Mr. Write's Page

Beautiful Country

Rabun County, Georgia, is a hiker’s paradise. I love the place. I’ve been going there for years.

I’ve hiked nearly all of the trails, many of them numerous times. I’ve also blazed my share of informal trails, if I count the times I got lost and had to bushwhack my way out.

One characteristic of a good hike is a payoff, such as a waterfall, an overlook, or a river. For that reason, some of the best trails in Rabun lead down to the Chattooga River.

As a National Wild and Scenic River, the Chattooga is protected along both banks by a half-mile-wide zone where roads and development are not allowed.

Furthermore, the zone itself is not easily accessible. It is located deep in the rugged woods, far from everything.

Only one paved road, U.S. 76, crosses the Chattooga. Only a handful of remote and primitive dirt roads work their way down to the boundary of the river corridor. It is wild country, indeed.

The most popular trailheads along the corridor are at the end of the shorter and better-maintained dirt roads. Even those are not heavily used. A person might find one or two other vehicles at the turnaround, but usually no more than that.

Some  of the forest roads, however, wind deep into the hills, and they make for a long and bumpy ride. At the end of those, you are almost certain to be alone.

I remember one particular hike, I think in 2002, from one of those remote trailheads.

Actually, I barely remember the hike itself. But the memory of the day is chiseled into my brain nevertheless.

That morning, I loaded my gear and my dog Kelly into my trusty Geo Tracker, and we drove north on U.S. 441. Just across the Rabun County line, past Talullah Gorge, we turned right onto Camp Creek Road.

That road quickly becomes a forest road with numerous branches leading into the wild in all directions. My destination was a spur I had scouted on the map. It would give me access to a new stretch of the Chattooga.

As expected, the drive was long and rough. In one spot, a deep rut in the road, dug by tires spinning in the red clay after a rain, almost blocked my path. I needed the four-wheel drive to get past it.

In late morning, I parked at the turnaround, a sizable field of dry grass. The river corridor was marked by the usual metal emblems, but no trail signs were present. All I saw were three openings in the undergrowth, which I assumed correctly were footpaths.

One path led west, the wrong way. Another led north, angling away from the river corridor. The third led east, the proper direction. Kelly and I set out down the third trail.

Again, I don’t remember the hike. I’ve probably seen the Chattooga 50 times at various points along its banks, but I have no memory that day. I hope we had a nice hike.

Sometime in mid-afternoon, Kelly and I arrived back at the trailhead. As I emerged from the woods, I saw a truck parked behind the Tracker. In a field of several acres, the truck was blocking my car.

Standing next to the truck was a bald man whittling on a stick. Nearby, leaning against the door of my Tracker was a tall fellow with a beard. They both looked in my direction.

The two were tanned and lean, about age 40. They wore ordinary clothes, not hiking gear, and were hatless. A Rabun County license plate was on the truck.

The plate on my Tracker identified me as a guy from Walton County, down Atlanta way. Neither man smiled.

I knew I was in trouble, and why. True, this was the land of Deliverance, but that wasn’t my problem. These guys were pot farmers. They had a marijuana crop growing nearby, and they were waiting to find out what I was doing there.

“Hi, guys,” I said cheerily.

“Howdy.” said the man leaning on my car. “Been hikin‘ today?”

“Yeah, me and the dog went down to the river. Beautiful country,” I said.

Still leaning, the bearded man said, “You came all the way out here to see the river? There’s easier places to see the river.”

I wondered if this was my day of reckoning. I wondered if they would shoot me, dump my wretched corpse in some ravine, and take my dog home to their kids. It was their choice, not mine.

“Yeah, this is my first time here,” I said. “It looked interesting on the map, but it was a lot of trouble to get back in here. I ain’t likely to do it again.”

The other man stopped his whittling and threw away the stick. He folded his knife, put it back in its sheath, and walked toward the truck.

“Beautiful country up here,” the bearded man said, finally rising from the Tracker’s door. “Lived here all my life.”

He followed his friend to the truck and got behind the wheel. The whittler got in the passenger side. The driver cranked up the engine and turned his gaze in my direction.

“Beautiful country,” he said, his eyes locked on mine. “But like I say, there’s easier places to see the river.”

“Well, I’ve seen this part of the river now,” I told him. “No need to do it again.”

“Mind that rut goin’ out,” he said, and they drove away.