For our last foray into the Georgian wilderness, I chose Blood Mountain, a rather dramatic title, but probably aptly named. The thing about the south is that there’s a lot of human history here; a lot of blood spilled in the soil. To offset the rather macabre mountain, our destination was a bit more optimistic: Preacher’s Rock.
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The story goes that in the late 1800’s a preacher used to come up here to practice his sermons. Since I consider all of the wild to be my church, I felt that going to the practice pulpit of a like-minded soul seemed a fitting conclusion to our southern tour.

​The trail upwards was reminiscent of the next stop on our journey: North Carolina. The rocky footholds in the trail and peek-a-boo views always make me feel like I’m back in the Blue Ridge Mountains. But we were only eighty miles north of Atlanta in the Chattanooga National Forest, near the tail end of the Appalachian Trail.

​Although listed as heavily trafficked, the mile walk up to Preacher’s Rock had only a few people on it. It seemed like it might rain, so perhaps that kept this congregation to a minimum today.

Arriving at the top, we stepped through the canopy of trees and bushes flanking the trail to the open rock as if we had stepped through the curtains of the wings and were not center stage. Except it wasn't us who was the main event; it was the audience of mountains as far as we could see.

The preacher had found his pulpit.

As Tucker and I looked out across the rolling hills, the grey clouds started to roll in and hang low, ready to burst at any moment. A family we were sharing the rock with were off to our left, and I heard the father say, “We have about half hour to forty-five minutes before the rain starts. We should head back down.” He was looking out at the clouds.

“How do you know that?” I asked, expecting some Boy Scout meteorology.

“The app on my phone,” he said almost questioningly as if the only other option to the knowledge would be through psychic ability.

I smiled. “Sorry, I didn’t see you look at that. I just heard you.”

His wife and I laughed. “What did you think I did?”  He licked his finger and put to the wind. “Hmm… yeah, about thirty-seven minutes.”

​Despite his app’s warning, Tucker and I bid the family farewell so we could keep walking up into the mountains. I feel safer walking under the trees in a forest than driving on the interstate in my truck during a sudden Georgia downpour. This tree seems to feel safe walking through the forest too.

​Along the trail were offshoots that led to camping areas. One of my favorite places I deemed “Vicar’s Rock”—not quite as open of a view as Preacher’s Rock, it seemed the perfect spot for pastors in training to practice their own sermons.

Evidently it was also a great place to camp.

​Around the rock was soft, cool grass that Tucker took to lying on. It was a peaceful and quiet place.

​We continued on further down the trail, but with no real goal in sight, we eventually turned back to sit and enjoy Vicar’s Rock and then back to Preacher’s Rock.

Nature doesn’t adhere to state property lines—or any property lines for that matter. It didn’t matter that I was in northern Georgia and not North Carolina. This was still my church. It's the biggest church on earth, diverse and expansive, and these little known pulpits are worth every step to get to them to hear what Mother Nature has to say.

While our trusty steed had her own much-needed spa day,Tucker and I took to the woods. The auto detail place was nice enough to give us a lift—and even pick us up later—to a park I had wanted to explore for some time. Tribble Mill Park is in Lawrenceville, a town only a few block away from the town the auto detail place is in, and according to my research, had BSL. It wasn’t a full out ban, but it did deem that pit bull type  looking dogs had to wear a muzzle at all time in public.

When Qwinnett Humane Society was going to hold their annual fundraiser within Lawrenceville city limits, I contacted them about this ordinance. I was wondering if the ordinance was not applicable for that event, or if maybe it had been revoked and I just couldn’t find it.

No explanation was given, but I was told told that Lawrenceville had no BSL requiring that certain dogs where a muzzle.

Although they are not the animal control agency, I felt I had some backup in an email if approached and told I was violating a law. So I took the risk. If the local animal rescue agency didn’t know about the law, and the city didn’t know, it must be pretty obscure. And the penalty was simply a fine if it was enforced.
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I’m so glad I took the risk. Tuck seems pretty happy with my decision too.

​We were dropped off at the entrance, (‘Your are Here”) and we walked only a matter of feet before hitting a path around a lake.

Unfortunately, the rest room I was in desperate need of was a mile walk away--on the other side of the lake. I now understood how Tucker feels when I don’t pick up his cue that he needs to go to the bathroom. We were ironically in the exact opposite situation. He, with his endless choices of places to defecate right now, and I, the human, on a uncomfortable walk through the forest to a man-made building to do my business. I was quite close to going in the woods, but I had no Kleenex, the forest cover wasn’t terribly thick, and I wasn’t familiar enough with the park to know sightline and where some child might just come bouncing through the woods off trail.

So while the first portion of our hike was not the least bit enjoyable for me, once I got relief, I began to enjoy my surroundings.

Being stuck in a office five or six days a week with no windows drains my soul. This day would fill it back up again.
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The soft earth and shaded paths we walked along took us to a lake with a wide grassy area to walk along. If Tucker had perfect recall, I would have let him off the leash to see him bound a quarter mile down the lane.

​The journey on this path was diverse. 

​The trail veered south around the edge of the lake and returned to forest once more. The lake and woods was home to many who were enjoying this Friday afternoon. A family of turtles spotted us just as I spotted them and quickly dropped into the water like SCUBA divers off the edge of a boat. Two remained, and then just one as we passed in front of them on the trail.

It was hard to believe I was so close to the city. I couldn’t hear traffic. I couldn’t see car. It was just a lake in the woods, as remote as the lake in the Santa Cruz mountains Tucker and I had visited in March.

While we walked the secluded edge of the lake, a great heron (not sure if was an actual Great Heron, but it sure was great to me) made its graceful landing into the shallow end. We kept our distance so as not to disturb this beauty, but felt blessed to witness its descent and could have stood watching it all day long.

Someone had placed a swing in on little outcropping toward the lake. Here we stood for a moment, enjoying the peaceful serenity of the open, still lake. While we had encountered benches along the way, this was the first hanging seat.

When we were about to leave, a grand blue dragonfly alighted on a tree branch in front of me. I nodded a hello and asked if I could take his picture (after telling him how beautiful he was of course.) He obliged, but I could not capture his true glory with my piddly phone.

​We walked back to the trail and continued on our flora and fauna tour. The trail took Tucker and me out into the woods, and onto the perimeter of another lake. Since we were on the far side of the park away from boat launches and picnic pavilions and even children's’ park, we had the trails to ourselves except for a few runners. It was just us, the trees, and the creatures who call this place home.

​As the day grew to a close and we had circled back almost to our original drop off point, the path turned back to pavement. There, we sat on a bench, reading and being still.

Movement is good for the soul, letting your energy out to affect to the world around you. But being still and open gives the universe a chance to respond.

It is here, in the woods, that I not only speak to nature, but it talks back, and we engage in the grand conversation about life, love, and all the beauty the universe holds.

If there’s one thing Georgia has that California doesn’t, it’s water. Granted California has oceans. But Georgia has water in rivers, streams, lakes, and even the air itself. The amount of water I have dumped down outdoor drains from the dehumidifier in my apartment over the past month could have watered my Burbank lawn for the entire summer.

So needless to say, finding water features on a hike is usually pretty easy. For this one, I took a page out of the Atlas Obscura again—to a little known wildlife preserve on the outskirts of Atlanta just twenty minutes from downtown. Its claim to fame in the atlas is that although it is where the Battle of Utoy Creek took place and the water ran red with blood, the water now is considered to have healing powers. (So I guess it’s like a vampire creek.)

You do have to drive through some pretty sketchy areas to get there, but if you come out alive, you arrive in the promised land: big houses, expansive lawns, and the Cascade Springs Nature Preserve.
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The main trail is a loop, beginning with a large amphitheater/picnic area. 

 And a cute little pump house that looks like a hobbit’s home.

To the left, the waterfall is only a short quarter mile away.

So we headed right.

There was a third trail in the middle, and in fact many offshoot trails along the way, which was a major turnoff for some folks on hiking reviews, but for me, I understood its purpose: this is a park. It’s not a one-road journey here and back. This is a place you hang out all day. It’s a place for eight year olds to have sword fights with branches in the woods, and to wade into the creek. It’s a place to find that super secret place to meet with your high school love. Or a simple place to sit and soak up all the stories in the birdsongs.

​Tucker and I began with a stroll along the creek's edge.

Tucker did his usual taste test, and gave the water five stars.

​We meandered down the trail, and took our time, going down short trails to the “beaches” and exploring around.

​The trail turned away from the creek after a spell and up into the forest. While the website had pointed out that we would be able to see some remnants of war, I did not spot them. We did find rocks to climb on, which for Tucker is better than any piece of human history.

And there were overturned trees to study with their roots exposed and all sorts of smells only Tucker could appreciate.

And then, as we came down the trail, we arrived at the main event:

​I really wanted to walk down the tunnel to where the water began its journey, but reviews spoke of the rocks being quite slippery. So we kept to the main area.

Tucker agreed with my assessment.

There was still plenty for him to climb around on without putting me in danger.

Despite taking my time and energy to be careful with my footing, ten minutes after this photo was taken, my ass was in those healing waters. Tucker's four-wheel drive always fares better than my silly two-wheel human design.

Oddly, I didn’t seem too wet after my fall. Or even muddy. Perhaps my water resistant backpack repelled it from even my pants. Or the healing waters are also magical. Tucker took no time in discussing it; he's used to my inferior coordination skills and all the consequences of that--and he loves me anyway.

​Cascade Springs was a nice little getaway that didn't take much get away to get there, a fun place for any kid to grow up, and for any adult to come and feel the peace of the water—even if you fall in it.