When She Was Good……….

Yesterday Daphne, Phoebe, and I drove through beautiful south east TN to Blue Ridge, Georgia where we met Bobbi, Joe , Bruce, and Ellie and Tiny for breakfast and a 5.8 mile hike in the dog friendly mountains of north Georgia. Ellie and Bobbi are taking a dog training class, so Bobbi was full of wisdom regarding dog-think. After a bit of early walk shenanigans, I got Phoebe to more or less heel the entire hike. Ellie never did take to the idea. I believe her view was “I’ve been pulling Mom for eight years, surely this is the way things should be. Why would I want to walk behind her.” I did take advantage of my hounds pulling power during a long climb towards the end of the hike. I felt like a dog musher, just sailing up the mountain behind my two locomotives.

Bobbi was so impressed by Phoebe’s excellent behaviour, especially since our first hike together, in December, was cut short because I was exhausted trying to control Phoebe as well as Daphne. I, though, remembered, our big story this week, and recited Bobbi a rhyme from childhood:

There was a little girl
Who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead.
And when she was good,
She was very, very good
But when she was bad,
She was horrid.

Phoebe, a nine month old hound mix, has the wandering gene. Last month she escaped and was gone exactly one week before showing back up as if nothing were amiss. Happy, healthy, just the same Pheobe whose tail I had last seen a week previously running towards the far corner of the yard. After three weeks of lock down, she again escaped when I wasn’t careful enough about getting her in the door. She made a 180 degree turn out of my hand and bolted, again for the far corner.

My emotional state was better on this second Phoebe vacation. I adopted a “Que sera.” If she doesn’t want to live with me, she’ll have to find her own way. Daphne and I reverted to the pre-Phoebe life. A little quieter, emptier, but a good life.

Friday morning Daphne and I were in the living room when she started making a whining fuss. I opened the door to let her out and heard a dog crying in the distance. Daphne was quite concerned about it. I let Daphne free so she could follow the sound. I tracked behind her on the street. Daphne led me to a place where, when I looked up, I saw a shed building on the ridge, and a brown hound crying on the roof. Phoebe….. On a roof…..

A fence blocked my path, so I walked back to my house, picked up a leash, and then walked down the other street to approach the storage sheds on the back of the neighbor’s property. Phoebe was on a second story roof, but the shed had a single story area. I walked around the building, trying to find a way to get her. I also walked into the building (no doors, just lots of JUNK). I could see how she probably got on the roof. There were stacks of ummm stuff, that made a precarious ladder (certainly nothing I would climb, and apparently nothing Phoebe was willing to descend). Above the stacks there was a hole in the roof. Phoebe looked down at me through the hole, and cried some more.

I developed a plan. A tree grew beside the single story part of the building, and there were lots of tires lying around. I stacked three tires on rims next to the tree, and lay a couple rimless tires next to my pile. I hauled myself up the tires and leaned against the tree for balance. The roof hit me at mid chest. I reached up my arms and lured Phoebe to within grabbing range. It actually took her several attempts to get to me. She was afraid of the slope of the roof.

When I got a paw, I started sliding her to me. There was a good three inches of tree litter on the roof, and all of that slid with Phoebe, drowning me in dirt, leaves, and twigs. After a few seconds of firm pulling, resisted mightily by a frantic Phoebe, she slid enough that I could grab her shoulders and swing her off the roof to drop in the waiting tires. She bounced off the tires and galloped around ecstatically to celebrate with Daphne her release from the roof.

Seven Islands Wildlife Refuge

(photos with permission from Melinda Fawver)

The French Broad breathes a sigh as it exits the North Carolina mountains. It leaves off ripping through valleys, no more rocks, rapids, eddies. It meanders, easing its way along the valley floor on the way to join the Holston. Sometime in the early 1800’s a farming family followed the river out of the mountains and found a peninsula in one of the crooks of the French Broad, where some bumps in the land stick out into seven small islands in the water.

The land was tended by generations, but then life in America changed. The city of Knoxville was sprawling towards the peninsula, and farmers (or the children of famers) all around the peninsula sold their land to city people who built fine houses on the water front.

I don’t know how Knox County became the owner of this peninsula. But the county owns it, and has preserved it as a wildlife refuge. The hayfields are turning into meadows of native grasses, and birds come to winter. And people come to walk, to sit by the river, to let their children look through the old barns, to climb the hills and look out over the river, the seven islands, and across to the mountains.

Last summer I agreed to lead a hike scheduled for January 2009 for the Smoky Mountains Hiking Club at the Seven Islands. I had never heard of it, and had to research even how to get there. I enlisted my friend Rae, who remembered hiking there several years ago, and we found our way to the refuge, and spent a day scouting around, planning the hike we would lead in January. It was a gorgeous October day, and we had an excellent time, even though we made several bad route choices. That’s what scouting a hike is all about.

Yesterday, January 4, was the day of the scheduled hike. Rae had injured her back earlier in the week, so I was without a co-leader. The day dawned cool and gloomy. I met my friends Peggy and Julie in Maryville and we drove over to the rendezvous place on Asheville Highway. When we got out of the car we put on jackets while we checked in hikers, got everyone in a carpool, and headed the ten miles to Seven Islands.

Julie had to navigate from the back seat, to keep me following the green signs. I was hoping nobody remembered that I had said to turn left at the end of the interstate exit. At least I had said “south” towards the river, but it was a right turn. After that, Julie clearly announced upcoming turns when she spotted green signs. She’d figured out I wasn’t reliable. I did manage one serious navigation error. Just when we pulled into the lane that would lead to the Refuge, I turned down a wrong lane, followed by my four sheep. When that lane ended at a house, we all had to turn around and try again. Fortunately there was a wide turning spot, and it was only a quarter mile in.

Several hikers met us at the parking lot, and when all signed in, we had a group of twenty. I asked Mindy to sweep, and she graciously agreed. During the few minutes drive from Ashville Highway to Seven Islands, the weather made an abrupt change. The sky was cloudless, a warm sun beaming down. What happened to January? This is like October. I shucked my jacket, and was wishing I’d worn a lighter sweater, and brought sunscreen.

I herded us up, explained the general route plan and started up the hill. We quickly “summited” (if you can claim summiting a 200 foot hill), and enjoyed the views along the ridge line. When Rae and I scouted in the fall, we missed a pond marked on the map. In January, there was no trouble seeing the pretty pond. My excuse is that there was still enough leaf cover in October to block my view. We reached the “viewpoint,” and admired the distant mountains, and the islands in the river. Charlie noticed that if we went through the brush we would reach a place which was both higher and closer to the river, so we did a little “off-trail” (picking our way across tractor mown brambles and a little patch of woods) to the edge. Unfortunately, the hill was tree covered, so the view wasn’t that much improved.

The most difficult part of the hike was descending from the ridge to the bottom lands. The trails in the refuge are tractor paths mown in the grass. It must be a powerful tractor, because the path pretty much goes straight up the side of the hill. Those of us who maintain mountain trails were critiquing the trail design. It was muddy, slippery, and susceptible to wash out. The sad thing is, there was plenty of space for switchbacks, and that would have made both the walking easier, and been better for the land. Tim and I talked (only half jokingly) about writing to the county suggesting they make switchbacks.

Everyone safely navigated the descent, and we walked a short trail to the river. There was a small clearing with a bench at a bend in the river. The French Broad was full to the rim, and was ripping along. December’s rains are being carried out of the mountains. We made this beautiful spot our lunch stop. Alice told her story of how the French Broad got its name. She said French trappers followed a woman out of the mountains. Funny to hear that from this darling tiny 80ish woman.

The trail follows the river upstream to the point of the peninsula. There are some cliffs across the river, and at one point is a cave midway up and shaped just like an old fashioned key hole. Yellow stains come out of the cave and stain the cliff to the river. I announced that this was an old goldmine, and the yellow stain was residue gold. Tim improved on my tale, saying all the recent rains had opened up a new vein, and it was just pouring out.

We did see a few birds as we walked, but not as many as I hoped. I don’t think we had many “birders” with us. We just walked along, talking, marveling at the glorious January day. The trail turns back on itself after it rounds the point, and climbs a small hill to another ridgeline, perpendicular to our first ridge. We walked along this, enjoying the views across the meadows to the river. I was walking along with Alice when suddenly she was sprawled out flat on her face. I experienced a moment of terror, but then she said “I’m ok, I’m ok”, refused help, got herself back on her feet, dusted herself off, and took off again. What a woman. Alice’s trademark is her umbrella, which she uses as a sun shade. It is the prettiest site to see a beautiful old woman walking through a meadow, shading herself with an umbrella. She and I conjectured that it is because she hikes so often that she can take a fall and keep going. So many people her age would even be afraid to walk on rough ground for fear of falling and breaking bones.

The trail led to the “homestead,” and we walked right through the barn sheltering the monster tractor. At the homestead we descended to the paved lane and used it to walk the last quarter mile to the parking lot., just tired enough to know it had been a wonderful day.