Poteat
One of the many flat and easy sections on the Table Rock Climbers Trail.
The lunch view from the summit of Little Table Rock as the Linville Gorge winds to the north and Roan Mountain looms in the distance.
Table Rock as viewed from a Forest Service road in Burke County.
For Burke County folks, Table Rock Mountain is embedded deeply in our DNA.
We don’t remember the first time we saw it. We can’t recall when first we learned its name. The mountain is simply there, as eternal as the seasons, as unchanging as the stars.
Table Rock, at 3,940 feet, is not the tallest mountain in Burke County. Its neighbor, Hawksbill tops out at more than 4,000, as do other peaks in the same ridge such as Sitting Bear and Gingercake.
None of them, however, possess that distinctive silhouette that first earned it the name Table Rock.
Table Rock wasn’t visible from my house when I was growing up. The house was set too low and the towering trees around it obscured the northwest horizon.
But from the top of the hill, as I was headed home after finishing my paper route, Table Rock waved “hello” each afternoon as I began my final descent toward home and supper and family.
***
The first time I climbed Table Rock was in the autumn of 1965 with members of my Sunday School class from Drexel First Baptist. I was 10 years old.
I have no memory of the drive to the parking area. No recollection of the climb to the summit.
What I do remember is the view. The familiar shape of Grandfather Mountain in the near distance. Roan Mountain and its distinctive balds at the edge of the horizon. Hawksbill in one direction, Shortoff in another. And directly below, the sheer depth and majesty of the Linville Gorge.
Turn around and there stood the South Mountains, including familiar friends such as High Peak, Mineral Springs, and Burkemont. Visible too was the broad expanse of the Piedmont, rolling away to the south and east.
My teacher, a kindly and gentle man named Mr. Clark, did not know it, and my 10-year-old self could not have expressed it, but standing atop Table Rock on that autumn morning awakened in me a love for the outdoors, for the mountains, and for hiking that has only grown stronger over the following 61 years.
***
When my brother Johnny proposed that he and I climb Table Rock last Monday, my answer was an enthusiastic “Yes!”
I’m easing back into hiking after an extended layoff, and I knew the trek would be a challenging but doable out and back of about 4 miles. Plus, Monday was predicted to be a perfect late autumn day with clear skies, warm temperatures, and the promise of some autumn color still clinging to the hardwoods.
We arrived at the Spence Ridge parking area on Table Rock Road just before 10 a.m. and quickly set out on the Table Rock Gap Trail, a flat and beautiful .40-mile connector that leads to the Mountains to the Sea Trail.
Turning onto the MST, we climbed gently at first, then more steeply toward the summit of Table Rock which towered above us. Open views through the trees, which were still bright with color, showed Hawksbill rising to the north and the rocky cliffs of Linville Gorge to the west.
Absolutely beautiful, absolutely perfect.
***
After half a mile or so of relatively easy climb, the MST grows sharply steeper, far rockier, and filled with roots of every size and shape. The pace slows, the heart rate accelerates, each step has to be chosen with care.
We were nearing the junction with the Table Rock Summit Trail and were less than half a mile from the top when Johnny proposed a “slight” change of plan. Indicating an unmarked and unnamed whisper of a trail heading up the rocks, he said, “Let’s go this way.”
“This way,” he explained, was the Table Rock Climbers Trail that circles the base of the high cliffs that mark the mountain’s summit.
How far? I asked.
“Maybe half a mile.”
How rough?
“Mostly flat.”
Why?
“You get to see a part of the mountain you’d never see otherwise,” was his response. “It’s the trail climbers use to access the rock faces.”
My brother is famous for proposing alternate routes. A shortcut here. A better way there. A view that can’t be missed. These alternates, of which there have been many over the past 45 years, invariably lead to ungodly climbs, unimaginable descents, creek crossings, bushwhackings, scrambling, bleeding hands, wet feet.
These alternate routes, also invariably, lead to me sulling, pouting, cursing my brother with the vocabulary of a sailor, and occasionally, me bursting into tears.
Monday provided me with the opportunity to do all of the above.
Weren’t nothing about that trail flat. The ups were challenging. The downs were potentially deadly. Up followed down and down followed up until my pulse rate soared to 159 and legs were literally trembling with exhaustion.
Every step brought a test of balance. Every move was a full-body workout. Had my hiking stick broken at any of a score of instances when I was depending on it to hold me in place, I would have tumbled to my doom and never been seen again.
Several times I had no choice but to get on my behind and scoot down rock faces. Had I been armed, gunplay would have ensued.
“Less than half a mile” turned out to be well over a mile. But the trail was so rough that time and distance and space lost all meaning. I became a jungle animal for whom survival was the only goal.
It was by no means assured, and there were moments when I would have bet against it.
But, we made it. A 75-year-old who should have known better and a 71-year-old who most emphatically did.
***
No way I could face the rest of that climb to the summit. I was spent. Exhausted. Done for. Whipped.
Instead, we ate a late lunch atop the summit of Little Table Rock. Quiet. Beautiful views of the Gorge and of the Roan. Rest against a tree.
Eventually, my heart rate fell back below 100. I was literally too tired to eat, having lost all hint of appetite despite the demands of the morning. But, with a rough two miles ahead of us in returning to the parking area, I forced down a peanut butter sandwich.
And yet as we made that descent, even though my legs were aching and I felt very near the limit of my physical resources, I also swelled with an energy and with a joy that I had not felt in a long time.
I was tired. Good Lord, was I tired. But somewhere along that rocky trail, between the aching muscles and the labored breathing, I realized something wonderful.
The boy who first stood atop Table Rock in 1965 was still in there somewhere. Still captivated by the mountains. Still exhilarated by the views. Still grateful for the opportunity to be out there.
The years have taken a toll on my legs, my stamina, and perhaps my judgment in agreeing to follow my brother down unnamed trails. But they haven’t diminished the joy. Not one bit.
And as we finally made our way back to the parking area, I knew that Monday had been one of those days I would remember for a very long time.
Some things, it seems, never get old. Not Table Rock. Not the mountains. And certainly not the pleasure of being out there in the perfect environment on a perfect day.
