of Brevard, otherwise known as the “Land of Waterfalls.” No doubt it will be muddy, and the weather report calls for more rain, but the waterfalls are sure to be spectacular.

You might also like:

If the old wife’s tale is true – that an apple a day keeps the doctor away – folks in Hendersonville, North Carolina should be the healthiest in the state. North Carolina is the 7th largest apple-producing state in the nation and Henderson County is the largest apple-producing county in North Carolina. This was news to me. Although I lived in North Carolina for years and had passed through Hendersonville on occasion, I was unaware that apples were such an important part of the economy.

Downtown Hendersonville's cute Main Street

I am here quite by accident. Keeping my NC real estate license on active status requires me to take eight hours of continuing education each year. I chose to attend classes in Hendersonville because it is a day’s drive from Sarasota, Florida.

Giant apple decorates sidewalk in front of Hendersn County Courthouse

The classes were painful – eight hours trapped in a conference room with a hundred other agents who didn’t want to be there either – but once the disagreeable deed was done, I regained my sanity by investigating this lovely town, nestled in the heart of the Blue Ridge National Heritage Area at the southern end of the Smoky Mountains.

Shaking off the drudgery of the classes, I strolled the length of Hendersonville’s historic Main Street, enjoying this charming downtown that wanders up and down gently rolling hills, with views to the not-too-distant mountains. At the Henderson County Courthouse I paused to examine the curious giant hand-painted apple on the sidewalk. Soon I realized that these apple sculptures were scattered throughout downtown. This program of public art on display, appropriately named “A Slice of Hendersonville,” showcases apples decorated with images of bluegrass musicians, mountains, valley orchards, sheet music, maps, and even a scene from “Alice In Wonderland.” The local goldsmith utilized paint, glitter, glass beads and rhinestones to create a bejeweled apple. The apple sponsored by the area’s newspaper, the Times-News, titled “News A-Peel,” portrays a beautifully painted landscape representing Henderson County.

Bluegrass musicians playing mandolin and cider jug celebrate mountain music

Rock 'n roll and records - sponsored by the Tempo Music Store, of course

Apple Map

"News A-Peel," sponsored by the Hendersonville Times Herald

Toward the end of my tour I discovered my favorite sculpture, a giant caramel apple sponsored by Kilwin’s of Hendersonville. This ice cream, fudge, and candy shop on the north end of Main serves the “biggest hand-dipped apples in town,” all guaranteed to be locally grown by a Henderson County farmer. The caramel is made on site; on the evening I visited the copper pots were boiling, sending heavenly fragrances wafting from the shop. Struggling to resist the temptation, I struck up a conversation with some local residents who were enjoying after-dinner ice cream cones.

“Have you seen the rainbow apple?” one of them inquired. “It’s generated lots of controversy.”

Sponsored by Delton & David Interiors, the apple is decorated with rainbow horizontal stripes on the outside, which many assume to represent the Gay Pride flag. Inside, the apple is pure white, proclaiming “We are all the same on the inside.” I never could find this particular apple; perhaps it was tucked away on some side street because of the heated debate.

Giant caramel apple was my favorite; bear and goat sculptures have been featured sculpture themes in past years

When I remarked to my new acquaintances that I was surprised to learn apples were the county’s major crop, they explained that although the town backed up to mountains on the west, to the east the land dropped off into a valley with perfect conditions for growing apples. Indeed, the following day I drove down into the valley. Apple orchards, packing houses, and roadside stands stretched along both sides of the road for miles. It is said that if all the apples grown in one season in Henderson county were laid side-by-side, they would reach from Hendersonville to Tokyo and back again. The 200+ area growers produce Red Delicious, Golden Delicious, Rome Beauty and Galas, in addition to some specialty varieties.

Capitalizing on their apple status, Hendersonville sponsors the North Carolina Apple Festival each Labor Day. The King Apple Parade is the highlight of the four day festival, which also features a street fair on Historic Main Street, continuous live musical entertainment, arts & crafts, apple products, children’s activities, and special exhibits. This year’s event, scheduled for September 4-7, 2009, marks Hendersonville’s 63rd annual Apple Festival.

I may just have to wander back through Hendersonville this coming Labor Day to partake in the festivities. I’m betting there will be some awesome apple pie to sample. In the meantime – well, you’ll have to excuse me. I simply can’t resist the mouth-watering aroma of those caramel apples any longer.

You might also like:

“Don’t be such a dingbatter,” my grandmother used to say to my sisters and me. Another of her favorites was: “go to the store that’s katty-whompus from your house and get yourselves some penny candy.” We knew what she meant. We grew up with these words. A dingbatter was a silly or foolish person. Katty-whompus meant across the street diagonally. But they weren’t words commonly used by our friends, or anyone else we knew, for that matter. So imagine my surprise when I wandered into the Ocracoke Preservation Society Museum and found those exact same words on an educational display!

Ocracoke Preservation Society Museum. Photo courtesy of www.ncbeaches.com.

Ocracoke Island, an isolated 16-mile long strip of sand that is home to only 800 residents, is perhaps the most fascinating destination on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Historically a fishing and whaling village, this tiny island was so remote and isolated from the rest of civilization that native O’Cockers developed a unique manner of speaking.

The isolation of the island began changing a number of years ago when the State instituted a ferry service. Soon, tourists were flocking to Ocracoke and the old way of life began to disappear. Today there are only a few remaining O’Cockers who speak in the old brogue, and most of them refuse to speak to tourists. Indeed, when I lived on the Outer Banks, I frequently spent weekends on Ocracoke and often encountered O’Cockers who pretended to be deaf rather than speak to you. Fortunately, the O’Cocker language will be forever preserved through the efforts of the Ocracoke Museum.

Historic 1863 Ocracoke Lighthouse, tucked into the back of a residential neighborhood, is a bit tricky to find but worth the effort

Housed in a historic white clapboard house, the museum contains historic furnishings; artifacts from Fort Ocracoke, a Confederate Civil War fort that was abandoned and destroyed; and displays about whaling and commercial fishing, which was for 250 years the lifeblood of the community. But the most fascinating feature of the museum is the “Brogue Room,” which contains extensive research about the unique linguistics of the island and features a video of native O’Cockers speaking in their unique accent (view three short video clips featuring native O’Cockers speaking in the Ocracoke Brogue: clip #1, clip #2, and clip #3).

The first time I pulled up a metal folding chair to watch the video, I was shocked. While much of what they said was unintelligible, I easily recognized the words “dingbatter” and “katty-whompus.” Fascinated, I began reading the displays to determine why I knew these words. I soon had my answer. The earliest residents of Ocracoke were fishermen who emigrated from southwestern England. This is where my grandmother was born and it must have been she who handed down these words.

Ocracoke is one of the most fascinating travel destinations in the U.S. In addition to the museum, the island offers miles of gorgeous undeveloped Atlantic beaches, an historic 1823 lighthouse, a World War II British Cemetery, wild ponies, hurricane lore, and a long history of piracy. Ocracoke is easily accessed by ferry from either Hatteras Village to the north, or the North Carolina mainland (Swan Quarter or Cedar Island) to the south. There is no charge for the ferry from Hatteras and both the Cedar island and Swan Quarter ferries levy one-way charges of $1 for a pedestrian, $3 for a bicycler, $10 for a motorcycle, and $15 for a vehicle of less than 20 feet in length.

You might also like:

Visitors to the Outer Banks are often fascinated by the history of piracy that surrounds these barrier islands. Bluebeard and Blackbeard both hid out along the Outer Banks and legends still abound about buried treasure that has never been discovered. These days, although stereotypical peg-leg, patch-eyed pirates no longer sail the seas off the North Carolina coast, every now and then something happens on these remote islands that makes us wonder whether pirates of old left more than buried treasure on these barrier islands.

Sailboat beached on the Outer Banks, one mile south of the Avon Pier. Photo courtesy of Don Bowers and Island Press.

Consider, for example the saga of a 50-foot, double-masted sailboat that got caught in the surf off Hatteras Island two weeks ago and washed ashore. True to their tradition, Outer Bankers rushed to the rescue. The owner of the boat was safely assisted from the distressed vessel by the U.S. Coast Guard, the National Park Service, and Hatteras Island Rescue Squad. Volunteers with the Avon Volunteer Fire Department cooked him dinner and allowed him to take a hot shower. One local business owner even let the sailor use his Jeep, allowing him to sleep on the beach in front of his boat where he could keep an eye on it.

Because the boat was sitting upright and appeared to be undamaged, with only its keel buried in the sand, a marine towing service in Hatteras attempted to move the boat using a system of anchors and winches at high tide. When that didn’t work, they tried to turn the boat sideways and tow it out to sea. Still the boat didn’t budge. Next, a local dredging company was hired to attempt to free the boat by digging a trench around the buried keel.

Before the dredging operation began, the owner met Murray Clark (“Frisco Mo” to locals) who agreed to dig the boat out for less money so he canceled his arrangements with the dredging company. But with another Nor’easter on the way, those rescue attempts had to be put on hold. By the time the storm passed, the boat was lying on her side with several cracks in her hull.

It was clear that the boat was no longer sea worthy. That’s when the National Park Service intervened. Worried that the boat would begin to break apart, becoming a hazard for beach goers and a potential cleanup expense, the owner was given an ultimatum: move the boat or the Park Service would do it for him.

Another islander, Buxton resident Barry Crum, subsequently contacted Steve Steiner, a licensed house mover who happened to be working on Hatteras Island, and told him about the boat. Steiner assessed the situation and prepared a bid to move it but the owner couldn’t afford the fee, so instead Steiner agreed to move the boat in exchange for ownership. Last Sunday morning, the boat was signed over to Steiner and the extraction process began. It took all day and well into the evening, but the boat was eventually freed and the next day she traveled to her new home, Steve Crum’s stables in Buxton, where Steiner said he would start taking bids on the boat.

God bless the neighborly traditions of the Outer Banks pirates.

You might also like:

Outside it is chilly, the midday temperatures dropping into the 50′s. Inside I am toasty warm, my bare feet stretched toward the yellow flames that dance in the Franklin stove. Every window of the cabin windows looks out on trees that have dressed in their fall finery; rich leaves of red, ocher, and gold mingle with the green hangers-on. Fat squirrels with fatter tails chatter obliviously as they scamper from limb to limb; the leaves they knock to the ground weave a patchwork carpet on the forest floor.

A cloud descends onto the mountaintop, disappearing the forest. Only the nearest trees are visible now, their muted palette of leaves half-seen in the fog. The squirrels hunker down and the birds stop singing. A stillness so deep permeates the forest that I wonder if the world has stopped spinning.

Sometimes I disappear. I descend into despair so deep and fixated that I cannot touch it. The pointlessness of life, the endlessness of it, overwhelms me. I cannot fathom my reason for being. I think perhaps that I have accomplished everything I came here to do and it is time to cycle off this planet. I have learned to just sit with these feelings, to let them soak into every cell. Resistance is futile. It has taken me years of recovery to understand that it is OK to feel.

A movement outside the window catches my attention but when I look up everything is deathly still and I return to my introspection. Again from the corner of my eye, I see something flash. This time I focus intently on the soft white quilt draped outside the windows. Nothing. Complete and utter stillness. I watch, mystified. Then I see it again. A small shimmering burst of red. Seconds later, another flash of gold. And then another, this time orange. Moisture from the low-lying clouds has condensed into the upturned palms of the leaves. Their cupped hands overflow, allowing fat tears to seep between their wide-spread fingers onto the leaves below. The drop-splashed leaves sparkle like jewels in a snowless blizzard.

I watch reverently, unable to tear my eyes away from the silent drama unfolding before me, and I feel myself rise from the abyss. The beauty of nature is always guaranteed to soothe my savage soul.

Tomorrow I will leave this charmed western North Carolina mountaintop, bound for Richmond, Virginia, where I will be attending my first ever Writer’s Conference. In preparation I have printed out six copies of my manuscript. I have a meeting scheduled with an agent and have high hopes of receiving positive feedback about my writing. It is quite likely that my recent descent into despair is fear-driven. What if no one likes my writing? Perhaps I will discover that my two-year attempt to become a writer has been nothing more than a fool’s folly. Although I realize it is not a wise idea to base all my decisions on the results of one conference, somehow this event has become a major watershed in my mind. At least now I will arrive in better spirits and I am prepared for whatever the Universe places in my path.

You might also like:

A happy Fourth of July to you all. I am spending my holiday at my favorite motel in the whole wide world, the Cape Pines Motel, located in the tiny fishing village of Buxton on Hatteras Island on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Why, you may wonder, am I staying at a motel, when I could be staying in my own home on the Outer Banks? Can you guess??? After 18 months on the market and two long months under contract, I finally closed on my house yesterday. It was what is known as a “dry closing,” since it happened too late in the day for the attorneys to make it to the courthouse to record the deed prior to 5 PM. Recording will take place on Monday and it is then that I will officially be able to say my house is sold.

I had to proceed as if the recording would take place yesterday, so I cleaned the house, right down to stripping the linens off the bed and washing everything on Thursday morning. When I learned that recording would be delayed until Monday, I couldn’t bear the thought of messing up the house, so I imposed on my good friends, Bill & Angie Rapant, owners of the Cape Pines, who have graciously made their personal guest room available to me. Sometimes I wonder how I got so lucky to have friends like them.

For the past nine weeks I have been running around like a chicken with my head cut off, handling the various tasks required to bring the contract to closing. I have been so busy that I have only been to the beach once, and then only for 20 minutes with friends who were taking their dog for a walk. It really would have been disgraceful to admit that I was on the Outer Banks for more than two months and never spent a day at the beach.

Fortunately, I have nothing to do this entire holiday weekend and I spent most of today at Cape Hatteras National Park. I walked from the park entrance to the campground, crossed over the ocean dunes, then headed out onto the beach. Along the way I discovered some fabulous vantage points from which to take photos of the Cape Hatteras lighthouse framed by golden sea oats and untouched dunes. Further down the beach I encountered dozens of fishermen surf casting from the shore, as well as this woman, who was celebrating the Fourth of July in style.

When I tired of walking, I spread my towel on a seemingly deserted stretch of beach and let the warmth of the sun soak into my body, soothing muscles that ache from packing up and carrying everything I own down two flights of stairs. At one point I turned over to bake my back side and saw movement out of the corner of my eye. Apparently, this particular part of the beach was not quite as deserted as I had originally thought. As I lay there, not moving a muscle, dozens of ghost crabs had come out of their burrows to check me out. Because these weird crustaceans are the exact same color as the sand, they are hard to spot, but when I sat up they all scrambled back into their burrows and their distinct sideways movement gave them away. I laid back down and before long they reappeared, warily watching me as they slowly emerged from their holes. With a little practice, I learned to spot them by the two oval black eyes attached to slender antennae that poke up above their heads. At one point I counted about thirty watching me from all sides. Although they never came closer than a couple of feet their presence was a bit unsettling, and I watched them through slitted eyelids for the remainder of my stay on the beach.

By the time I got back to the motel I’d walked about five miles and felt like a new person. For me, the sun has amazing rejuvenating powers. By the time I leave the Outer Banks on Monday, I will be ready for my next challenge: heading down to Key West to oversee renovations on another property. But that’s a story for another day. In the meantime, I am grateful for everything in my life, and I continue to turn my will and my life over to the care of the Universe, asking only for knowledge of its will for me and the power to carry it out.

You might also like:

It’s 11 PM and I’ve just returned home from visiting a friend. Tonight, as always, when I turned down the narrow dirt road leading to my house I was struck by the ethereal nighttime look and feel of the Maritime Forest. The road is not much more than a path, barely wide enough for two cars to pass in most places. There are no street lights here – indeed there are only five houses in this secluded part of the Outer Banks – and coming home after dark requires high beams, which not only light up the road, but illuminate the thick canopy of trees that intertwine and overhang the road. The experience is more like moving through a living, breathing tunnel than driving down a road and I am suddenly swept away by the memory of my very first night in this house.

It was July of 2004. That night, I also came home late, and I remember thinking how spooky it was driving down that long, secluded road after dark. There had been a heavy rain that evening and I dodged mud puddles in the road as the trees overhead splashed big, fat drops on my windshield. I wound my way up the unfamiliar 600-foot long driveway, eased my car into the garage, and climbed the two flights to my master bedroom.

As I opened the windows and climbed into bed, I remember being delighted at the prospect of falling asleep to the sounds of chirping crickets and twittering birds. A few moments after my head hit the pillow, thousands of frogs began croaking simultaneously, as if queued by some invisible conductor. For perhaps a quarter hour they sang, sometimes reverberating with deep and mellow tones and other times swelling to a crescendo of treble notes until, as suddenly as they had started, the entire chorus fell silent. Thank goodness, I thought, now I can get some sleep. But that was not to be. A minute later, the entire cycle began again. Throughout the night, they started and stopped, making it impossible to sleep.

After that first night I never heard the frogs again. I often wondered if they had disappeared, or if I had just grown so used to them that I no longer noticed when they sang. Something similar had happened to me when I lived in Puerto Rico. On the first night in my new apartment I discovered that the neighbors had roosters. They started crowing well before dawn, and one in particular decided to roost beneath my bedroom window, cock-a-doodle-dooing every couple of minutes until I finally got out of bed and chased him around the yard with a broom. I’m sure the neighbor’s roosters crowed every morning after that, but I never heard them again. I just grew accustomed to the sound. Had the same thing happened with the frogs?

Shortly after arriving home this evening I opened my bedroom windows to a frog serenade. You see, it rained today – no, it poured today – after a long dry spell. For months the frogs have been hiding, buried deep in the swamp mud, conserving what little moisture was still held by the earth. But tonight, they are exulting. They are basking in the luxuriantly wet marsh and making their pleasure known. Their chorus is deafening, but something tells me I will have no trouble sleeping tonight. All things come full circle.

You might also like:

Ughhh! The smoke from the wildfire, 45 miles away on the mainland, is hanging over the Outer Banks like a wet blanket. Yesterday I could still escape the smell by going in the house, but last night the smoke began creeping inside and this morning my house smells vaguely like a campfire that has been doused with a bucket of water. Even before I stepped outside, my eyes began to water. When I did go outside, I choked on my first breath.

The smoke is so thick that is is causing visibility problems on the roads to the west of here and there is talk of closing U.S. Route 64, which is the main highway between Raleigh and the Outer Banks, as well as four other smaller but well-traveled roads. I am leaving tomorrow, bound for Illinois to visit my Dad for the week of Father’s Day. Normally, I would take Rt. 64 through Raleigh and Winston-Salem, then turn north to traverse Virginia and West Virginia. However it looks like I will have to find an alternative route. No worries, though. It just means I get to see something different, take a route I’ve never before traveled, and visit new places. I do love an adventure!

You might also like:

My neighbor’s dog woke me at 1 a.m. this morning. Chloe is a good little Heinz 57 mixed breed watchdog who only barks when there’s something to bark at. I figured it was just kids, joyriding on our secluded dark roads in the middle of the night, but I climbed out of bed to check it out. I threw open the window that looks over my front yard, but other than the tendrils of smoke from the wildfire on the mainland creeping along the forest floor, everything seemed normal. By this time, Chloe had stopped barking, and I stood at the window, listening to the croaking frogs and the shrill “qui ko wee” call of the Chuck-Will’s Widow.

Just as I was about to go back to bed, I saw a flash out of the corner of my eye. Could someone be nosing around my house at this hour? I scanned the dense forest bordering my driveway, where I’d seen the light. There it was again; deep in the forest, a definite flash, as if someone had illuminated a tiny flashlight. A split second later, dozens of tiny lights began flashing, then hundreds. Some floated at the level of the rooftop where I stood, looking out over the yard; others emanated from deep in the forest; still others were scattered throughout my front yard. As I watched in awe, a thousand tiny fairies danced for me, their graceful movements traced by the glittering candles they held aloft.

Suddenly, I was child again, running around my south side Chicago neighborhood at dusk on a summer’s eve, chasing fireflies. It was a ritual on our street; every kid came armed with a glass jar covered by a metal lid, into which air holes had been poked. We placed a few stalks of grass into our jars, hoping that this would provide sufficient food for the “lightning bugs,” and that our mothers would let us keep them. But of course, we were all made to release them before retiring each evening.

I was brought out of my reverie as the tiny lights in my yard grew fewer and fainter. Then, as suddenly as they had appeared, they disappeared.

Not long ago, I was talking to a friend who, like me, remembers catching fireflies as a child. Neither of us had seen a firefly in years and we both wondered: Where did they go? What happened to them? Now I know. They live in the magical, misty, forest that surrounds my house on the Outer Banks. Ah, how I will miss this house.

You might also like:

With all of my business obligations taken care of, I have nothing better to do but enjoy my last few weeks on the Outer Banks. Each day seems to present me with a new experience. Yesterday, when I left the house to meet a friend for lunch I smelled smoke. A bit later, when I left the restaurant, the smell of smoke was even more pervasive and ash was floating through the air. Strange, I thought, but I dismissed it as probably a house on fire.

This morning I woke to a view of dense fog hanging over the treetops and curling its fingers through the shrubbery in my back yard. How pretty, I thought, until I stepped outside and again smelled smoke. This time it was much stronger and I realized that instead of fog, I was looking at smoke.

Since I have no TV and get poor Internet reception with my AirCard way back in the woods where my house is located, I drove to my favorite local coffee shop, the Front Porch Cafe, to find out what was up. On the way I passed the entrance to the Nature Conservancy at Nags Head Woods. A slight movement by the side of the road caught my eye, and I backed up to check it out. Pressed up against the concrete curb bordering the entrance to the Nature Conservancy was an enormous Eastern Carolina Box Turtle. She was leaning against the curb, using it as leverage in order to dig a hole with her back legs in preparation for laying her eggs.

Fascinated, I parked the car and walked back to watch her. Turtle legs are not made for digging and she was having a hard time of it, but she persevered. It soon became apparent that she was not digging a hole. She was painstakingly covering a hole that she had previously dug, where, I assume, she had deposited her eggs. With each thrust of her body against the curb, her flippers shoved another teaspoonful of dirt over the hole. In the fifteen minutes I observed her, she was able to add perhaps a half inch to the mound. It was painful to watch. I can only imagine how many hours she spent digging the hole and laying her eggs before I happened along. Suddenly, the turtle decided that the nest was secure enough. Turning away from the curb, she lumbered across the road, heaved her body up the embankment, struggled through some thick vegetation to the top of a slight hill, then crawled/slid down a gully until she plopped into the inky black waters of the swamp pond where she undoubtedly lives.

At the Front Porch Cafe I ordered my usual Americano and a muffin, then grabbed a seat at the big table, where the locals were gossiping and solving the world’s problems. I soon learned that nearly 30,000 acres are burning at Pocosin Lakes National Wildlife Refuge, located 45 miles to the west. The wind is carrying smoke not only to the Outer Banks of North Carolina, but also to Virginia Beach, Virginia, located more than 75 miles north of the fire. The fire was started by lightning Sunday at the wildlife refuge and gradually spread during the week because of dry conditions and extremely flammable peat soil that is so prevalent throughout the swampy, coastal lowlands. One peat moss catches fire it is extremely difficult to put out, since the fire migrates to deposits located deep underground. Because of this, officials estimate the fire could last two months or more unless the area gets substantial rainfall.

Forest fires and turtle eggs, all in the same day. In all the years I lived here, I’ve never seen things like these. It’s as if the Universe knows I will soon be leaving the Outer Banks for good and is treating me to once-in-a-lifetime experiences. I wonder what tomorrow holds.

You might also like: