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.
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 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.
“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.
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