With only a few days left in Asheville, and being Fourth of July, Tucker and I ventured out for our final hike. It’s a bit of a tourist destination, which I tend to avoid since I make my travels about being “a traveller, not a tourist.” More accurately, I attempt to be a local wherever I am, but since Chimney Rock touted itself as one of the most dog friendly hikes in North Carolina, I had to take it. Their trail map looks more like an amusement park map, but that didn’t deter me.

To get the most into our Adventure Park hike, I opted to start at the Woodlands parking lot and take the Four Season Trail to all the way up to Chimney Rock—maybe even Exclamation Point. It’s not a lot of miles. Note, though the elevation difference: Woodlands - 1400 feet; Chimney Rock - 2280 feet. For those that can’t do the quick math, that’s 880 feet. I was told that it was 499 stairs to the top of Chimney Rock. I don’t know where they started from. Four Seasons Trail was is only .6 miles—but you gain 400 feet in that short distance, and there’s only a couple of staircases. Most of it is real dirt trails. If you don’t want to have the “hiking experience,” you can either shuttle up from the parking area, or try to park further up at Hickory Falls Trail where the Four Seasons Trail ends.

Tucker was eager to get back into the woods.

About half way into the .6 mile hike, I realized that North Carolina could be kinda humid. My jeans were stuck to me, I sweating profusely, and my hair was simultaneously both frizzy and wet under my hat. I had checked the webcam before making the drive there and it appeared to be foggy. I thought of San Francisco: foggy=cool. This is not the case in North Carolina. Here foggy=steam.

At the end of the trail is the staircase that leads straight up to intersect with Hickory Falls Trail. Leave it to me to adopt a dog that looks at this and is raring to go as fast as he can. Note: these stairs are not inclusive of the 499 steps needed to get to Chimney Rock.

We did surmount the challenge, but I desperately needed to cool off. At the end of the trail in the opposite direction of Chimney Rock is the trail's namesake: Hickory Falls. They shot a scene of Last of the Mohicans here ages ago. Now it’s a place where people pile in to not only see, but experience the falls.

The thing that struck me about this park, and about lots of parks in the South, is that they’re about experiencing them, not just seeing them. Two docents stood on the rock outcropping and watched as kids splashed around on the edge of the short falls and climbed over slippery rocks. No one seemed concerned about cracking their heads open, suing the park, or even ruining the eco-system. It was about enjoying what nature was offering—and even letting your dog enjoy it. I have a lot of respect for that.

Tucker needed to cool off as much as I did and the misty spray from the falls was nice, but I wanted us to get in it. I patiently waited while children climbed in and out of the pool area. Tucker has little concern for humans, even tiny ones who are half his weight when they’re between him and where he wants to go. He’d just run them over, and unlike others, I was concerned about skulls cracking open—especially my own.

The view from the center of the pool made you feel like you were in a secluded natural spa.

And the falls itself was impressively high.

Tucker got his feet wet, but he didn’t feel the need to just lie down in the pool.

I wish he had. It would have helped cool him down before we started our 499 stair climb. (Question: did they make it exactly 499 so when someone asks how many stairs it is, they can legitimately say, “Less than 500!”) But he got his paws wet, then expertly jumped out of the pool with an impressive vertical five foot high rock jump. I was way less graceful, lumbering up one limb at a time like an uncoordinated bear cub but not being nearly as cute as one.

We walked the trail back to the intersection of the Outcroppings Trail which had some beautiful views along the way. There weren't a lot of people on this stretch, but enough to make the secluded feeling of the view seem other-worldly, as if we were just looking out a window, not a part of the landscape we were seeing.

Once at the crossroads, we began the long stair hike up. I didn’t know it was 499 steps at the time, so I didn’t start counting. I had done Moro Rock in Sequoia National Park almost half a decade ago, and that was 350 steps. It was rough and was in even worse physical shape then, but it was doable. However, that was late October in the High Sierras. Weather can make you or break you when it comes to things like this.

Luckily they place a lot of landings along the way. Our first stop was Vista Rock. Not only do you get a vista of the valley below,

but you get a vista of Chimney Rock, looking very far away and straight uphill (and... maybe looking a little like a giant penis.)

Next stop was Pulpit Rock. The views were better, but it was here that I started to worry about Tucker. Tucker doesn’t stop until he’s reached his goal. We can hike until the end of the trail and he still wants to keep going through the underbrush and make the trail longer. But here he wanted to stay.

His tongue looked much longer than usual, and I worried that he might be suffering from heat exhaustion.

The view was spectacular, and I didn't think going down hill would help him much.

I had been told down at the gate that only place dogs weren’t allowed was the elevator, which was closed anyway. After Pulpit Rock we stopped a little further up and the docent said that we should go to the Sky Lounge where he could rest in the air conditioning.  It was only a little way past Chimney Rock on flat ground, so I thought that was an excellent plan.

We reached the main pathway between Sky Lounge and Chimney Rock which was teaming with people. I walked up to the front doors and saw the sign that stated “Service dogs only allowed.” I walked back to a park ranger and asked if that was true.

“Yes, because they serve food in there,” he told me.

I told him that I thought my dog might be on the verge of heat exhaustion and could someone help me get some wet towels for him if he couldn’t go in the air conditioned room.

The ranger kindly went inside and got two cold, soaking wet towels for Tucker while Tucker and I found a shady spot under a table umbrella. I wiped him down and then held them under his armpits (or maybe they’re called leg pits?) in the hopes of bringing his body temperature down. I had just read about a dog who died in the Mojave Desert while hiking. Even if Tucker was just being overly dramatic, I didn’t want risk it.
We spent twenty minutes there, and Tucker seemed to cool down. It was hot, but I wasn’t sweating unless I moved.

A woman who shared our table in the shade said there was at least a breeze at the top of the rock. So when I felt he was as back to normal as he could get, we did the short climb up to the top of Chimney Rock for some natural air conditioning.

There was not a breeze.

Tucker was a good sport and let me take his picture, but his tongue stuck out even further, as if searching for that alleged breeze.

I got him down off the non-windy peak, and Tucker tried to get some shade near the start of the staircase to Chimney Rock, but no one would move for him. I found a less crowded staircase (unfortunately it led upward. I felt like an actor in a horror movie: why do they always go up the stairs when being chased instead out of the front door?) and took a seat on a stair in the shade. Tucker and I blocked half the staircase but I had no choice. I took out the towels again which had soaked up his heat, and tried to use them again.

A few minutes later, Tucker’s old self resumed enough to see that the staircase led to somewhere he hadn't been yet, and so we clearly hadn't reached our goal. He pulled me to keep going, so I begrudgingly let him, hoping he knew his own limits. Lucky for us both, the trail led to the one spot he needed to be: The Opera Box.

An inlet in the side of the rock provided a place to sit (and a bench) to view Chimney Rock.

But better than the view was the fact that it was a shaded rock which was cool in and of itself but to add to it, a cool breeze sliced through nonstop.

I sat on the rock behind the bench with Tucker while two women sat on the bench in front of me.

“Do you want to sit here?” one of them asked.

“No, that’s okay. I’ll sit back here with him. He needs to get cooled off. Thank you though.”

They were talking about the hikes further up and I asked if they were worth the climb.

“Well, it's a nice view at Exclamation Point which is right above this, but it’s 399 stairs.”

“So… is it this view?” I asked honestly.

They paused, and then shrugged with a laugh, “Well, yeah.. but higher up.”

Her friend chimed in with, “You can see little more of the valley and the falls.”

“Yeah, I think I'll pass on that one then.” I replied.

“But Devil’s Head is pretty cool,” the other woman said. “It’s only a little bit further up.”

“What’s that?”

She showed me a picture.

“Oh yeah, that’s worth it.”

I thanked them for their insight having gone before me. I sat with Tucker a little bit longer and then when he stopped panting for more than five minutes, we took the next staircase upward to Devil’s Head.

It was even more impressive in person than it was on the woman's phone. I can’t imagine what that was like for the first explorers to come around the bend of the mountain and see this:

Personally, I think it look a little like a cartoonish, medieval Robin Williams.**

On our way back down, we stopped again at the Opera Box for one last breezy cool down.

It helped, but not for long. We made it back down the stairs, but less than half a mile from our truck on the Four Season Trail, Tucker lied down and wasn’t getting up. Concerned hikers asked if Tucker needed some water, and I thanked them but told them he had some, and it wasn’t helping. He just needed a break. I gave Tucker as much time as he needed, ate a snack as I sat beside him in the dirt, and when he was ready we continued back down the mountain.

Our final hike in North Carolina (hopefully just for just a short time as this is my official request to the universe: please let our travels take us back to Asheville again) ended with me being thankful that Tucker was still alive and would recover from his heat exhaustion. He stretched out, face placed for full coverage from the AC, and fell asleep.

His exceptionally short nap of less than an hour revitalized him once he knew that we off to the bar for a drink on this Fourth of July.

The Bywater is just down the hill from our place and is completely dog friendly. Like a park that has a bar, it is on the railroad tracks along the French Broad River, and people come with their children and their dogs. Tucker got to meet a few fellow canine bar hoppers, which of course made his day. He sipped his non-alcoholic beverage and enjoyed watching the bar patrons—both human and dog alike.

Tucker and I will miss Asheville.  We’ll both miss the hiking. Tucker will miss his friends at The Canine Social Club, the best doggy daycare I’ve ever seen in all our travels, and I will miss the plethora of vegetarian and vegan options at every restaurant, the small-town feel, the weather, and that for the first time ever, Tucker wasn’t a pitbull, but a dog, a dog like any other. I didn’t worry about discrimination, and he was accepted wherever we went without anyone asking about his genetic makeup. They just loved how unique he was. Not only by people in town and at his daycare, but even at Chimney Rock, a couple of tourists asked to take his picture because he's so beautiful. How could I not love a town that embraced my kid so openly?

Like many of my crew whose origins were New England and New York, I agreed that Asheville reminded us of where we grew up.  Perhaps the Appalachian Mountains carry some sort of vibe along it’s spine that flows down to the valley towns that lie beneath their shadows.

I hope to return to this magical place in the Mountains. Until then, I thank Asheville and the mountains around it for giving Tucker and me our favorite overall experience in our traveling lives so far. Northern California is where my heart lies, but Tucker and I would love to play in North Carolina again sometime soon.

“I like Pina Colada. And getting caught in the rain….”

Honestly, I’m not a big fan of Pina Colada, and I've always felt strange liking a song about blatant infidelity, but it's catchy tune and getting caught in the rain doesn’t sound so awful when you live in draught-stricken Southern California.  Tucker’s and my hike to Storyteller Rock on Saturday gave me ample opportunity to assess exactly how I feel about getting unexpectantly rained on.

Grandfather Mountain was one of the two remaining must-hike places on my list before leaving Asheville. (There were many more hikes I still wanted to go on, but narrowed it down to just two for the last few days in town.) It being 4th of July weekend, I knew I’d run into the annoyance of tourists. The deeper we got into summer in Asheville, the more abundant the species became around town. The past few weeks on my drive home from work, dodging people wandering slowly across the street or people in cars in front of me driving 3 mph to find a parking spot or just not knowing where they were going, I often heard myself muttering the angry phrase I hadn’t heard myself say since I lived in the Berkshires in the mid-1990s: “fucking tourists.” 

Figuring that the Blue Ridge Parkway was the one place tourists would be driving well below the posted 45 mph speed limit, I chose to hike to Storyteller Rock near Grandfather Mountain, but not in the park proper. I didn’t know that the main entrance to Grandfather Mountain was actually on Rte 221, the route I was taking to avoid tourists and end up with a .8 mile hike longer than if I started at the Parkway. 

The park traffic coordinators had a plan in place to get non-attendees around the traffic, so it was only a minor delay. All other delays were self-inflicted.

I had the GPS coordinates for the Asutsi Trailhead, and Google maps translated it into an address. I followed it, but found “Private Property” signs around the area the trailhead should be. I espied a little blue diamond on a short stake some way off into the woods, and suspected this was the trailhead, but there was no parking area—just mowed lawn. It looked like a front yard, not a trailhead. So I kept driving.
​
Tucker disagreed with me. “According to these instructions, we already passed it.”

​“Yup, you missed it. Go back. Next time I’m driving.”

I don't appreciate being judged by my dog, but he was right. I went back, and having no cell phone service to call anyone for verification, I finally just drove up onto the lawn and sure enough behind the flourishing trees and bushes was the Asutsi Trailhead Sign.

​I parked and left room for at least two more cars. The trailhead gave pertinent information such as “sign in at the trailhead if you going into the State Park area,” and “Grandfather Mountain creates its own weather patterns. If you hear thunder, you’re already too late. Return to your vehicle immediately.”

I hadn’t brought a rain jacket and it was overcast, but it was sunny back in Asheville and anyway, the hike was only a few miles. We’d be back in a couple hours. There were tons of tourists going to Grandfather Mountain. It couldn’t rain.

Tucker and I took the slightly overgrown trail under the Parkway and out to the main Nuwati Trail. We signed in, and up the hill we went toward Storyteller Rock. It was not like Greybeard at all; just an easy incline of a few hundred feet.

I could hear the occasional rain drops, but the trail led through the forest and the trees’ canopy protected us from all but a few droplets. 

The trail was rocky but easy, and we enjoyed jumping over streams and negotiating the rocks that stuck up through the trail like a streambed.

It was uneventful but peaceful hike and Storyteller Rock, although not having sweeping views of the Mountains, had a certain energy of peacefulness and creativity. 

​Tucker proved that he fears nothing—including 2-story falls off the side of a rock. 

I had to keep urging him away from the edge. To which he only replied with a grin.

​The clouds hung low, and as one of the clouds dispersed, a dramatic a spotlight appeared on the hills drawing our attention to it. 

We sat in peace for a short spell, enjoying the energy. It had a cozy, comforting feel, not a wide open expense of a view.​

And the rock itself had its own beauty to behold.

The clouds seemed to be getting a bit more ominous, so we climbed back down to where the rock probably got its name. From below, we could see it had a natural overhang and amphitheater shape.

Large rock platforms were strewn about like pews to sit on. I could imagine here by a fire ages ago, bards took the stage to tell their tales.

I sat down on one of them, and Tucker politely sat at my feet, as if waiting for a show. (He was actually waiting for a dog who he sensed was coming up the trail, but the dog's guardian informed us that he didn't like other dogs.)

After the dog and her human made their way upwards to the top of the rock, Tucker and I began our walk back under cloud cover, happy the sun wasn’t shining, making it even hotter. Five minutes into our hike, I first heard the rain as the beginnings fell upon the tops of trees, then felt it as it trickled down between the leaves. It was a pleasant cooling rain. I wouldn’t get anything like this in California any time soon, so I enjoyed the feel of natural cool wetness falling from the sky.

However, the novelty of the experience wore off after about twenty minutes. By then the light refreshing rain had turned into a torrential downpour. The trees no longer kept us semi-dry. The trail which had resembled a dried up streambed when we started was now a full-on creek. The water rushed downhill following and surpassing us on our descent. Tucker tried to speed ahead, and I tried to slow him in order to keep us both from slipping on rocks.

We caught up to people in front us who had smartly carried umbrellas. I never ever think to hike with an umbrella. It’s hard enough for me to stay upright with my inferior motor skills while holding a leash. One more accessory and the probability of an entire collapse would be imminent. This also explains why there is no visual documentation of this portion of our journey.

Tucker blew by the people with umbrellas and as the closer we got to the bottom, the deeper the trail became. The waterproofness of my shoes failed, and I felt water all around my feet and between my toes. I wondered if this is what gel insoles would feel like. It wasn’t completely unpleasant but I didn’t imagine it was very good for me.

My pant legs soaked the water up, and eventually every piece of clothing I was wearing was completely wet. Had I been completely naked (the thought crossed my mind) or wearing appropriate swimwear, it would have been a rather enjoyable experience. But wet cotton and wool just aren’t fun. 

We took a brief break under the parkway so I could unsuction my tanktop from my body and ring out the shirt I wore over it. My backpack was soaked. It wasn’t until I got home that I found out that the water resistance of that had failed, and I had a puddle inside my backpack.

By the time Tucker and I came to the clearing to see my trusty steed, the rain had pittered away to an occasional drop. I can’t say if the storm moved on or if we moved out from under the storm. Either way, it gave us opportunity to towel off before our drive home.

Our second to last hike we didn’t experience the usual sweeping vistas of the mountains, or let nature be our agility course. But it was a unique experience, and now I can say for certain: I do like getting caught in the rain—but only for short amounts of time. Tucker, however, would prefer to stay dry.