Just Thinking Lizzie Writes... Hiking Mount LeConte

LIZ ALLEY

Iam standing on a narrow path on the side of a rock mountain 6,000 feet up, on black ice, wondering, “Why in the world did I ever think this would be a good idea?” When I envisioned hiking Mount LeConte in Tennessee, ice was never in the picture, but now, my sister Lynn, our niece Chelsea, and I were in the thick of it. This all started in March 2023 when we decided to hike this big mountain and spend the night at the top in one of the cabins. Let’s talk about the word “cabin” first, lest you picture something quaint with a fireplace, living area, small kitchen, bedrooms, and bathroom. Ummm, no. Think more like a shack, one room with a bed, a kerosene heater, and a small table with a kerosene lamp. We knew this; we’d read about the “lodge” and the “cabins.” Truthfully, they were beautiful for what they were, but there’s only so much comfort one can have with no electricity and a bathhouse down the path, with temps in the teens and bears looking for food. My bladder and I had a “come to Jesus” meeting as I lectured it about behaving and stopped drinking the minute I reached the top of the mountain. There were no reservations last March, and the wait list was over a year long. But lo and behold, Chelsea called months later and found out they’d had a cancellation for March 2024. We took it with blind enthusiasm, not considering what conditions we might face at that time of year, like ice. We bought some traction devices for our boots, just in case, but we felt like they did us more harm than good, so they were in our packs when we were on the ice. I kept having thoughts about when they found our bodies, and the news headlines would blast, “Hikers slipped off Mount LeConte, Ice Traction Gear in Backpack not on Boots!”

We slowly made our way to the top. The views along the way demanded to be noticed, so I’d stop, my feet tingling but my heart soaring at the sight of those majestic mountains, their shadows mirroring themselves on the tops of trees. “Such loveliness,” I thought and felt so far up that I was sure I’d see a staircase to heaven. The mountains felt alive, like they were watching us, probably thinking, “You fools,” but I like to think it was more of an audience cheering us on.

At the top, we found our spot in the lodge, next to the coffee pot. We were told to take a load off, the coffee would be out pronto, and we’d each have a mug. After receiving what I presumed to be a teacup from a child’s tea set but being informed that no, that was our “mug” for coffee, I was hopeful the coffee would be expresso. It was not, but that thimble full sure was good. After refueling with caffeine, we decided to go the extra .7 miles to the summit. We figured we’d gone this far, so we might as well go all the way. It was worth it.

That night, we settled down into our bunks, but not before we all attempted to sleep on the bottom bunk. That little kerosene heater heated that top bunk like a sauna. Finally, though, Chelsea could not stand it anymore and took herself to the top bunk. The following morning, Lynn and I were like spoons in a drawer on the bottom bunk. The top bunk moved, and we saw two white legs come over the top; Chelsea, who had been fully clothed the night before, missed a step and came flying down with a thud to the floor below in her birthday suit. “Oh my goodness,” she said dully, “I don’t even care if I’m hurt. It was so hot up there.” Our little cabin was full of laughter, which was good, since bears don’t like loud noises.

After a hearty breakfast, Lynn, Chelsea, and I were the first ones on the trail to go down. The trail that was slippery the day before was even more so after freezing through the night. Step by step, we went, calling out to each other particularly slippery spots. We felt highly accomplished by the time we made it to the bluffs. When we reached the bottom, I felt like kissing the ground, but I refrained; too many people were around. We rode down the mountain to Franklin, discussing how hard and wonderful it was. We stopped at a diner about to close for the day, but they were lovely and urged us to come in. We sat at a booth with a big sign above us stating, “Hikers Welcome.” We ordered chili dogs and fries that had never tasted so good. The following day, I woke up in my comfortable bed and stared at the weeping cherry tree outside my window. One day, months before, I’d written in my journal, “I’m dreaming of Mount LeConte,” I smiled at the thought of her and how she’d made my body sore but my soul full. She was worth it.

Liz Alley was born and raised in Rabun County in the city of Tiger. She loves to write. She is an interior designer specializing in repurposing the broken, tarnished, chipped, faded, worn and weathered into pieces that are precious again. She is the mother of two daughters and has three grandchildren. She divides her time between her home in Newnan and Rabun County. Liz would love to hear from you, drop her a line at Lizziewrites0715@gmail.com

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