L O F T Y A S P I R AT I O N S
It’s the Climb
CLOSING OUT 2020 AT LOUISIANA’S PEAK Story and photos by Chris Turner-Neal
“D
on’t get murdered. And don’t get a tick!” That’s what love sounds like when you call from the parking lot of a rural church to tell your sweetheart of the sign that reads: “Hikers advised to wear safety orange in hunting season.” Going on to describe the cloud of wasps hovering around the church door, I earned only a heavy sigh. Louisiana stands tall in food, music, and culture, but when it comes to its literal geography— considerably less so. Driskill Mountain— the highest point in Louisiana at 535 feet above sea level—is the third-lowest of any state in the Union, edging out only Florida’s Britton Hill and Delaware’s 46
enigmatically-named Ebright Azimuth. (Adding insult to injury, the nexthighest high point is Woodall Mountain in Mississippi, at the site of the Civil War Battle of Iuka, which you can drive up to today. Ohio’s high point, nearly three times loftier than Louisiana’s, is known as Campbell Hill.) One of the easiest high-point summits in the country is, however, perfect for a day jaunt next time you can afford to detour through Bienville Parish— you can climb a mountain without breaking very much of a sweat, and still be in Shreveport in time for supper. The trail to the top of Driskill Mountain opens in the parking lot of a red-brick
country church, with a weathered sign by the main road announcing the peak. The Saturday before Thanksgiving, there were three cars lined up along the church building—as much as I like the idea of a secret adventure, my secret rule-following heart was pleased to know exactly where to park. Excited by my first chance to explore a new place during a particularly cooped-up year, I forgot both my water bottle and to change into walking shoes. Neither was a serious problem on the brief and shady hike, but try not to follow my example. The summit and the path up to it are on private land; the current owners welcome area hikers provided they stay on the trail and follow the basic nature etiquette of “take only pictures, leave only footsteps.” The well-maintained trail
J A N 2 1 // C O U N T R Y R O A D S M A G . C O M
is easy to follow except for the very beg i n n i ng —what looks like a trail behind the cemetery is actually just a clearing. Instead, follow the dirt road up a little until you see a sign that’ll pull you off onto the trail itself. From there, your path is clear all the way to the top. I hadn’t realized how badly I needed a walk in the woods, and I kept catching myself hurrying to the top, childlike, then making myself slow down. The main route to the summit is only 0.9 miles, and I wanted to savor all of it. (“Experienced hikers,” whatever that means in this lowstakes environment, can take a spur line to the summit that goes over a nearby peak and offers “spectacular hardwood views.”) I passed a couple of families and pairs of smiling friends on my way up, the children scampering up ahead of their parents. There
were only a few brief huff-and-puff patches on the otherwise gently rising path, and before I was ready, I’d reached the top of Louisiana. The very, very top is marked with a pile of rocks, to which someone had added an American flag and an evangelist flier, presumably on the logic that if you’d gotten this close to Heaven you might as well keep going. An informational board a few feet to the side and apparently a few centimeters below the summit cairn gives more information; the site is maintained by local boy scouts and “Highpointers,” a hobby group of people who enjoy reaching the highest points in various jurisdictions (mostly U.S. states, but their website, when I looked at it, featured an image of a smiling man at the apex of the Virgin Islands). I managed to wait
until payday to sign up, but if you are a better money manager than I, you’ll have sufficient cell reception to do so right from the mount. Touchingly, the ashes of the founder of Highpointers were scattered on Driskill Mountain after his 2002 passing. Jack Longacre lived on Mount Taum Sauk, near the high point of Missouri with an elevation of 1,772 feet—the sign gave no information about why Longacre or those who sent him off chose Louisiana’s topographically lowly peak, but the summit is a beautiful place to rest, either forever or just for a few minutes as you contemplate your triumph. The poet John Donne wrote “… in Heaven, it is
always autumn,” and while I hope any eternal reward I may earn will boast some springtime flowers, it was easy to agree with Donne from the mountaintop. As I’d moved north from New Orleans, I’d seen more and more turning leaves, and now I was in a proper fall forest, with a carpet of foliage and everything. It’s been easy to sulk this year, and as an added sting I was turning thirtysix later that week—I know it’s not that old, but the idea of “the back half of my thirties” isn’t a comfort. (As far as advertisers go, I’m leaving behind my Doritos years and entering the West Elm age.) But today, I could walk back down the mountain with a new hobby, a fall-calmed soul, and not a single tick. h
