The trail now slants off onto the north side of the ridge. Right away the air is somewhat cooler here where part of the day the ridgetop shields it from the sun. The pines quickly disappear, and beeches, yellow birches, maples, and buckeyes form the forest. You New Englanders should now feel quite at home, among these tree species that accompany us all the way across the mountain’s north and east flank. Then, as we approach the 1,500-meter (5,000-foot) level, the dark spires of scattered spruces begin to appear, signaling the nearness of the Smokies’ crowning forest.
But before we make the final ascent, let’s take a short detour to a nearby knob, which promises a spectacular view, a welcome visual release after being shut in so long by foliage. Going up the side of the knob, we quickly leave the forest and begin tunneling through dense thickets of rhododendron and mountain-laurel. Trees don’t grow here at all. On top, the shrubs become smaller and we can look out over them. Perched on the end of a spur from the side of a giant valley, we look up to high ridges on both sides and down to a stream far below. Is it our imagination, or do we really hear that stream whispering to us of the humid, secret world way down there under the big trees? For many minutes we are lost in contemplation of the Smokies’ green-blue spaces.
The crack of thunder suddenly wakens us from our reverie. A bank of clouds, dark underneath and contorted with churning air, is rolling over the ridges and into the head of the valley. The clouds shoot lightning toward the slopes below. Hypnotized by the spectacle we remain rooted to our rocks until the first drops fall, then we pull on our ponchos, determined to greet the storm. Soon the valley view is blotted out by boiling clouds. We and a circle of shrubs, both whipped by rain and wind, are all that exist in the world. Our foolhardiness on this exposed knob is soon revealed as lightning flashes so near that its crackling sound is almost instantaneous. We hurry down the trail, now a small torrent where it tunnels through the rhododendrons, and in a few minutes we reach safer ground. We eat our lunch under sheltering hemlocks. When we sense the end of the storm, we head toward our day’s goal, the top of the Smokies. The deciduous forest rapidly turns into a coniferous one, the beech, birch, maple, buckeye, and others giving way to a nearly solid stand of spruce and fir. This is an enchanted forest. Carpets of mosses and ferns, struggling, as it were, for growing space, make delicate patterns on the forest floor. Limber-stemmed shrubs lift round or toothed leaves to the pale, post-storm light filtering through the thick evergreen foliage of the trees above. Out of the stillness, like the voice of some tiny fairy, comes the tinkling medley of a winter wren. We stop and listen. We watch a drop of water fall from the tip of a fern. We feel the coolness, a coolness born of altitude. We have reached Maine right here in the Smokies.
A short distance beyond, the trail breaks out onto the top of a cliff, opening to us the whole breadth of the mountains. This is our final reward; and as we sit here we see, without knowing it, a summary of our day’s experience. We see landslide scars on the mountainside that probably came during a storm like the one we just experienced, when the earth, heavy with water and lying thinly over the smooth rock beneath, could no longer hang on and slipped in a crashing avalanche down the slope; like the pine beetle, landslides are one of the many natural forces that challenge the forest’s powers of recuperation. Chimney swifts pick insects from the air and we hear the chatter of a red squirrel interrupted in its hunt for cones. Like the shrew, each in its own special way is busy gaining the fuel to stay alive. Each, through its interaction with plants and animals, affects the total fabric of Smokies life. Far below, the trees of a cove forest march up a stream valley; on the slopes above them spreads a mantle of oaks. A narrow ridge far down and off to the right bears the dark green of pines. Nearer, we see the ragged lower edge of the spruce-fir forest, where it fingers into the northern hardwoods below it. But we sense an overall unity because each kind of forest merges into the next, creating an unbroken mantle that lies over all the ridges as far as the eye can see.
There is no true alpine tundra in the Smokies, such as we might find atop certain mountains in New York and New England and atop many mountains in the West. But alpine experiences aplenty await us here for the climbing. They can be had on ridges, peaks, and, even pinnacles, from atop which we gaze out over a forested sea of peaks. It is a rare reminder of the mantle of forest that once lay unbroken over the eastern United States. It is often said that when Europeans first encountered America, a squirrel could walk from the Atlantic Ocean to the Mississippi without touching the ground!
Clouds drift over the mountain waves. Like the clouds of many yesterdays, they have dropped their burden of excess moisture on the forests, maintaining the wetness that encourages the lush plant growth of the Smokies. Then, through a break in the clouds, the sun finally shines, sending renewed charges of energy into the forest and ultimately through all the life of the forest. Much of the pattern of forest types is determined by the way the sun’s rays strike the mountain slopes. Through changes in its daily duration and height in the sky the sun makes the seasons. Through its powers to evaporate ocean water and provide the energy that moves air, it can even be said to bring the rain itself.
Georgia to Maine, Straight Up
A hike from Cades Cove to Clingmans Dome simulates walking from North Georgia to Maine. You will begin in Cades Cove amidst oak and pine forests which also grow in northern Georgia. Your walk will end atop Clingmans Dome in spruce-fir forests characteristic of Maine and Canada. In between you will hike beneath the canopies of oak-hickory-red maple forests that characterize Virginia, and the northern hardwoods of Massachusetts. The reason for this localized insight into the whole of the eastern United States forest types is the vertical rise of the Great Smoky Mountains. The Smokies’ highest peaks stand 1,500 meters (5,000 feet) above its lowlands.
The axiom is this: here in the Smokies, elevation gain simulates a shift to more northerly latitudes. Of course, this is a generalization. On an actual hike from Cades Cove to Clingmans Dome you would have to detour a lot to take in all the variety of eastern U.S. forest types. But all except true alpine tundra are here, although not laid out in a straight line.
In rough attempts to measure the Smokies’ local climates, the rule of thumb is that spring advances up the mountains. At lower elevations, for example, spring beauty blooms by early March. At 1,500 meters (5,000 feet) elevation, however, it may still be in full bloom two to three months later.
Remarkably, the Smokies provide a plant laboratory encompassing most of the eastern U.S. major forest vegetation types. This, and the fact that virgin forests are rare in the East, make it no wonder that the Great Smoky Mountains National Park has been designated an International Biosphere Reserve.
This international recognition of and commitment to preserving the Smokies underscores the park’s wealth of natural history.
You need not be an expert to observe this. Sharp eyes and curiosity will in themselves unfold great portions of this natural history lore for you to ponder.
In the first low reaches of your one-day trip from Georgia to Maine here in the Smokies, crossvine, grapevine, or lady’s-slipper (photo) may be blooming. These flowers, like the Virginia, pitch, and shortleaf pines, cling to the warmest local climates. They also follow the driest slopes and ridges only part way up the mountains. As you gain elevation you quickly leave these species behind.
The contrast between your lowlands trailhead and the 1,800-meter (6,000-foot) summit is amazing. Even the chickadees change en route. The Carolina species holds forth down here in the cove, but gives way to the black-capped chickadee somewhere around 1,500 meters (5,000 feet). The fence lizard is a dry, pine woods creature. Like the Carolina Chickadee, it generally avoids higher elevations.
Each animal and plant drops out at a different limit as you gain altitude, but more than half of your journey will be through deciduous forest, of the cove hardwood type or oak woodland. Smokies forests are rich: there are more tree species here than in all of Northern Europe.
As you travel the lower forests you will probably hear the songs of the ovenbird, wood thrush, and pileated woodpecker, birds you would hear in mature timber throughout the eastern United States. The gray squirrel and the box turtle, both familiar creatures, will be occasional trailside companions in these broad-leaved woodlands.
The basswood tree is considered an “indicator” of the cove hardwood forest type. The magnolias, with their oversize leaves, catch the eye of most people traveling south from, say, Pennsylvania, when they hit the Smokies. Almost a natural “cultural shock,” these trees announce that you have arrived in a different place. Magnificent magnolias appear along the trail, thinning in number and decreasing in size as soon as you leave the cove.
Along streams and on the shaded slopes below 1,220 meters (4,000 feet), look for rosebay rhododendron, yellow buckeye, basswood, yellow-poplar, and other cove hardwood “indicator” species. They signal that you still have a ways to go in your day’s climb.
Rosebay rhododendron
Yellow buckeye
On the cove forest floor in spring you may be lucky enough to spot the great white trillium. It was popular after the Civil War for decorating graves and so has become, in many places, a scarce plant because of this practice. It is protected here in the national park, as are all plants, animals, historic structures, and archeological artifacts. Please respect these—and the right of others who follow you to enjoy them in their natural or historical setting.
The red squirrel’s raucous chatter—you can’t believe such a small creature makes such a big racket—tells you that you are leaving the cove forest. The “boomer,” as it is known locally, will likely announce your presence periodically to the whole forest from here clear to the top of the mountain. Farther north these red squirrels may be called pine squirrels; out west, chickarees. Some would argue over the species involved, but not over the noise they make!
The songs of the winter wren and veery, a thrush, also signal that you have climbed above the cove now. But the northern bird of the mountains that excites us here is the raven. This resourceful bird, often mistaken for the smaller crow, eats anything small enough and drives away anything that’s too big to eat. That’s an exaggeration, but ravens are contemptuous even of hawks aloft in the same windstream.
The spruce trees announce that you have gotten to Maine at last! The blackish coloration of spruce forests reaching here and there down off the crests of the Smokies is conspicuous in all seasons. It is from this coloration of spruce stands that the nearby Black Mountains of North Carolina are named. The spruce-fir forest is a product of winter cold and summer rain in such a combination that prevents their invasion by deciduous trees just down-slope.