Yesterday afternoon I took an excursion to Great Smoky Mountains National Park to catch the fall foliage. It was a good day for such a jaunt: it was sunny a majority of the day, the temperature was seasonable, and the traffic wasn't too bad.

I know there's a nostalgic human tendency to romanticize memories of childhood sights and sounds, and I'm trying to make this comparison accordingly. But it sure seems to me that autumn colors in the late 70's and 80's were generally more iridescent and vivid than they have been the past several years. This season it appears many of the leaves are simply drying up and blowing off without much of a visual change. Sure, there are scattered trees garnished with muted fall highlights, but very few of them are ablaze in brilliant color.

The highlight of the trip was a hike up Chimney Tops, one of the park's more popular hiking destinations. Although I've done that trail several times, it's probably been eight years since my last trip. Moreover, yesterday was the first time I've made the trek in the fall. So the hike had a unique feel to it.

The walk up the mountain was a bit taxing, but the atmosphere was quite relaxing. The ridge sheltered the path from the winds, so the woods stood undisturbed. Only the occasional passing hiker and squawking squirrel interrupted the serene silence.

That all changed at the top of the mountain. Even before I reached the crest, I could hear the breeze rustling through a thousand trees. The trail briefly follows the wooded ridge. Then suddenly, rising up in front of you, looms the rocky bald spire of the Chimney Tops.

I initially attempted to climb directly up the inclined, rocky face of the first pinnacle, as I recall doing a number of years ago. But half way up I determined that might not be the easiest route. I stopped to catch my breath and have a look around. I was wearing a tee shirt at the time, and the steady, chilled wind convinced me it was time to break my packed sweatshirt.

After further examining the nearby rock surface, I concluded that it probably wouldn't be difficult for a properly equipped rock climber to continue my present course. But since neither condition held true for me, I backtracked the 50 feet I had climbed and followed a little path which skirted to the right of the rock facade. This lead to a smaller rock face which was much more manageable to climb--it had footholds to grab.

In no time I reached the top. The sign at the trailhead which reads, "The view is worth the climb," is no exaggeration--it is. From the summit one has an unobstructed, 360-degree panoramic view of the valley deep below and the surrounding mountains. The east and southern views are dominated by a single mountain wall. To the west and north, one can see multiple ranges of mountains. And if you look closely through one gap you can see into the distant lowlands of the Tennessee Valley.

Almost directly below you could see cars creeping along Highway 441. Since many leaves had already fallen, you can see more of the road than during the summer. It's notable how slow vehicles appeared to be traveling. But that's exactly the feeling that these awesome ageless peaks evoke; they reduce human significance and accomplishment to a negligible level.

Far overhead circled a small flock of birds. They must have been 1,000 or 2,000 feet above my 4,700 foot elevation. I'm not sure why they fly so high, but they must be one hell of a view up there.

I waited on a protruding rock for at least ten minutes, hoping for the sun to break through the overhead clouds. Its warmth rays would certainly have been welcome, but the primary reason I wanted was so I could get a better picture of the rocks forming the neighboring chimney. The clouds teased me several times, thinning enough so I could make out the sun's location, but they refused to part. At one point the mountain to the east was almost completely bathed in sunlight. But it didn't reach me. And judging from the movement of the clouds, I calculated it would be while before the sun would illuminate on my perch.

By now the chill was starting to get to me. My nose had been running for some time. I noticed that if I blew at just the right angle, I could see my breath. A quick watch check revealed it was time to be moving on, so I reluctantly left my vantage point and climbed down the rocks.

As you might expect, the trip descending the path much quicker than the one up. My party had already headed down the mountain, so I decided to shorten my time even further by jogging, as the rocky path allowed. I was proud of myself for making the two mile descent in just over 30 minutes (counting two photo stops), but today my leg muscles argue running might not have been that great of an idea.

The past several years, I've intentionally avoid going through Pigeon Forge. But on the way home curiosity prompted me to return by that route, since I hadn't driven it in a couple years. What a touristy mess! For those who haven't been there in the past 15 years, the town primarily consists of a several mile strip where the highway is lined with a solid mass of motels, restaurants, manufacturer outlets, antique shops, amusement outfits, and music theaters. Thankfully, I don't have to travel that stretch on a regular basis, for at its worst that traffic might unravel me.

I returned to the familiar road construction barrels of Knoxville just as the sun slipped behind the horizon. Traffic pressed my rear as I slowed at the construction site speed zone. The hurried city interstate traffic had a distinctively different feel than the park sight-seers and the leisurely tourist flow of Pigeon Forge. After a short, autumn mountain retreat, I had arrived back in the hurried friction of urban America.