Changing my search term to North Alabama Hikes, I’m met with a dizzying array of options.
Once referred to as The State of Surpises, Alabama is one of the most biodiverse in the nation. For millions of years, present-day Alabama was covered by a shallow ocean. As the waters receded, limestone bedrock was formed, which makes up the mountains and hills of northwest Alabama. The receding water also revealed the Piedmont Plateau, home to the state’s highest peaks, at the southernmost tip of the Appalachian mountain range.
When I arrived here twenty-something years ago, it certainly surprised me. In many ways. Initially, I was stunned by the sheer volume of trees. Growing up in Southern California had not prepared me for this amount of green. Forests of trees line the interstate as opposed to strip malls and service roads. Wildflowers and daylily grow haphazardly in highway medians. Water and wildlife are abundant. Freeways that seem more like parking lots are non-existent.
I live on Sand Mountain – in a rural community located in the northeast corner of the state. If I were to speak the words Sand Mountain out loud, I’d make velociraptor air quotes with my first two fingers when I say mountain. Barely over 1,400 feet above sea level, it might qualify as a hill out west. At best. The highest peak in Alabama, Cheaha Mountain, is a meager 2,411 feet above sea level. Compare that to the highest point in California, Mount Whitney, the summit resting at a whopping 14,505 feet above sea level.
I grew up at Mount Baldy’s base, the highest peak in the San Gabriel Mountains and the highest point in Los Angeles County.
A twenty-minute drive would get us to Mount Baldy Village and the Ice House Canyon Trail. Occasionally I came here in my teens. A group of us would shuffle lazily along the stream, quitting long before the switchbacks, to lie on boulders like lizards in the sun. We considered this a hike. Since then, I have occasionally ventured out onto a nature trail or path, going no further than a couple of miles. It’s time to see what I’ve been missing.
Scrolling through the Google results, a headline catches my eye. Clicking on it, I quickly become engrossed in the account of a journalist in north Georgia who hiked the same trail, close to her home, once a week for an entire year. Intrigued, I read on. She committed to hiking every week on the same day, at the same time, always on the same trail. Chronicling her adventure, she detailed the changes she saw along the path. Braving the unpredictable North Georgia weather – even slogging through the snow in an uncommon southern weather event, she never missed a week.
I should do that. I consider duplicating her efforts, but the thought of the same trail over and over doesn’t appeal to me. At all. After some deliberation, I decide on one hike a week, but a different trail each time. No repeats. For the entire year.
Continuing my search, I stumble upon something called a First Day Hike.
The program consists of free, guided hikes offered by America’s State Parks each year on New Year’s Day in all fifty states. Over 55,000 people participated last year! Distance and rigor vary from park to park, but all hikes aim to create a fun experience for any level.
There are multiple North Alabama choices, and I settle on DeSoto State Park on Lookout Mountain close to Fort Payne, Alabama – home of country super-group Alabama. I’ve been there before to view DeSoto Falls, and at 5ish miles, the distance seems right. Long enough to offer a challenge, but still doable. This is the one. Clicking on the event’s RSVP sections appropriate response, I share it, making it Facebook official.
Immediately other friends start RSVPing to the event. Of course, Carver can’t go. It will be at least a month until her foot has healed, and she’s ready to make her trail debut. But it looks like I may have some company anyway. Relief washes over me.
Pleased about the way things are shaping up, I look forward to the new year. Not typically a fan of all the New Year’s Eve amateur night celebrations, I think that the First Day Hike will be the perfect way to ring in the new year. And with any luck, a new chapter in my life.
*****
Jarred awake by the ubiquitous chime of my iPhone, I fumble around the nightstand, trying to silence the beast.
It’s so early. It’s all I can do to resist hitting the snooze button. I’d be lying if I say that I’m not tempted to roll back over and stay cozy and comfortable in my warm bed. Instead, I slowly peel back the cover and pad across the cold floor towards the pile of clothing I laid out at the foot of the bed, much like a child before the first day of school.
I get dressed, grab a cup of coffee, and step outside on this cold, windy, dreary New Year’s Day. On any other New Year’s Day, I’d be drinking this coffee in my pajamas watching the Rose Parade, likely eating a cinnamon roll, eschewing any thoughts of healthy eating resolutions.
Instead, I’m heading to DeSoto State Park for the First Day Hike. My first training hike. The first of fifty-two. I’m alone and feeling a little nervous, although I can’t put my finger on the reason why. All of my friends that planned on joining have bowed out. One by one, all citing various reasons – too cold, too early; the usual suspects. I should know. I’ve employed them plenty of times. I asked Jimmy if he wanted to go, but he’ll be spending the day watching football. So here I am, making the hour-long drive toward the park. It’s a group hike. Technically I won’t be alone. So there’s that.
After I had more reliable information about my latest adventure, I filled Jimmy in on the details.
He was still surprised about this latest undertaking and more than a little skeptical. But not overly concerned or even interested for that matter. There’s a pretty good chance he doesn’t think this wild idea will ever come to fruition.
I’m super reliable, with a work ethic like a mule. But when it comes to my goals, well, that’s another story. For reasons I can’t explain, I have quit on myself a million times. I’ll throw a great idea, something I’m excited about, on the back burner, soon to be forgotten while I work my ass off on someone else’s dream.
There was the time I was going to participate in a Disney marathon. Or train for a triathlon. How about learning Italian? Obtaining my SCUBA certification? Even going back to school. I have embarked on these journeys, and countless others, with the best of intention only to lose steam and motivation, before ultimately abandoning them.
In the meantime, I have built a small public library in a town that didn’t really want it. I have applied for and received grant money to bring programs and authors to communities who couldn’t care less. I have revitalized a children’s museum for folks who were not interested and made money for people who misused it. It scares me to think about how much time and effort I may have wasted. Did any of it matter?
I silently vow that this time will be different. I’ve declared it publicly, although I’ve done that before.
This time I’m not going it alone. I’ll have someone to answer to. Accountability. But I’ve had that before too. But this time will be different. I’m not sure how or why; it just will be. It has to be.
The GPS interrupts my thoughts, letting me know to take the next exit in Fort Payne. Passing the official Alabama Fan Club and Museum, I make my way to the state park located, as the song says, high atop Lookout Mountain.
DeSoto State Park is gorgeous. The park straddles the Little River and Little River Gorge with waterfalls scattered throughout. One of the largest and most visited waterfalls in north Alabama, De Soto Falls, checks in at 104 feet, churning the water below white. Easily reached via a short paved footpath, it won’t be included on today’s hike. Today we’ll visit some of the smaller and more seasonal waterfalls along with some of the park’s historical features.
Pulling up to the designated meeting spot, I spot a group of people milling about on the porch of the old Country Store.
People of all ages and all sizes huddle together on the rickety, wooden steps. Grabbing my six-plus-year-old Nike bookbag, a relic from the kid’s high school days, I slam the car door shut. The pack, recently unearthed from the back of a closet smells of dirty gym socks and something else. An unidentified odor. Possibly cat pee. Inside there are enough peanut butter sandwiches, Clif bars, and water bottles to last a couple of days. Hoisting it up and over my shoulder, I cross the parking lot towards the meeting point.
A line forms at the restroom, and I take my place in it. People are bundled up against the cold. Coats, hats, and gloves in muted shades of brown, gray, and green. Earth tones. I’m self-conscious in my shocking fuschia-pink jacket, snagged off the TJ Maxx clearance rack last week. A jacket so bright it should have come with a seizure warning. Both the color and the newness seem to stick out like a sore thumb, announcing my status as a novice to the world.
Our fearless leader arrives. Welcoming everyone, she gives a brief orientation.
DeSoto State Park was initially developed by the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) in the 1930s. The CCC was a public work relief program and a significant part of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s New Deal.
Participants planted nearly 3 billion trees to help reforest America; they constructed trails, lodges, and related facilities in more than 800 parks nationwide. The men also upgraded most state parks, updated forest fire fighting methods, and built a network of service buildings and public roadways in remote areas over the nine years that the program existed. Evidence of their work remains scattered throughout the United States, with a heavy concentration in the American South.
Finally, our leader introduces herself as Brittani, lays out the route, tells us which trails we’ll be using, then takes a quick count. Surveying the group, she happily calls out, “Let’s hike.” And away we go. Heading into the pine-oak woods, we quickly fall into a single file line on the path formed of rocks, roots, pine needles, and leaves.
Following the Quarry Trail, we wind along a hillside through massive boulders and rock overhangs.
About a mile in, we arrive at the trail’s namesake, the CCC quarry. Cut blocks are strewn around, reminiscent of an abandoned theatre, proof of the work the CCC’s young men did in 1939 when the park opened. Cameras click, and selfies are taken before moving on to our first stop, the campground, complete with more restroom facilities. There’s only one toilet, and the line is long. My backpack is heavy, so I take it off, dropping it on the ground. I decide to eat a sandwich and a Clif bar while waiting, more out of an effort to reduce the pack’s weight than out of hunger.
Freezing wind howls. It’s been comfortable as we hiked, the effort and stands of trees offering some protection. But now, standing here waiting, the cold, damp air penetrates the layers of my clothing. Today’s high is in the low 30s, and it’s taking forever for everyone to use the restroom. Annoyance creeps in. We haven’t even been hiking long, and most of these folks in line are the same ones who were with me in the restroom at the start. Less than forty-five minutes ago.
At long last, everyone is ready to go, and we get started. Some of my fellow hikers are quitting and heading back to the parking lot. Not me. I’m in it for the long haul. I won’t give up that easily, although, truthfully, it wouldn’t take much to convince me to cut the trek short and head for the warmth of the car and a hot cup of coffee.
Now that the herd has thinned out, the pace picks up as we head to the first waterfall.
I’m next to a pretty blonde with a hiking stick. She introduces herself. Wendy. I explain that I’m a newbie hiker, although my equipment and attire have probably given that away. Wendy has extensive hiking experience, even hiking sections of the Appalachian Trail. Time passes quickly as we chat.
We’ve hiked on switchbacks and up some hills. More than once, I feel winded. I wonder if this is what it will be like at the Grand Canyon. Eventually, the trail levels out, and we come to a small side-trail. A small stone with the words Laurel Falls engraved on it marks the spot.
In less than 200 feet, we see the falls. It’s a beautiful overhead view; a few of us decide to bushwhack down to the base. Layers of rock frame the two-tiered waterfall as it surges over, ultimately collecting in a crystal clear pool. Cameras fly out of pockets and packs to capture the moment.
Our next stop will be Lost Falls, a small five-foot waterfall just off the trail.
Splashing onto a pile of rock before settling into another crystal-clear pool, the water looks inviting. A perfect swimming hole. Well, it would be if it wasn’t 30 degrees outside. The seasonal waterfall completely disappears in the dry season, hence the name. Brittani points out dormant mountain laurel and rhododendrons lining the path, urging us to visit in June to see the riot of color when they bloom. Turning from the stream, we pass through huge slabs of rock covered in pale green moss. Deer moss, according to Brittani.
An older gentleman peels off his jacket revealing a Grand Canyon sweatshirt. I make a point to ask him if he’s hiked to the canyon floor. “No, god, no,” he replies.
“I’m going to. In December.” I declare, “This is my first training hike.”
A few people look at me, skeptically. Or maybe I imagine the skepticism. After all, I’ve made it this far without too much struggle. I am getting tired, though, and cold. Definitely not hungry since I brought a week’s worth of groceries.
Heading into the home stretch of the hike now, we arrive at Cascade Falls. A bridge spans the creek, and there is a broad, wooden deck at the cascade.
“We’re at about the five-mile point,” Brittani announces.
A few hikers are going on to see Indian Falls, Wendy and I decide to call it a day, heading back to the parking lot. At the car, we exchange contact info. Wendy confides that she has lots of spa friends, but not many are interested in hiking or kayaking. Leaning in as if she’s telling me a secret. “None of the outdoorsy stuff.”
We say our goodbyes, exchanging contact info, and promising to keep in touch before we each head back to our own lives. Our own problems.
Cranking up the heater, I back out of the lot. Feeling accomplished yet exhausted, I head home.
I’m ready. I survived my first training hike at DeSoto State Park. My still overloaded backpack is thrown haphazardly across the passenger seat. The remaining food and water are sufficient to survive a Zombie Apocalypse.
The seat warmers kick in, heating my backside. Hot air whooshes from the vents. Searching for a tissue or even a napkin to wipe my nose proves to be an exercise in futility, and I finally succumb to a quick swipe of the sleeve.
Winding down the mountain, I wonder where my next hike will take me. I should be able to plan something for next weekend. There are plenty of state parks scattered throughout North Alabama. I’ll do some research. Maybe even look into a training plan specific to hiking.
Today’s experience has already taught me a little about what to bring, and maybe more importantly, what not to bring. I’m talking to you, oversized bag of trail mix. It’s a lot to think about. My mind thrums as I enter onto the freeway with a zillion questions.
I wonder if I’ll be sore tomorrow. I wonder if I’ll grow stronger. I wonder if I’ll complete my goal.
I wonder if I can persuade myself to like this.
As always, thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed this chapter from my upcoming book 52 Weeks 52 Hikes: Tales from the Trail, chronicling the first hike in my year-long journey. Sign up for my email newsletter below to receive future excerpts and publication notifications.
Adventure on, friends! XOXO
Can’t wait for the book? Get started living your own story on the trails and transform your life. Join our Facebook Group here.
Keep up with the adventure with the 52 Weeks 52 Hike Journal. Grab your copy HERE.
[ctct form=”1329″ show_title=”false”]
