Nestled in the valley of the Eastern Continental Divide at Mountain City, Georgia, is a camp with a creek that crosses through it, so named Cross Creek Campground. The climate has Oceanic characteristics due to its high elevation of 2,156 ft, generally featuring mild summers relative to their latitude and cool but not freezing winters, with a relatively narrow annual temperature range and few temperature extremes. The average July temp is 75 degrees.
As I stepped down
from my coach this morning, I was greeted by a cool mountain breeze and a mild
temp of 69. Wisps of fog rose from the mountainside forest to gather with the
low-hanging cloud that shrouded the Appalachian peak of Black Rock Mountain.
Yesterday, I hiked solo to its 3,640 ft peak.
Mountain City is
in the northeastern corner of Georgia’s Rabun County, a settlement of 904
people just six miles south of the North Carolina border and 30 minutes to a
crossing of the Appalachian Trail. It is an outdoor enthusiast’s heaven on
earth, God’s country at its finest.
Clayton, Georgia,
the county seat of Rabun, is home to 2003 residents, with a stoplight at the
highway crossing and one in town that divides Main Street, which is
well-preserved and historic. A solitary road named “Warwoman” cuts through the
valley east, ten miles to Pine Mountain bordering the South Carolina border.
The rugged terrain of the jagged valley could only be settled by a woman at war
with herself, conflicted about whether to go north or south.
So, what is the
attraction? “The mountains are calling, and I must go.” Hiking, backpacking, kayaking,
white water rafting, waterfalls, scenic drives, exquisite dining, local wine
and spirits, shopping, and forested land valued at $15,000 per acre, no more
than a 6-acre Brown County wooded lot listing for $95,000.
These thoughts
percolated in my mind as I tried to wind down and chill after the barefooted
hoedown with Melanie. After a tender goodnight kiss with a fond hug, she
politely excused herself, explaining that awakening before sunrise was not her
natural biorhythm. Still, since she was covering for Savannah, the buck stopped
with her as the Trail’s End Coffee & Café owner.
I poured bourbon
over an ice ball and settled on the couch, propping my feet up, my back braced
with soft pillows. My next awareness was that of the stiff body of a mountain climber
who had been sedentary for too long at sea level. I peeled myself from the
couch and crashed on my king-size bed, hugging the king-size pillow I wished
was a queen-sized mountain woman named Melanie.
For a change, I
was cleared-headed this morning, having crashed hard from the mountain climb
and dancing. I woke to silvery dawn viewed through the unshaded bedroom
windows. I cautiously stepped down from the bedroom to the coach’s spacious 18
x 14 ft living quarters with a kitchen, dining, TV-theater reclining, couching,
and fireplace watching experience.
Outside, I
stretched while the water heated to make coffee. I wanted to explore the area,
so I filled my YETI with roasted espresso and headed across the Cross Creek
bridge. I was on an old asphalt road that led into the woods in a minute. As I
rounded the bend, sunlight reflected off a small lake, a gem in the foothills
of the red clay of Blue Ridge.
Across the lake, a
large deck extended over the water, a jet ski moored at the pier, and two
kayaks stood anchored against a garage wall. Further up, a quaint cottage,
painted yellow with white trim, was built into the forested hillside.
Scanning the
shoreline, I noticed no other establishments. Private lake? This must have cost
a pretty penny. Probably inherited. The road wrapped around the lake and
disappeared into the woods after crossing in front of the cottage.
You’ve probably
heard the expression “curiosity killed the cat.” Yet fewer know the second half
of this English proverb— “but satisfaction brought it back.” You’ve also heard
that cats have nine lives. I stopped counting after nine. I’m one of those cats
willing to take a calculated risk to satisfy my curiosity. I believe I will
return to health if the danger has its way with me.
In most cases, I
encounter friends rather than foes. Not that walking alongside this lake was
dangerous, but most would turn around, not wanting to trespass. If I
encountered a contender, I’d say, “I beg your forgiveness. I must have looked
the other way when I passed that ‘No Trespassing’ sign. By the way, do you know
for certain that you’re going to heaven?”
As I neared the
cottage, I noticed white wicker furniture appointed the porch and tubular wind
chimes, one low-toned and one high, resounded in the breeze, a
welcoming introduction to the well-groomed garden with deep blue hydrangea,
orange begonia, and a butterfly bush projecting lavender, pink and magenta blooms.
This cottage was certainly cared for by a woman.
The screen door
opened, and I froze. Caught in the act of trespassing can be dangerous,
especially if protected by a man with a rifle in hand.
—
From
the chronicles of Jeremiah’s Journey, follow Jeremy beginning with Scene 1 –
Mountain Woman, listed in the right sidebar under June 2022.
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