I often hear folks that have only experienced our National Parks from the comfort of their cars say that they can't understand why roads haven't been built into every valley and to every waterfall so that they can see what has been "hidden" from them. Well I'm sorry, and perhaps it's politically incorrect to say so, but I'm not terribly concerned about their supposed 'right' to see every hidden treasure in our wild places. In Pisgah National Forest, just outside of Brevard, North Carolina, there is a beautiful waterfall right by the roadside called Looking Glass Falls. It's very beautiful, and you can see it without even stepping out of your car. There is a newly built run of wide steps leading down to the bottom with handrails for the frail or clumsy, and there is even a bench or two for the terminally out of shape to rest on while making the 60 foot or so descent and the climb back out. Bear-skeered vanstanders can even perch safely atop their vehicles to enjoy the view without having to worry about the danger of being mauled by an enraged red squirrel. I suppose that if a photo of the falls here at Drinkwater Pool were published side by side with one of Looking Glass Falls, most people would say that Looking Glass Falls are the most scenic of the two. Wanna see big rocks and thick tangles of rhododendron? The mountainside above Looking Glass Falls are full of both, and they're conveniently located right by the roadside. A driver can speed by at nearly 60 mph (unfortunately many do...) and see lots of the same things that Peter and I saw on our hike up the drainage of Ramsey Prong. There is absolutely no reason to build easy access into places like Ramsey Prong, nothing to see there that can't be seen in hundreds of roadside locations throughout the southern Appalachians.

There is something special about this wild stretch of Smoky Mountain backcountry though, and it's something that the road-bound van-standers will never experience. A lot of the regulars here at griztrax.net know what makes it special, having experienced it themselves. It's the feeling of pushing on when you're feeling too tired to take another step. It's the rich smell of mold, moss, wet rock, and rotting vegetation that becomes part of you when you're crawling on all fours through a tangle of brush and shattered rock so thick that you can't see your companion who is only 15 feet in front of you. It's looking down to see arms covered in blood from scratches and cuts that you weren't even aware of. It's the sound of falling water echoing off of the valley walls when that is the only sound you hear, other than your own labored breathing. It's knowing the difference between wet rock and dry, and being able to appreciate the advantages of the latter. It's hearing Gretchen say, "Let's just go on a little further..." knowing that she means that we still have a couple of hours of daylight left, so let's keep goin'. It's breaking open a cold one at the end to celebrate the day, and making plans for the next one.

Sadly, our nation has become a land of easy access. Few people know the satisfaction of making a heavy payment in sweat equity just to go where few have gone before. Risk is forbidden and pain is taboo. If there is a dropoff, then there must be a guardrail, and if there is a climb, then there must be a graded, and hopefully paved road to the top of it. I hear people prattle on and on about how they don't want to bother with visiting the Great Smoky Mountains or Yellowstone because they are "too crowded", and I wonder if they ever bothered getting out of their cars or motorhomes while rumbling through either place. Smokies crowded? Yeah, if you're in the parking lots at Sugarlands or up at Newfound Gap, but once you venture a few hundred yards from the bustling roadside, you'll find a different world.

I'm glad that we have the Old Faithful geyser parking lot and the Cades Cove 11 mile long parking lot and the paved trail to Laurel Falls. For a sadly large segment of the population, that's as close to wild country as they're ever likely to get. Maybe though, just maybe, there will be that one kid that lifts his eyes unto the hills above the Cove and wonders... maybe someday. And if he or she wonders hard enough and has a little help along the way, they will someday learn the secret of Ramsey Prong.

Below: Peter stops to check the map as we move into the upper end of the drainage, just below the final climb. We were well under a mile from the AT at that point, but still faced several hours of crawling, hopping, and brush-busting before we would step out onto the trail. It looks pretty rough, and it was, but compared to the woods on each side of the stream, this was a cakewalk. It was somewhere just below here where we found what has to be one of the finest potential off-trail campsites that I've ever run across. On the east side of the stream, there was a little bench that was maybe 100 feet long and perhaps 3 feet above water level. It was so flat and smooth that it looked almost as if there had been an old road there at one time, but the spot is in virgin timber, so that wasn't possible. The little nook was covered in a thick green carpet of new spring grass, and surrounded by dark stands of hemlock and a few scattered spruce and fir trees. We both wondered if it might have been one of the camp sites mentioned by Harvey Broome in his journal.