Robin and I got up early this morning, had our Donut Friar breakfast with coffee, and set out for Clingman’s Dome. The Dome is an hour’s drive away, with the route taking us through the heart of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. The Mission? Spread more of my parent’s ashes. All it was going to take was a half-mile up the summit of Clingman’s Dome, the highest mountain in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.
As we drove through the park, we passed through banks of fog, a few turkeys, and a lot of beautiful scenery. In some spaces, the sun came through the fog in sun beams, creating scenes of ethereal beauty. Robin got to enjoy the scenery, as I was driving and didn’t want to kill us.
We got to the parking lot around 9:15am. The area was swathed in mist, and we had beaten the crowds, so there was muffled silence all around. Robin decided she was going to stay in the car. She has MS, and she didn’t want to walk up that path. She went up there two years ago, so she knew what it looked like. I made sure I had the tube of Maw and Paw’s ashes, and headed north, up the trail. It’s paved, so I didn’t have to worry about my footing. What I worry about is my aortic aneurysm. It’s stable, but I clearly don’t need to tax it too much.
I walked up the trail, occasionally checking my Apple Watch to see what my heart rate was. When it went over 120, I stopped until it got back down below 110. There were benches spaced out along the way. Otherwise, I just stopped walking and learning on my staff. Yes, I had a staff. I could say I was a hot Gandalf, but since I have a face made for radio, that would be a lie. The fog wreathed the trees, and the trail, with a silky essence that shortened the world to mere yards. The fog also muffled sound. It was silent, except for the occasional talking as other hikers passed by. Even the talking was hushed. Clingman’s Dome was a cathedral that morning. Given why I was there, it seemed appropriate.
Approximately 150ft from the summit, the Appalachian Trail crosses over Clingman’s Dome. Paw, before he died, had made plans to hike the Appalachian Trail from start to finish. He had made purchases over the years, procuring what gear he would need for the endeavor. He planned out how it would work, even going so far as to plot out the first few legs of the hike. Unfortunately life, as it often does, reared its ugly head and he was diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis. He had hiked sections of the trail before, but he never fulfilled his quest. Thus I thought it fitting that he and Maw became a permanent part of the Appalachian Trail. All that was needed was to find the right spot.
Thus far, Robin and I picked locations to spread their ashes. She took some of their ashes to Hawaii when she went with her mother and sisters to visit family on Oahu. I spread some of their ashes in the Fairy Glen in Betws-y-Coed, Wales. Once we find a location, we just looked for a place that jumped out at us. Robin found a beautiful waterfall that had some lovely flowers. She poured the ashes near a rock, away from the path. In the Fairy Glen, I climbed down into a river gorge, and stupidly climbed over a bunch of rocks in the river, and found a suitable spot on a boulder to pour their ashes.
I took a left onto the trail, and took it down the trail a bit. As I went in, there was a place that looked like someone else had poured some ashes. It didn’t look like they had spent any time doing it. In fact, it looked like a crime scene. It was too close to the Clingman’s Dome Trail for my liking, so I went further down the trail. 350ft from the summit, I found a place where the trail widened out, overlooking a wide valley to the west.
It felt right, so I looked for a likely spot. There was a small gulley coming down from the summit. It flowed over the trail, then continued down the mountain. Perfect. The rains would wash the ashes down the mountain, overlooking the valley. I knelt down and poured the ashes onto the rocks. Then, to keep it from looking like the crime scene I saw earlier, I built up a small cairn over the ashes. I stepped back, and took in the bigger picture. The cairn blended in with the scene. It was just the way Maw and Paw would want it. Unobtrusive, but situated in a beautiful scene with a view. Yes, I think they would have approved.
what little I could see.
After laying the ashes, I went up to the observation tower at the summit. The top was shrouded in clouds and mist, so the view was limited. I walked around the observation deckThe past time I was up here, there was hoarfrost all over the trees. It was a bit warmer this time. There were quite a few Black-Capped Chickadees flitting through the trees. They were too active for me to get a picture, crafty little buggers. I had a chat with a few people at the top, and made my way back down the trail. Gravity helped, and the trip down was uneventful.
There was no need to stop along the way, but I did, here and there, to enjoy the views. The clouds were beginning to peel away, giving me glimpses of the surrounding valleys. Along the way, I noticed bear sign on the side of the path. Some were fresh, most likely from earlier that morning. As the people got more numerous, they moved away. Just as well. I had encountered a black bear decades ago in Wisconsin, while on a map course in Fort McCoy. We left each other alone. I did not want to re-create the experience. I think I could take one, if I had to have a Revenant moment, but I didn’t want to find out. Thankfully, I didn’t.
I made my way down to the start of the trail to the Visitor’s Center. Robin woke up from her nap and met me there. We moseyed around, looking at the shirts, mugs and curios. I ended up buying a bluegrass CD. There was a book on the Trail of Tears I was interested in, but I was sure I could find it cheaper on Amazon. Turns out I was right. $5 cheaper. We made the purchase of the CD and got back into the car for the trip back.
The Cherokee call Clingman’s Dome “Kuwahi“, which means ‘Mulberry Place’. They believe the bears gather there in the fall. The bears dance before going to their dens for the winter. Kuwahi is near the mythical lake called Atagahi. Hunters could not find it. Wounded bears could submerge themselves in the water, and come out healed. The lake teemed with fish and fowl. Cherokee legend has it that the lake could only be found by following the sound of wings of the birds as they flew by heading to the lake. Those that found the lake without following the sound only found a dry mudflat. Robin didn’t care. She wanted to get back to civilization.
I had made it this far in the trip without triggering a climate-altering, vanilla-smelling vortex of death, so I dutifully took her back to civilization.
Somewhere up the mountain, I could hear laughter that sounded suspiciously like Maw and Paw. Rest well, you two.
Meditations of a Bald, Fat Guy 