Worth it. It was so worth it.
It was Month Five of Corona Quarantining. Radio. Television. Newspapers. Podcasts. Our lives were saturated with COVID news and commentary. We needed an Out. And that Out was named Linville Falls.
The Linville area of North Carolina was named for William Linville and his son who, in 1766, were killed by the Shawnee while on a long hunt. (Interesting fact: Their primary prey was the white-tailed deer whose hide was known as buckskin and was worth about $1, or one buck.) There is the town of Linville, the community of Linville Falls, the actual Linville Falls, Linville Gorge, and our new favorite camping site, Linville Falls Campground, RV Park, & Cabins.
We rarely camp at private campgrounds, preferring state or national parks. However, we were very pleasantly pleased with Linville Falls Campground. Its 45 sites ranged from several seasonal sites to drive-through sites big enough for the largest RVs to primitive tent sites. There were even seven cabins available for rent. Although the campsites were tightly packed, it didn’t feel that way due to the heavy vegetation and privacy fences. The bathhouse was actually a series of individual clean restrooms, with each one containing a toilet, sink, and shower, so fears of COVID-spreading toilet plumes were laid to rest. A camp store, laundry room, playground, picnic shelter, gem mine, and even a dog park rounded out this campground with everything anyone would need. And yet, it didn’t have the impersonal feel of a KOA. Friendly owners, well-maintained gravel roads, level and landscaped sites…what more could we ask for? Oh yes, it was only a mile away from the Blue Ridge Parkway. After two days here, we reserved another four nights in the Fall.
It rained every day. It rained while we set up our A-frame camper, which is when we discovered two leaks. It rained while we were hiking. It rained as we were driving on the Blue Ridge Parkway. It rained while we broke camp. But it was still so worth it. For the most part, it rained in the late afternoon and lasted only as long as our naps. And the temperature ranged from the 60s to the 70s, a welcome relief from the ambition-draining furnace heat of home.
We hiked. We hiked to the Linville Falls overlooks: lots of people mostly wearing masks. We learned to hit the popular areas early to avoid the masses. We hiked the Beacon Heights trail for views of Grandfather Mountain from a large rock face. We hiked up the Rough Ridge trail, rocky and steep, to glorious views of the Blue Ridge as far as our eyes could see. We hiked through tunnels of rhododendron (called “laurel hells” by the locals) around Price Lake. We hiked down the gorge to the Linville Falls Plunge Basin Overlook, where a misstep had me ankle-deep in muddy water but a local’s story of a bear encounter kept my mind off my wet foot. Brian’s aching knees waited for me as I hiked, soggy-shoed, down to the bottom of the Falls.
We hiked up Hawksbill Mountain as thunder rumbled ominously overhead. Again, Brian’s knees combined with the steep, rocky climb stopped him from summiting, but I forged on to a mountain top experience like no other. (Honestly, not my brightest moment as lightning rent the sky.)
We hiked up to the Moses Cone cemetery in bright sunshine, and scurried down again amidst a sudden rain shower.
We hiked to the Upper Creek Falls, where Brian waited with the dogs as I hiked the more strenuous path down to the Lower Upper Creek Falls (actual name).
We hiked up to Flat Rock, where I sampled wild blueberries as an appetizer to our picnic lunch.
Sore calves, soggy shoes, achy knees, wet dogs. It was all worth it to take in the natural beauty: the ridge upon ridge upon ridge of varying shades of blue, the rock ledges, the wildflowers: Turk’s Cap, Bellflower, Starry Campion and Bee Balm, including mile after mile of blooming rhododendron. And the fresh, cool, clean air of the mountains, unsullied by COVID.
And we drove.
Up and down the Blue Ridge Parkway. Going 35 in a 45 mph zone. Going 30 in a 35 mph zone. Pulling into an overlook to watch the rain clouds dumping on distant peaks.
Pulling into an overlook when the rain became too heavy to drive.
Pulling into an overlook when the rain cleared up, leaving pockets of clouds tucked between the hills.
Dogs sprawled in the back seat, Pip taking her half in the middle with Shae sticking her nose in Brian’s ear.
We drove over the Linn Cove Viaduct, stopping so that I could get out and walk alongside for a view underneath and beside.
We drove to Daniel Boone’s Trace, where local tradition has it he passed through. We drove as far as E.B. Jeffress Park, just enjoying the ride and scenery.
But my favorite drives were Brian’s least: the drive to Wiseman’s View and then another to Hawksbill Mountain. Clifford, our new-to-us big red truck, was well-suited for the rugged road with his four-wheel drive and all. It started out easy enough, gravel but flat. Soon though, each road became a series of bumps, trenches, and potholes that had us flailing in our seats. Four miles to Wiseman’s View. Two miles on a similar road to Hawksbill. The longest miles of our lives. My job was to hang on for the adventure. Brian, the fixer and maintainer of our vehicles, could only think of worn tie rods. But it was worth it, at least to me.
Wiseman’s View was nothing short of spectacular: Linville Gorge, with Hawksbill and Table Rock on the opposite side and Brown Mountain in between. We were told by Bear Story Man that the best time to see the mysterious Brown Mountain lights was at night in the dead of winter. As if we would ever make it up that road in the cold and dark. (Sidenote: In doing pre-trip research, I found a You Tube video of a man talking about the Brown Mountain lots. It took me several views to figure out what he was talking about. Mountain dialect can be as tricky as their roads.) We ate a picnic lunch on the rocks overlooking the gorge, keeping watch over a couple of female rock climbers as one rappelled over a rocky cliff taking samples of the brown leafy lichen known as rock tripe. Research? Or harvesting? Apparently rock tripe is edible, but only if you’re really really hungry. Good to know.
Five days in these mountains with limited access to cell reception or news of the outside world. Five days of getting wet and sore in some of the most scenic areas of the country. Five days of fresh air, solitude, and serenity. Sure, meeting folks on the trail had us all reaching for our masks, but that was the only indication that a deadly pandemic was gripping the world. Camping in the time of COVID. Was it worth it? You betcha.
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