Georgia on my mind (part one)

Last week we ventured south to Stone Mountain, Georgia for a short getaway before school starts and schedules and routines take control of our lives once again. We had considered going to the beach, but finally decided that the drive was too far for the few days we could spare, and we would no doubt leave feeling teased and tortured rather than happy and refreshed.

No offense to Georgia and those who dwell there, but I generally think of it as that extremely long stretch of Interstate that I have to endure on my way to Florida. Having driven I-75 many times and seen the various billboards, exits and eateries along the way, I was not overly impressed. Although the four lanes might be faster, I was determined to find a less intense method. I wanted to drive the back roads, through small towns, rolling farmland and tunneled woods.

I perused the maps for an alternate route to Stone Mountain that would get us off the Interstate and see the mountains of Northern Georgia. As I looked, my eyes fell upon the name “Amicalola Falls” and I knew immediately that we would have to find a way to go there on the way.

Amicalola is the tallest cascading falls east of the Mississippi, but even more importantly, the park headquarters is the official register station for the Southern end of the Appalachian Trail. Outside the Visitor Center is the entrance to the eight and a half mile approach trail that leads to the top of Springer Mountain. There, in an inauspicious site, miles from civilization, the official Southern Terminus of the Appalachian Trail is marked.

From that point in the spring of each year, hundreds of hikers begin the approximate 2150 mile trek to Mt. Katahdin, Maine. Most will not make it, dropping out somewhere along the trail, but others will forge on, completing the journey over the course of several months. Along the way they will pass southbound hikers, who started at the northern end and are making their way to Springer Mountain.

For those who dream about hiking the AT (like Connie) and those who are fascinated by those who dream of hiking the AT (like me), the opportunity to visit Amicalola Falls and Springer Mountain was too exciting to pass up. 6am Tuesday morning, we pulled out of our driveway in Oak Ridge and headed south. Thanks to the early hour and some Dramamine, all three kids slept soundly in the backseat. It was a peaceful drive and three hours later we pulled up to the Pay Station where Georgia requested five dollars for the privilege of visiting their state park. As with most state or national park fees, I consider this a bargain.

It may have been that it was early and I had not had enough coffee, but it seemed to my eyes that the pay station was situated in an odd way, and although a ranger sat in a drive through window, I could not seem to get our car close enough to hand him the money. Not a problem, I thought, and began to multitask by quickly unbuckling my seatbelt, retrieving my wallet and opening the door. As I stepped outside the car with money in hand, I quickly realized that I had forgotten one small detail. The car pulled away from me with a lurch, taking my now very awake family toward a stand of tall Georgia pine trees.

More agile in body than in mind that morning, I smoothly jumped back in the driver’s seat, applied the brake and shifted the car into “Park.” Embarrassed, I glanced at Connie, who was looking at me with a balanced expression of fear, dismay and bemusement. If she said anything, I don’t remember. My ears were red and buzzing.

Exiting the car for a second time, I made the walk of shame back to the ranger. He grinned and shook his head. “That was close to being ugly,” he said. I nodded in agreement and made some lame excuse about the inconsistent behavior of our rental car. Handing him the money, I returned to the car in silence and began the drive up the mountain to the top of the falls.

The overlook was essentially a wide wooden bridge which spanned the small creek that fed the falls. The edge of the falls dropped off to one side and despite the fact that there did not appear to be a great deal of water flowing over the edge, you could hear an impressive roar as gravity took it the 729 feet to the churning pool at the bottom. Beside the falls was a wide set of stairs that looked inviting except for the sign which stated “Difficulty: Strenuous 425 steps.” Glancing over the edge, I could see no end to the twisting, turning, spiraling stairs. They disappeared into the trees and supposedly ended somewhere in Australia.

I looked at the girls with the expectation that they would not want to descend the steps. As usual, I was wrong. All of them seemed eager to venture down, and I have to admit that the promised views of the falls made me want to go as well. The problem was, and I was very glad I thought of this at that point and not at the bottom, was that our car was sitting in the upper parking lot. If we all walked down, someone (me) would have to come back up 425 steps to retrieve it. I watched them start down the stairs and then I drove to the bottom to meet them.

The base of the falls is a good hike from the lower parking lot. Although paved, the trail was steep and had multiple switchbacks. As I walked, I could see the falls through breaks in the trees but could not gauge the distance or the time it would take me to reach it. Huffing and puffing the further I went, I realized I had a lot of work to do before attempting a seriously strenuous hike. As I turned a bend and sadly assessed the incline ahead of me, my four girls appeared at the top of the hill and skipped down the trail toward me.

They seemed surprised to see me on the trail, saying they expected to find me in the parking lot. I feigned some hurt feelings, asking them why they thought I would be waiting in the car instead of out there, enjoying nature. They stared at me as if I had asked a rhetorical question, and with an uncommon wisdom for people in my family, they remained silent on the subject and continued down the path.

The Visitor Center had a small area designated to the Appalachian Trail, complete with maps, photos and history of the trail. It also had the obligatory gift shop and the magnetic draw of soft serve ice cream. The girl’s immediately started asking for a treat, but Connie and I insisted that our snacks in the car would suffice and there was no need for ice cream before lunchtime. Sometimes, even as I say things, I am fully aware of how ridiculous it must sound to a kid.

Behind the Visitor Center was the start of the Approach Trail leading to the AT. We took pictures, standing proudly by the signage as if we were embarking on some great northern trek, rather than turning and walking the twenty odd feet back to the Center door and out to our car. Still, we felt a kinship with the countless brave thru-hikers who had also stood in that same spot, marking the beginning or end of a spectacular journey.

We exited the park and followed the printed directions suggested by MapQuest. After driving several miles and looking for a road that did not seem to exist, I pulled off in frustration and resorted to other maps to find out exactly where we were. MapQuest had us turn right when we should have turned left and now we had gone fifteen miles in the opposite direction. Aggravated as I was, at least I had printed proof that the mistake was not mine. I insisted that Connie look at the paper to confirm that it was a MapQuest mistake and I was not at fault. After my abject humiliation at the pay station, I felt the desperate need to reaffirm my status as semi-competent.

I learned a while back that if you are flexible there are always several ways to get to any one destination, so I studied the maps and with a little adjustment we were able to re-route and get where we needed to go. Back on the road, we followed our new course further south, into the increasing traffic of the Atlanta area and toward the great rock mound called Stone Mountain.

To be continued….