A Night on Black Balsam
October 15, 2000
by Bob Jones

		With our busy lives (or at least the busy life of our 16 year old Simon) we seem to never have the time for a lengthy trek into the woods any more. Our powerful desire for a regular dose of the woods, a desire that once drove us to spectacular feats of schedule manipulation, is now greatly fulfilled by our daily hikes through our "backyard". This summer we did squeeze in a few little trips to Cedar Rock Knob and the Upper Thompson, but all our grand plans for a return to Joyce Kilmer or some other new adventures were squeezed by a schedule of summer visitors, job obligations, Driver's Ed classes and other activities. August came and we were once again slave to the High School schedule, this time with extra hours and miles of chauffeur service for Simon's stints with the Marching Band. Comfortably, and for good reason it seemed, we declined to consider a hike in the "color season" this year, a traditional hike we both did for many years past.

Then we gave Simon a new backpack for his birthday in September, and he began to agitate for a hike to try it out. At first I argued that there was no "one night" trip that I could think of that would be worth the effort. Simon had to play in the band at a football game Friday night and Robin has that long commute Monday very early. How do you squeeze a "world class" wilderness experience into that time frame? (After all we really aren't "spring chickens" any more!) None the less as the leaves began to change and the first frost hit the area we found our will weakening, and finally as the weekend approached we had an idea.

I can recollect at least twenty trips over the years into the Shining Rock Wilderness Area, a "not too remote" area to the west of Asheville on the Blue Ridge Parkway. My first trips while in High School in the Sixties, and many more up until the early Eighties, met with few people and almost nobody penetrated to the rocks themselves. In the Eighties however interest in backpacking exploded and this beautiful spot naturally became a tremendously popular destination. Still we had our "secret" camping spots and we continued to go from time to time. In fact we spent New Years Eve there on a cold night full of sleet and ice in 1988. Then in 1994, as we unloaded our packs at the trailhead, a ranger (who wasn't even born when I first visited the area), stopped us and told us there would be no fires allowed at Shining Rock and that we had to stay in a designated site. Although I fully understand the need to protect overused areas, this seemed a loss of "freedom" and signaled to me a loss of some of the attraction the area had always offered me. We continued on, my family and another, hiking 4 1/2 miles, then we camped at our "secret" spot on the back side of the rocks. Then, next morning, in our exuberance to move on to Cold Mountain on a day hike (8 miles of very rugged walking) we left our camp with dirty dishes. (total lack of water is our only excuse). We determined to deal with this on our return before sunset. When we returned we found a "Citation" tacked to a tree in our campsite! We had been ticketed for a "Dirty Campsite". This seemed a "final straw" to us, and after walking out down Shining Creek, another 6 mile trek, we decided never to return to this overpopulated (and as we saw it over-regulated) spot.

Well, never say never, now six years later I once again thought of this magnificent spot, and I thought about the many spectacular campsites we had passed on our way to Shining Rock in fifteen or twenty trips along the Art Loeb Trail. These were always too close to civilization for us in those days, but for a "one nighter"? We decided to give it a try. No matter that it was the height of "color season" and we knew the crowds would be there. We decided we could deal with that for the sake of adventure. We determined to go and hike in on Saturday afternoon, but only to go two miles, then set up camp early to mark our our territory. Simon asked a friend, Richard. to go and on Saturday morning we loaded Simon and Richard, Robin, myself and Mariah in the truck and headed up the Parkway 25 miles to the trailhead.

The Blue Ridge Parkway winds its way into Graveyard Fields on the upper reaches of the Yellowstone Prong of the Pigeon River

Graveyard Fields, a name that evokes all sorts of images, none probably close to the real reason for the name. On October 1925 the name that we know of for this area would never had in the wildest imagination been coined for such a place. That was a time, as in all the years since the end of the last ice age up until then, the mountainsides were cloaked in a tremendous covering of Fir trees, the American Black and Red Balsam. These giants were some of the biggest trees to ever grow in the east, hundreds of thousands of acres of these rivals to the old growth of Oregon and Washington. Across these hills the trees grew in profusion in ancient groves.

When my ancestors came to the area in the 1820s they settled the valley of the Pigeon River directly below these peaks. The Cherokee had these uplands wrested from them several decades later and soon the settlers saw the potential for logging in the great woods. This was done on a small scale due to the remote nature of the region, and it would be long after the Civil War that any real commercial value was perceived. The Industrial Revolution brought changes, and soon there was a demand for paper products as well as wood for construction. This led, by the early years of the twentieth century, to the development of an "industrial" type of logging by large companies from "back East". These companies built railroads into the wilderness areas, and huge "logging camps" grew up in the valleys to process the logs. This seemingly endless bounty fed and clothed the children of the original settlers and the resulting connection to the outside world brought the benefits of education and modern civilization to these once isolated folks for the first time.

In October 12th 1925 a wheel bearing "froze" on one of the wheels of the flatcars used to move the huge logs down the mountain behind the old "Shay" engines. That afternoon, almost exactly 75 years ago to the day when we were there, the train's engineer, oblivious to the problem, drove the train down the steep mountain fully loaded, and the frozen wheel sprayed sparks into the dry brush all the way down. The loggers had been hard at it all summer and trackside was overrun by piles of dead limbs piled in some places higher than the stack of the old steam engines. Massive areas of clear cuts spotted the mountainsides all layered many feet deep with tender dry limbs from the fallen giants already taken. Even in the dark depths of the uncut groves the dry neddles crunched underfoot and the accelerating autumn breeze fetched up dust devils and rustled the dry leaves.

The fire that resulted from these sparks from the frozen wheel grew into an inferno in less than an hour, an out of control blaze several miles long that rapidly began climbing the ridges from the rail bed, fanned by the rising winds. With their very livelihood threatened the loggers made a valiant attempt to hold the flames at bay, an effort that was to result in a great loss of life in the next few days.

For the next few days the fires raced around the foot of the mile high peaks of Sam's Knob, Mount Hardy, Tennent Mountain and Black Balsam through the cut over areas at their bases, then as the heat drove winds upward the fires entered the old growth that graced the lofty crowns. Trees literally exploded with fire as the flames reached ever upward. Hundreds of feet the flames leaped , soon taking an upward circular track enveloping the peaks in a hurricane of fire with 100 mile per hour winds. A firestorm. Temperatures ranged into the thousands and nothing could withstand the hellish approach of such a fury.

For three months the dark column of smoke dominated the skyline to the west of Asheville. The pall of smoke was so heavy on the Pigeon that it blocked out the sun for weeks. The roar was deafening anywhere within miles of the inferno. An inferno so hot that it not only consumed the trees, but also burnt into the topsoil, not stopping until nothing but ash, rock and clay remained. Then, finally, winter rains cooled the black hills, but these hills had yet to see the end of their agony. Now erosion took its toll. The clay, liberated from union with tree roots and topsoil, deserted the high hillsides and found its way downstream in muddy torrents. Tennent and Mount Hardy were stripped over the next few years to their rocky core.

For a generation after this disaster very few souls ventured into this blackened wasteland with its brooding peaks. Those that did described a gloomy and wasted place whose most notable landmarks were the piles of ashes left by the consumed tree trunks. These piles were everywhere in long rows, reminding one of the piles of dirt over a fresh grave. It was then that the name was given this once green and lush abode, Graveyard Fields.

As nature will, the land began the long road to recovery. Grasses took root and after a while small shrubs started encroaching around the edges of the burn. By the sixties, when I first saw it, the "graves" were gone and the area was an area of grasses and shrubs. In the several decades since then I've watched as trees began to reclaim the upper watershed, small ones it's true, but trees none the less. Today only the very heart of the burned area, the peak of Black Balsam, retains the grassland nature that I first saw the whole area covered in when I was a boy.

Now I found myself once again recounting these stories as I had been told them to my son and his friend as we drove along the Parkway. In the nature of a teen they were only mildly interested. I'll let the pictures tell the rest of the story. Please check out the links at the bottom of the page, and please be patient, the pictures may load slowly.

Off we go up the Art Loeb Trail ...

Climbing out of the remnant Balsams into the grassy flanks of Black Balsam.

The boys take their usual fast pace and await us on outcroppings as we labor upward.

As we climb the views just keep getting more and more spectacular.

As we ascend we begin to get a feeling of being "on top of the world".

Mariah is excited by the seemingly endless prospect..

As one vista follows another with every turn.
This has Mount Pisgah at center (5280 feet) with Mount Mitchell (the highest in the east at 6680 feet) in the distance.

Richard, a lifelong (16 years) resident has never been here and is awed by the spectacle so near his home.

After a short but steep two miles we arrive at the top of Black Balsam, 6240 feet, and drop our gear with relief.

It's not long before we are seeking shelter from the afternoon sun.
We set up this "quick and dirty" sunshade and the dog, Simon and Robin take advantage of this "spot of coolness".

A desire that soon led to more permanent accommodations, our living quarters on top of the world.
While erecting the tents one got away from us in a stiff and sudden breeze and flew high above our heads like a kite.
I had soon recovered it and had the tents firmly staked down to the ground.

The boys decided to hike across the the adjacent peak of Tennent Mountain and left us to get supper started.
Here you can see them with another group over there enjoying the adjacent peak.

They are the two at the far left of the group, Richard doesn't show up well in his camo, but Simon is prominent in his white shirt.
. We could hear each other talking across the intervening gulf it was so quiet that afternoon

.
Robin (with Mariah's help of course) begins work on an early supper, a job we dare not delay
'till after the sun begins to set and anticipated cool temperatures begin.

After the boys return, and supper is served, we begin to get prepared for the expected 25 degree weather.

The afternoon sun has taken its toll though, and we who forgot to bring sunscreen pay the price with Rosey Cheeks
(don't get me wrong I forgot, and I had red cheeks as well).

As the evening progresses the shadows become long and the colors of fall are illuminated.
This view is east from the campsite toward Tennent and Pisgah. The Art Loeb up Tennent is to the left.

This view Northwest down West Fork Valley toward Clyde takes in the Smoky Mountains in the far distance (left center)

As the sunset approaches we all feel a bit surreal in the evening light.

In the exciting transition between light and dark.

An artist's pallet of color is displayed

And we all find warmer clothes and prepare for the night.

The sun finally makes its final exit..

Mariah isn't worried.

Night brought its own wonders, but these were sights denied you by the shortcomings of our camera. Our minds eye will always remember though the rising of the full moon, an orange ball at first, and the lights of Greenville, SC, and of Asheville, NC, far distant, as they winked on in the darkness. We also could spot the light at the Asheville Airport, just a mile from our home, re-enforcing how close this incredible spot was to our everyday lives. About 2 AM Simon couldn't sleep and went for a walk, after which he lay on the ground and watched falling stars and the halo around the full moon for an hour or so before sunrise. About 5:30 I joined him, then awakened Richard and we boys waited for the coming of another day.

A day which began with a dull glowing off to the east...

and grew as the lights faded, revealing fog in the French Broad basin.

and then resulting into a quick ascension into a mellow daylight.

In the early light Simon and I take the one mile walk over to the top of Tennent Mountain and back.

From there we catch a glimpse of Shining Rock illuminated by the dawn.
In the foreground, far below, you can see a group of tents that is a boy scout troop in Ivestor Gap
To the extreme right is the shoulder of Grassy Top, next moving northward the tree crowned dome of Flower Knob
Then Shining Rock with the southwest cliff of it's crown of white quartz catching the sun.
In the distance, four miles further down the trail lies Cold Mountain.

Looking south from Tennent in the far, far distance we can see Lake Keowee in South Carolina
(right center, to the right and above the "pointed peak" which is Pilot Mountain)
The shoulder of Black Balsam is at the right.

Later Simon and Richard startle a red squirrel, it runs into the tallest tree around, but not beyond the reach of its tormentors.
They soon went on to other things, and the frightened creature disappeared into the grass.

We spent the rest of the day scouting around the area. Many day hikers walked by and we talked to several groups. Most were either college age or retirees it seemed. We saw many photographers and artists about, each with some tiny corner made private for a few moments by their presence. One family was nearby flying a kite, quite a spectacle in the high mountain air. We were home long before supper, and except for being a bit sunburned, we all had experienced a wonderful night on Black Balsam.

Scenes from previous trips to the Art Loeb Trail and Shining Rock

Trail Description and directions (off site)

HOME
to World's Edge