A Long Day Out in The Citico-Slickrock Wilderness Areas
One last 1,000-foot climb was all it took for me to question what I’m doing out here. Why am I doing it? What am I chasing? A part of me wanted to believe that it’s all for a singular goal of a perfectly run race that was still months away. At the same time, there is a part of my subconscious that questions whether it’s all for some hidden purpose that has yet to be revealed to me. OR maybe I was just low on calories…
Let’s take a step back.
Most of my weekends over the past year were spent in the mountains, sometimes alone, sometimes with close friends. Those runs would range in distance and would take place on trails in the Smoky Mountains or in Frozen Head State Park. However, that type of running was not how I planned to spend the year in early 2020. Speedy ambitions led to a fast half marathon and then a fast mile. That was about where the ambitions of time-related achievements ended.
I started spending time in local state and national parks, on technical trails, and long climbs where any goals of speed inevitably become arbitrary. Mountain trails that ascend 4000 feet over 7 miles quickly reduce a shuffle-jog to a lung-burning hike to a mind-melting slog. Through those long runs in the mountains, I began to see “running” as an artform rather than a competition. Just like there exists oil painting and sculpture in the realm of art, there exists marathoning, trail-running, track racing, etc. This is not to say that any of those sub-disciplines are “bad,” but each is unique to the point of almost justifying separation into its own sport. The key to long term success in running is to find the sub-disciplines that excite you (or perhaps the ones that suit your individual talents) and let your passion guide you to success.
Over the course of a year, speed and podium-related goals began to fade as a personal interest of mine. I began to see long days in the mountains, filled with uncertainty and new experiences, as the direction in which my own interests began to trend. I signed up to the No Business 100-mile race on October 1st, 2021, not with the intention of a podium or a sub-24-hour finish, but with the intention of exploring a region of the country that I have yet to experience. I wanted to show up to that race in the best shape of my life and give everything that I have on the day. The result may be a win, or it might be a last place finish, but the numbers involved in such an effort have become secondary to achieving a full experience.
My training plan for No Business consists of two separate blocks of training: one early in the year and one through the summer. The former would be relatively relaxed, and the latter would consist of more intense, higher mileage weeks. In between those two blocks would be six weeks of rest and recovery. Think about this as stacking kindling to start a fire. If you stack a small amount of kindling, you can have a small fire. However, if you stack that kindling but then, instead of lighting the fire, you take a break and stack more kindling, the fire will be that much larger and hotter. The first training block is the initial kindling, and the second training block is the rest of the kindling. The idea is to have plenty of fuel to burn when October 1st comes around.
Over the past three months, I completed the first training block with relatively few hiccups, peaking with a 60 mile week and a ~19 mile long run. That was reason enough to celebrate. Being that I was planning to bank this training rather than use it on a race, I reached out to my close friend, Tennessee local and all-around stout mountain runner, Peyton Gupton.
That pretty much brings us up to speed as to why I spent almost nine hours running, hiking, and crawling around the Cherokee National Forest this past Saturday. Ever since I met Peyton three years ago, he has always had some wild and spectacular routes up his sleeve and this one was no different. He sent me the link to a lolli-pop-shaped route through the Citico Creek and Joyce Kilmer-Slickrock Wilderness areas that was about a marathon in distance. That route was accompanied by some spectacular pictures from the hangover overlook and the caveat that “there might be a bit of bushwacking involved.”
I told him that I was in.
We departed the Beech Gap trailhead on the morning of May 8th at 7:00 AM. We were treated to ~1.75 miles of rolling fire road until we reached the ~4 miles of ridgeline trail that would take us out to the hangover overlook. Those trails included the Stratton Bald trail to Bob Bald and then the Haoe Lead trail the rest of the way to the overlook. Those knife-edge trails frequently left us with steep ledges on either side. Peyton was quick to point out that the various campsites along the route were strategically placed for spectacular views of the surrounding mountains. He described the views as “stupid” (in a good way).
The hangover overlook is one of the most spectacular places that I have ever stood. I’ve been fortunate to stand atop many of the summits and balds in the Southern Appalachians. This was, by far, the most magnificent. A 360° view of the surrounding landscape left us pointing out other mountains that we have climbed and lakes we have visited. Clingman’s dome, Thunderhead Mountain, Fontana Dam,all visible. The 20 minutes that we spent on that overlook was punctuated by the realization that we had a minimum of 20 miles of trail left to cover and a 4500-foot descent immediately in front of us on the route. I sent a quick SPOT check-in to Jessi, and we tore off down the mountain.
Looking towards the Smokies from the Hangover Overlook
That 6-mile descent down the Hangover Lead Trail was what I would call a lazy trail. Not lazy because it’s easy, lazy because the trail builders drew a straight line down the mountain and built the trail along that line with no switchbacks or attempts to circumnavigate any of the knobs or ridges along the way. The result is hell on the quadriceps during what was a slow jog down the 30 % grades. This was also our first instance of an underused trail. The willow and laurel had grown over much of the lower part of that trail, leaving me with cuts and scratches on my shins that would only come to haunt me during my shower later that evening.
Upon reaching the bottom of that descent, we pulled out our filters and topped off our water in Slickrock Creek. After a thigh-deep crossing of that same creek, we were beginning our 5-mile ascent up the Stiffknee trail to Stiffknee Top and Little Fodderstack Mountain.
Crossing Slickrock Creek to go up Stiffknee trail
This was the point where Peyton’s navigation skills (and a handy Gaia trails app) proved vital to our mission of making it back to our car before sunset. The first three miles were equivalent to what Devil’s snare must have felt like for Harry, Ron, and Hermione. The greenbrier was thick at our ankles, reopening all of those scratches from our descent off of the hangover. The standing laurel was thick enough to obscure most of the trail in front of us and grew to heights that were well above our heads. The situation was made more intense by the frequent wild boar wallows and the rotten trees that had been shredded by hungry black bears looking for grubs. We were moving as fast as we could to get out of that creek bottom, but the thick vegetation hindered our ascent.
Even though Peyton was expecting to do some bushwacking, it became clear that this was getting slightly out of hand. On our way up the creek bottom, Peyton turned to me and exclaimed "I'm sure glad you're the one out here with me right now. If I had brought Cass with me, she would have divorced me by now". He was referring to his wife, Cassidy Gupton, who is also a stout runner and a wonderful human being.
Peyton bushwacking his way up Stiffknee Trail
Arriving at the top of that climb was a relief and we took a second to top off our water in a small stream. The path in front of us was relatively straightforward. Roughly 10-miles of horse trail would take us back to the car. The first three miles of that Fodderstack horse trail consisted of terrain of which all trail-runners dream. Rolling gravel double track permitted some relatively quick miles punctuated by short hills that gave us an excuse to slow to a temporary recovery walk. Our dreams of that terrain continuing all the way back to the car were shattered by Big Fodderstack Mountain. An 800-foot climb over a continuous mile was not what we were looking for after climbing ~3,000 feet through pig-infested laurel. Nevertheless, we marched up the side of Big Fodderstack with hopes that it would be our last big climb of the day. We were wrong.
With only a handful of miles to go, Peyton presented me with an option to run around the base of Bob Bald, which would add 2 miles to the day, or we could climb straight up to the bald and then run down to the car. The latter option would keep our day at the original ~27 miles. We chose to climb.
We now arrive at the point of questioning existence, purpose, and sanity. Halfway up the ~1,000 ft climb to Bob Bald, Peyton was nowhere in sight, I was out of calories, and I was desperately low on energy. I looked down at my briar-shredded legs and wondered if this day aligned with my newfound beliefs in the abstract nature of the sport that we collectively call “running.”
I came to the realization that this climb on this day was exactly where I needed to be. I was barely putting one foot in front of the other, but that was a part of an experience that I would remember for many years if not a lifetime. I can’t remember how quickly I covered those last ~1,000 feet to the bald, but I can tell you how beautifully the wind whispered on the hangover and I can tell you how crisp and replenishing the water tasted from slickrock creek. These experiences are the ones that reaffirm my decisions to spend long hours in the mountains, pursuing a version of happiness that I cannot imagine is unique to me. Movement in wild places isn’t just a hobby anymore. It’s a deeply personal connection with my own subconscious and with the ground beneath my feet. It’s a means to life.
Finally making my way to the top of the last climb up to Bob’s Bald
As I reached Bob Bald, I saw Peyton sitting on a log. His phone was held in front of him and he snapped a picture of my final moments on that climb. I confessed to him that I was toast. I was out of calories and out of energy. He smiled, said “only a few rolling miles to the car,” and started down the mountain.
I followed suit.
Our final route from the day
Two final technicalities of importance: This route took place on the ancestral lands of the Tsalaguwetiyi (Cherokee, East) nation and it is named as such.
Some of the trails that I referred to in this write-up exist under several names as connectors of sorts. For example, the Stratton Bald Trail is also a section of the Benton Mackaye Trail. For those looking to re-create this route, I recommend familiarizing yourself with all trails and trail names in the area in addition to using some navigation software such as the Gaia app that I referred to earlier.