Sunday in Cherokee.  It is warm this morning (finally) and we are planning a lazy day at home.  Already there are screams from the nearby campground pool as children take advantage of warmer weather.  I (Chuck) am still suffering from a persistent cold that Anne has left behind.  Still, Friday and and yesterday we made hikes in the Smokies.

We had planned an overnight walk on Friday and Saturday, but the national park reservations system was not working so we could not reserve spaces at a shelter.  We could have gone anyway, but we would have been camping illegally.  Instead, we made two day hikes.  On Friday we planned to walk the Appalachian Trail from Clingman’s Dome southbound until lunch, and then return.  Upon arriving at the top we found the weather too cold for our dress.  The forecast was for a warm day, but Friday ended up cold, especially so at 6,000 feet elevation.  So, we drove down the road and made a walk to the Chimney Rock towers on the Tennessee side of the ridge.  There at a lower elevation the temperature was very pleasant.

This hike was lovely and dramatic.  At first the trail passed along Road Prong Creek with its numerous cascades and moss covered boulders.  We enjoyed hearing bird song and seeing a few of the songbirds mostly hidden in the leafy forest.  The trail was steep, 1700 feet in two miles.  This provided a workout.  After leaving the stream the trail wound up a ridge and followed it to the twin towers.

The trail is a busy one and even on a Friday we passed and encountered other people along the way.  In the central section we found ourselves playing leapfrog with another couple.  While chatting with them we came upon a couple with children who showed the garb and grooming of Germanic Anabaptists.  They were retreating and calling to us.  The man reported a large bear pushing them down the trail.  He mentioned concern that some of his other children were farther up the trail. 

I told him not to run from the bear.  He said it was large and bold.  He was correct.  In a moment a solitary bear, probably a 300-pound boar, came walking into view.  I stood large and shouted.  The bear kept coming.  It was only about twenty meters away when my remarks and our snapping of hiking poles against one another finally caused it to pause.  The bear looked at us with amusement and resumed its approach.  I wondered about backing up against the high side of the trail and letting the bear pass by on the outside.  Instead I took an even higher position and snapped the poles a few more times.  The bear stopped again.  I reluctantly walked forward a few steps and snapped the poles again.  The bear then turned and began a dignified retreat.  We followed and after fifty meters the bear turned onto a game trail above the hiking trail.  We gave it a minute to move off, hearing it through a Rhododendron thicket. 

It’s only in trafficked parts of national parks that one has this kind of problem.  This bear had no fear of man.  It probably would have left us alone, but I wouldn’t rule out its mugging a hiker for a pack or even taking a small child separated from parents.  We found the family’s older children at the trail’s end, fine and happy.  The parents who were plainly not used to wilderness walking were very impressed “with our courage.”  I told them it wasn’t courage, just knowledge.  One does not run from a black bear.  Still, not knowing if the bear would turn I enjoyed a flash of adrenaline as I stood and the bear kept coming.  I wondered if reaching the peak was worth the confrontation with the bear. 

Yesterday being on the weekend, we hiked a backcountry trail on this, the North Carolina, side of the park.  We encountered only two serious day hikers on this walk.  The largest wild mammal we saw was a gray squirrel.  Again, we heard more birds than we saw.  The Black-and-white Warbler, or “Wheezy Zebra” gave its buzzy “wheeza wheeza wheeza” song.  The tiny Ovenbird or “Teacher Bird” announced its presence with a sharp and rising in volume, “teacha teacha teacha teacha.”  The glorious Hooded Warbler with a yellow face surrounded by a black hood gave a sweet and melancholy “weeta weeta weeteeo” from various Rhododendron thickets.  We paused when we heard this song to try and see the bird.  We heard many but spotted and savored views of only two.   Black-throated Blue Warblers sang “bee-bee-bee-beer” and Black-throated Green Warblers throated “zee zee zee zoo zee.”  All part of the symphony of the forest.

Along the streams an occasional Acadian Flycatcher gave its sharp “pee-shut” song about once every thirty seconds.  Most people walking the trail never notice this sound, or if they do, probably wonder what insect or rodent made it.  The tiny olive bird returns from South America in May to haunt rich forests across the Southeast.  We, hearing the song, pause and wait, trying to spot the male perched on a twig in the shadows of the swamp forest.  Each time we hear a phrase we decide to stay or move closer to the source.  Moving closer risks his becoming silent or moving off but improves our chances of seeing him if he stays.  When we are lucky, we eventually notice his form or a movement, his tipping his head back and opening and closing his beak to produce the pee-shut song. Then we stay a minute to watch and hear his performance a couple of more times before continuing our passage through the forest. 

A few miles away in the valley near Bryson City, a close kin of the Acadian Flycatcher makes its summer home.  The Willow Flycatcher appears almost identical to the Acadian Flycatcher, but would never make a territory in the deep woods.  Instead, it sets up territory at a meeting of marsh and woods.  These birds arrived only last week, also from their home in Latin America.  Like the Acadian Flycatcher, the Willows make the trip north to stay only about 15 weeks to reap the abundance of insect food that arises here in late spring and early summer and use it to nourish one or two broods of young.

We distinguish this bird from its cousin not by appearance, the differences are too subtle, but by its sitting on a willow tree at the edge of a moist field and periodically raising its beak to give forth a dry and rattly “fitz-bew.”

After our walk yesterday, we drove out of the park and across the Cherokee Qualla Boundary to nearby Bryson City.  We had decided to visit the Nantahala Brewing Company tap room.  The only place within the Boundary where one may buy alcohol is at the casino, and we’re no aficionados of that establishment.  So we followed the Tuckaseegee River out of the Boundary and past the overpriced package stores that cater to Boundary residents who don’t want to travel the additional mile to Bryson City proper.

We didn’t know exactly where the new brew pub was but thought it was near the Smoky Mountains Railway Station.  We found it, parked, and walked into an old Quonset hut that now houses a bar, the brewery and tap room, and a kayak outfitter.  The barkeep greeted us and told us that in accordance with town law, this was a club. 

I became a member and  Anne my guest.  The five dollar membership fee got me a 16 ounce glass, but we ordered eight ounce servings, sampling four of their rich and potent brews.  Anne ordered two IPA’s and I ordered a brown ale and a stout.  We sipped from each other’s glasses to judge the character of the brews.  Great news is that one can find quality beer all over America.  That was not the case in the last century! 

Following our imbibing we walked about downtown Bryson City.  This town, like Cherokee is at the edge of the Smokies.  It benefits from the national park but is a bit isolated.   There are still complaints that the government reneged on a deal made in the 1930’s.  When the Tennessee Valley Authority built Fontana Lake (an important source of hydroelectricity raised by the highest dam in the East, the one that Harrison Ford’s fugitive improbably survived washing over) the federal government promised Bryson City that a new road would be built around the north side of the reservoir providing a scenic loop passing through the town.  This would replace old roads flooded by the lake.  The road was never built.  Here and there there are signs and bumper stickers complaining that the government failed to keep its word.  In Cherokee there are no such signs.  In Indian country they would be redundant.