Warwasseeta & A Fire Tower Sunrise

The biggest curse of autumn for me ­– at least over the past few years — has been those end-of-summer storm-bearing cold fronts, where the ground gets saturated and the leaves get heavy, and the wind starts knocking them down in clumps, leaving nothing but the tannin-laden oaks for spectating in their wake. I prefer a subtle transition, which offers a full spectrum of color: the reds of maples, yellows of beeches, and the orange of the sassafrases; who wouldn’t want to gaze upon their grandeur if given the opportunity? Whether residing in the Hudson Valley of New York, the mid-coast of Maine, or the Blue Ridge Mountains of Western North Carolina, I have always witnessed a steady stream of cars in the fall, with people travelling hundreds of miles for local destinations I sometimes took for granted.

Asheville was plagued with a week of torrential downpours at the start of October in 2021, sparking fears that I would miss yet another year of “peak season.” But as luck would have it, Friday night saw a cease in the liquid bombardment, and Saturday brought fresh hope as I threw the last of my camping gear into my truck and headed West. Once more I was bound for the North Mills River entrance to Pisgah National Forest: the closest gateway to paradise from my house.

The relentless storms had worked their mountain magic by cleansing the peaks and valleys of summer dust. Behind them emerged a crisp earthy fragrance, accentuated by the slight chill in the air, and carried upon a virgin breeze. Every single window was rolled down as three furry heads hung from the sides of my Tacoma: Venus my faithful Blue Heeler, Bear, my partner’s stabyhoun-looking mix, and Finlay, our rambunctious young Rough Collie. I spoke enthusiastically to them along the way, explaining the rules of dispersed camping, and the anxiety of staking a claim this late in the game.

Following Wash Creek Road (FS 5000) North toward the Blue Ridge Parkway, I struck out one site at a time, trying not to resent the occupants who were fixing breakfast, drying gear, and stretching their legs before tackling the day’s activities. Continuing to climb, it felt like we were matching the pace of the sun itself, which was now rising above the tree line as we passed Bent Creek. The morning was full of promise, despite the opposite notion pertaining to our camping accommodations. When the road came to a fork, I opted for the Parkway, where I turned left towards Brevard, hoping to figure something out on the fly.

When the small brown “Mt. Pisgah Campground” sign came into view, my heart skipped a beat, albeit filled with nervous apprehension. From the top of my driveway — and even my backyard when the trees were bare — I could see the monstrous silhouette of Mount Pisgah piercing through the sky. I hung a right into the entrance and pulled over by the quaint blue check-in cabin, and told the dogs to stay as I exited the vehicle and approached the window, which adorned a paper sign that stated: “in the back, please knock.”

“Do you happen to have any availability?” I inquired, sight unseen.

“Well, yes, we were waiting to see what happened with all this rain; I think a lot of folks decided not to come this weekend,” an older woman answered warmly. She looked over her glasses at the Toyota, and asked “are you sleeping in your truck, or do you have a tent?”

“I’m going to try the truck out tonight, but I have a tent for my girlfriend who’s working a wedding in Brevard today,” I replied. I had recently purchased a fiberglass camper shell for my bed for a steal, which inspired me to hammer out my crumpled tailgate and build a sleeping platform for overlanding. This was going to be the dry-run.

“Okay, here is what we’ve got for RVs and trailers, that also have a tent platform,” she noted with a yellow highlighter and a map. “Look at these sites on Loop B, then you can also look at these on Loop C afterwards, which are tent-only. The bathrooms are here and here. When you find the site you want, clip this piece of paper to the post and come back. I have a few people out looking; if there’s one on the post already, it means someone else has claimed it.”

I didn’t listen well, and headed for Loop C first, finding nothing that stood out to me. On Loop B, I settled on “Lucky Number 13,” a cozy little spot where the road bent in a U-shape, and the site lay down a steep bank from the parking spot.

“This will do!” I thought, jumping out to clamp my map to the metal clip on the post. Feeling a sense of relief, I grinned while wondering how much the spot would cost — I hadn’t paid much attention to the fees on my arrival.

“What did you decide?” the woman asked with the same warm smile.

“B-13,” I proclaimed, noticing the “$20 per night” rate on the wall. Not bad, I thought, reciting the adage: “location, location, location.”

I paid the tab and provided the details to my partner over the phone, before returning to pitch my tent and inflate the air mattress for Thyra, who was just starting her work-day several miles down the mountain. Unloading the storage bins and chairs, before stashing the coolers in the bear box, it didn’t take long to set things up. Surrounded by rhododendrons and other woody shrubs, the perimeter of the campsite was thick and lush, which made up for its close proximity to the neighbors. Despite my love of parks, this was actually my first official stay at an NPS facility, and I was satisfied.

Once all the dogs were tethered to their respective posts, I took a walk across the Parkway to the Mount Pisgah Country Store to secure some kiln-dried firewood; my own supply had been drenched and I was ill-prepared in this regard. The air here was also roughly 10 degrees colder than the valleys down below — of which I was accustomed — so I tacked on a long-sleeve shirt, and a couple of small stickers for my water bottle. Everything here was expensive, but that was to be expected from the side of the “All-American Road,” adjacent the historic Pisgah Inn.

Conceived in 1918 on the Warwasseeta Ridge, as referred by the Cherokee Nation, the name Pisgah was derived from the Bible and applied to the area for its beauty, lending itself to the lodging. The land was once owned by Thomas Lanier Clingman until it was transferred to George Washington Vanderbilt, who sought counsel from Gifford Pinchot on the emerging study of forestry, while also employing Frederick Law Olmsted — the landscape architect of Central Park fame — to design and maintain his estate. These characters were all familiar to me from my Parks & Recreation education at Unity College, but experiencing the setting first hand brought a new perspective to my textbooks. The Inn we know today was built in 1964 as an attraction for travelers, where its South-facing structures provide an array of breathtaking views. Adirondack chairs line a luxuriant strip of grass beneath the lobby, where one can either socialize or reflect on nature’s splendor.

It comes as no surprise that the area fosters the “Cradle of Forestry in America,” and the Biltmore Forest School founded by Carl A. Schenck, which is filled with history surrounding conservation efforts in the United States. Conservation, in comparison with preservation — the setting aside of land untouched by human beings for their natural beauty and ecological benefit — is the sustainable practice of managing natural resources while offering recreational activities to the public. Subsequently, Pisgah draws eco-tourists like mountain bikers, campers, and hunters by the millions annually to its 512,758 acres. Loggers and collectors help foot the bill for conservation through varying degrees of exploitation, though taxpayers still bear the brunt of the cost to purchase, maintain, and provide access to these lands under the U.S. Department of Agriculture. Pisgah National Forest is no exception, though timber harvesting has a rocky past in the region, and several parcels of land for Nantahala and the Great Smoky Mountains were spared from clear cutting during their inception. I, for one, am happy this vast wilderness wasn’t stripped of all its resources many years ago.

Retreating to my campsite, I cracked open a case of Yuengling and listened to a local bluegrass station on the radio. Lighting a fire, I fed the flames sparingly from my two bundles, listening to the birds and admiring the abundant shades of blue above me; this was as close to heaven as I had been in a while. The logs cracked and popped as the dogs insisted upon roping and lassoing the furniture; Thyra would be there shortly to help me manage the pack. At the house, they would all be curled up in their respective corners: Venus on the couch facing the television, Bear at the top of the stairs, and Finlay sprawled across the floor in the hallway with a silly smirk upon his face. Here, they scouted opportunities to tangle, bark, and cause mischief, but in bear country I was always grateful for a more-refined set of ears and a hyper-sensitive sniffer.

By the time Thyra arrived, I had examined every inch of the campground map, and noticed the suggestion of Fryingpan Mountain Lookout Tower. Perched upon the ridge off mile marker 409.6, the old Fire Tower was a 70-foot structure sitting 5,340 feet above sea level, built in 1941, and holding the title of the highest tower of its type in Western North Carolina. It had served the National Forest Service until the 1990s, when the increased population, improved technology, and a rise in pollution finally rendered the apparatus obsolete. Once a benchmark of conservation, observation platforms were still an iconic mainstay in forest lore, and a symbol of their protection by the equally quintessential Ranger.

At the turn of the 20th Century, wildfires still consumed entire towns across the United States, and the remedy at the time was to send the fastest rider on horseback to neighboring villages to summon a firefighting workforce. Ironically, the most expedient transport of that force was the locomotive, the steam engines spewing coal ash and igniting sparks along the tracks which only created more fires, catalyzing the catastrophes. Subsequently, modern methods were desired, and prevention and monitoring became an integral part of the solution. Thus the “fire tower,” or “lookout tower” was born on vantage points across the nation.

Originally made from wood, the first steel structure was built around 1909, but delivering the materials presented quite a challenge. Real estate was also a concern, and private property was often utilized for optimal locations. Before phone lines could be laid across the rugged terrain, carrier pigeons were used to send messages to central stations, and Osborne Fire Finders (invented in 1840) were operated to triangulate and determine the position of ignition points and suspicious clouds of smoke. Mirrors were also used for communication via morse code, until telephone and radio options became widely available.

During World War II, towers were repurposed to provide defense support by offering advantageous positions for spotting enemy aircraft. Fire Wardens were not only tasked with preventing infernos, they were responsible for the security of the country’s interior. While lookouts were in their prime from the 1930s to the 1950s, the advances in aviation led to a wane in service, and towers began selling to the highest bidders at auction, often to metal scrappers willing to put in the work to dismantle and haul the structures for a buck. By 1964, only 250 facilities were kept in service, though modern replacements like aerial patrols, infrared sensors, and drones have ultimately proven less effective over time.

One farmer, Pete Clark, purchased the Bramley’s Tower near Delhi, New York, for $50 in 1975, with the intention of rebuilding it on his property. Though he never erected it, he carefully numbered all of the parts, and reassembled most of it in his barn, where it was kept for years in good condition. The State of New York eventually purchased the land around the tower’s original home, and the farmer offered to return it to its rightful place if volunteers were prepared to do the heavy lifting. This was a man who resonated with me; anyone interested in the history of firefighting and forestry surely spoke the same language as I.

“I’m going up there come hell or high water,” I declared, determined to catch the sunrise from Fryingpan Mountain. These were the kinds of commitments one must declare publicly to ensure the goal was met, and Thyra overheard me, so I was dedicated.

By the time we woke at 6am, the silky silver fog was clinging to everything: the truck, the tent, the sleeping bags, and my trusty headlamp. Bear had been shivering throughout the night, and thus shared Thyra’s Wenzel bag. Venus looked up at me from her dog-designated Coleman, and I was reluctant to split my Kelty open. I was hungover to say the least, and every ounce of my being told me to hunker down, until my own “come hell or high water speech” flooded my hazy brain. I was going to do this.

Clamoring from my bed platform, I slipped into my tennis shoes and stretched my legs; this was going to be rough. Why did I insist on drinking twelve? Just because they came packaged that way, didn’t mean I needed to be victorious over their cardboard encasement. My teeth chattered, my muscles tightened, and my head spun as I let out several yawns beyond the chrome bumper of my makeshift home. “This is what you want,” I told myself, letting out a groan as I entered the passenger seat of Thyra’s Tahoe. She wasn’t in the same stubborn frame of mind, and had no intention of reaching the summit, but she graciously offered a lift to the trailhead while wiping the sleep from her eyes.

The access road was guarded by a metal gate, and a couple of cars lined the wayside already, as the damp darkness consumed my body. I didn’t want to be the last one to the party, so I said my goodbyes and took a few elongated strides over the gravel pavement. Each step was more strenuous than the last as I huffed and puffed, determined not to take a break along the trail. My headlamp caught a glimpse of a rotted log, which looked like a black bear cub in passing, causing my heart to race before I did a double-take. Bears were hungry this time of year, their biological clocks being set to EAT for the oncoming hibernation, and their nature became more aggressive as a result.

There were a few times I feared I would cave to exhaustion, but the dancing streams of light from another party’s headlamps encouraged me to continue on. I was not going to forfeit the best spot in town to anyone, so I pressed upward and over meandering drainage creeks trickling down the mountain. Every once in a while, I saw ambient light from the skies above, and assumed I had reached my destination, only to realize the sparse tree line was a recurring symptom this close to the summit. But finally, after the incline receded, the crunching of my shoes came easier and faster, and the silhouette of steel came rapidly into view. My heart pounded less from exhaustion and more from excitement as the pathway narrowed and the staircase drew closer.

The initial flight of steps was a little shaky due to the concrete footing, and I questioned my resolve and decision-making skills as I placed another foot upwards. By the time I got to the first landing, the wind became a steady stream of bitterness, delivering a relentless flow of autumn straight to my core. “Well, hello!” I thought as I turned the corner. Sobriety was now well within my grasp, as the oxygen poured into my lungs and woke up every straggling muscle in my body.

I pressed on step by step, even as the diamond plate platforms buckled and popped beneath my weight, startling me as a reminder that I was inching several stories above the ground. This was not the time to contemplate my fear of heights, as I moved toward the uppermost Southern landing. The sky was illuminated by a boisterous glow — a stalwart force one can set a watch to. When a temporary acolyte emerged and exchanged pleasantries, we determined that the main event was still 20 minutes out.

Entering like an elephant, two red rays burst through the atmosphere and proclaimed the main event had begun. I watched patiently as the orange ball bobbed on the horizon, waking Asheville and the sleepy mountain towns across the landscape. A small songbird dove beyond the platform as free as could be, experiencing liberty through heights I could only dream of. What magic it must be to float above the clouds by merely twitching a feather; the entire world was ripe for the picking.

As the sun became a paintbrush, it splashed red from peak to peak, distorted shadows into shapes, and moved mountains like liquid. The gold came next, with harsh highlights between the flowing rivers of silver clouds around Mother Nature’s spires. It felt like I was on an island, moreover I was perched beside God; I was taller than the tallest mountain, above the tallest tree on the tallest mountain — I was a heavenly spectator from the grandstand of the universe. Every waking moment was under watchful eye and the world began to shrink; it felt like I could just lift my leg and move from Asheville to Brevard, from Weaverville to Canton, and hover my foot over each little holler in between. Suddenly everything made sense: every step, every decision, every moving piece of the puzzle we call life just fell directly into place; we were all connected, eternally.

I watched as the colors changed from fire into water, wondering if the Wardens felt the same over the decades they had spent observing from this very spot. Witnessing the Lord extinguishing a fire of his own volition, I let the waves of blue wash over my head, as I looked around one more time. On the way down, I glanced to my right to see how the tower cropped and framed Mount Pisgah; even the industrial elements of this landscape were gorgeous to me.

The return trip made me feel light on my feet, as the descent was far more pleasant than the climb up. By now, the sunlight was breaking through the tree line, and I was filled with a sensation I recognized almost immediately. Traveling back in time to when I was roughly three-years-old, living in the Northwest corner of Connecticut, I remember being in the car with my sister as we drove along the Housatonic River near Cornwall, seeing the rays shining down between the hills. At that age, everything was new; all I could do was observe and take it all in with the wonder of a child. This morning, I saw the world through that very same lens. I felt like myself again — the self I didn’t know I was missing — and involuntarily smiled as I stepped over the widest of the creeks. This was bliss.

When we arrived back at the campsite, I was eager to try out some new additions to my gear: a Eureka! two-burner stove, a GSI Outdoors drip-coffee maker, and a Stanley camping kettle. I had also spent the prior weeks restoring some cast-iron cookware, which was the reason for me moving away from a single-burner setup. We stoked the fire with the last of our logs, and I worked on our meal: bacon, eggs, and pancakes — my favorite!

The coffee came easy; I boiled water in the kettle and put some fresh grounds in the drip system, and once the liquid funneled into the canister, I had two fresh cups ready to pour. The bacon grease made for non-stick eggs, and a little butter prepared the pan for the instant pancake mix. One thing I have a hard time skimping on nowadays is maple syrup; after making it in Maine and doing all the work from tapping, boiling, and bottling the sappy sweetness, not much else would do. Within 30 minutes we were ready to chow down, and by the time we were done, I had the fuel to start packing up the site. Needless to say I was happy with the new gear, as were the dogs who were swallowing their rations whole.

It’s always a little bittersweet when you have to leave a campsite. Looking forward to a hot shower is an excellent driving factor, but I think the only consolation for me is getting to process and edit the photos I’ve taken from the trip. Being able to look back at what I’ve done and reflect on it through writing seems to immortalize the experience, and draw it out a little longer through the work week. And thus, my story is complete — at least for this chapter — but I cannot wait to get on the road again!