It all started on a family vacation when I was about 15 years old and fascinated by an empty and remote exit ramp off Interstate 40 in the middle of North Carolina mountains.

It almost ended this past Tuesday when my Sport Utility Vehicle very nearly became an Unmanned Space Vehicle due to the absence of roadside guardrails- or a road in general. I had proved a map wrong but the effect on my mental health and overall physical condition was probably not worth the time or trouble.

Our adventure of the week is a long-awaited exploration of the Pisgah National Forest Hot Springs unit that forms the northern border of Great Smoky Mountains National Park. This rugged and largely roadless area has inspired my imagination for years and I finally saved up enough moxie to mount a short solo expedition into the region.

After the eight-hour drive to Waynesville, North Carolina, I jumped off the interstate and headed north on winding scenic route NC209.

My first stop was the tiny village of Hot Springs, North Carolina, on the banks of the French Broad River. The town is famous for its namesake hot springs and the fact that the Appalachian Trail goes right down the main street.

After looking around and buying maps at the Hot Springs district ranger office, my next stop was the nearby Rocky Bluff Campground, a forest service site called “one of the best kept secrets in the national forests in North Carolina” by the forest service employee who wrote the brochure.

As it turned out, the pamphlet was correct. The small, well-maintained campground was largely unpopulated and a bargain at $8 per night. As is typical with Yours Truly, it began sprinkling just as I finished dinner. The next morning I finally emerged from my tent after an all-night rain. Surrounded by well-scrubbed woods in the moist predawn, I began to fix my standard camping breakfast of instant oatmeal and coffee.

Among the other freeze-dried goodies I had included a stash of almond biscotti for dipping into the morning coffee as a pretentious expression of my good taste while living wild. Unfortunately the effect was ruined after I discovered that sugar and salt are nearly identical in appearance when stored in a small plastic bottle. Fortunately it only took two pots of my precious dwindling supply of coffee to finally ascertain why the beverage tasted like brake fluid.

After gargling with the remaining  java I headed out for Max Patch Bald, a grassy 4500’ mountaintop unlike the typically forested summits of most eastern mountains. The mountain had been cleared by early settlers and is still maintained in that condition by the forest service, making for spectacular views. It was cloud covered while I was there.

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The tough part of hiking at Max Patch is finding the parking lot. Fortunately the forest service has done a good job in placing signs throughout the region otherwise I might still be lost among the deep coves and (QUOTE)hollers(QUOTE) of the area. For those exploring Pisgah NF, even by car, a good map is almost a necessity due to the very winding nature of the roads

Leaving Max Patch, I made my way to the Harmon Den area. This section of the Pisgah contains several picnic areas, roadside camping spots, trout streams, horse camps and many hiking trails. After checking out all the facilities, I headed down Harmon Den road and emerged at that lonely interchange that had struck my fancy so many years before.

There, I found the road actually continued under the interstate and across the Pigeon River, becoming Forest Road 288 as it entered an even more remote area. My various maps disagreed as to whether the road stopped or actually continued on to the national park boundary.

Feeling adventurous and full of vinegar, I crossed the river.

About five miles later, with rhododendron leaves slapping against the windows, I found myself wrestling the truck down a muddy snake path that appeared ready to slide off the side of the Sutton mountain at any moment.

It was obvious to anyone with half a brain that that now was the time to turn back.

Ten miles and one hour later I emerged, grateful to be alive, at the National Park. Stopping in the middle of the deserted road, I bailed a couple of gallons of cold sweat from the floorboards and inspected the damage to our previously shiny Ford with less than 2000 miles on the odometer.

The SUV appeared largely unharmed, as the thick mud coating had absorbed most of the impact from flailing tree branches and the occasional minor landslide. Satisfied that I could also remain largely unharmed upon returning home, I turned left and headed toward the park.

Emerging from the primeval wilderness, I turned onto the graveled national park road and laughed at the warning signs about the condition of the coming roadway. After what I had experienced the previous hour, such warnings were like worrying about rain showers after falling in a lake.

My destination was the Cataloochee valley, widely considered the most isolated part of the park. I was interested to see how remote the area truly was in a park that receives almost 10 million visitors per year.

Before arriving in the valley, I stopped along the deserted the road and geared up to fish Cataloochee creek, a medium-sized stream well known for its trout populations. The stream is unique because the entire watershed is wilderness aside from the small campground and ranger station at Cataloochee

My wading boots sported a brand-new set of carpeted soles, made from a remnant of floor covering and contact cement, based upon the idea is that carpet clings to slippery rocks better than even lug boot soles. As I eased into the water, I found that the new soles performed better than hoped, making it easy to tread across the moss-covered cobbles of the streambed.

Since the column is running too long, I will be forced to omit the detailed description of how I quickly managed to fool a wily and wild brown trout on a dry fly. Suffice it to say that within minutes of my arrival, I was feeling like a major fishing stud.

Totally on my own, I had traveled a rough path to a remote stream in the mountains and caught one of the more challenging species of trout on a dry fly. It was apparent that I am indeed the consummate outdoorsman, ready for any challenge.

Less than two minutes later the consummate outdoorsman had a small problem. I noticed that a small section of carpet was flapping loosely in the current when, without warning, I suddenly found myself having intimate relations with several large rocks. Fortunately, the result was only a sprained ankle and lacerated thumb but the means by which pure water could dissolve an expensive industrial solvent remains a mystery.

Back at the car, I dressed my wounds, changed clothes and headed on toward the Cataloochee campground where I found the area to be very peaceful and largely empty. After a brief combat nap, I ate dinner and then drove up the valley to see the star attraction of the valley: free-roaming elk.

The National Park Service and several other organizations have worked together over the past several years to successfully reintroduce elk into the park. In the large meadow along the road, I found many of the huge animals grazing succulent grass in the setting sun.

The elk went about their business, seemingly oblivious the few vehicles pulled over along the road. The boss elk worked to corral his harem of cows while periodically challenging the young males with his blaring, bugle-like call. The sound could be heard all the way to the campground, echoing among the surrounding hills and speaking to the soul of elk and outdoorsmen within earshot.

The next morning I went fishing again, this time staying closer to the main road to facilitate any necessary rescue. The fishing turned out to be lousy but I suffered only a shattered left elbow after the scheduled morning tumble so the trip was fairly successful.

Back at camp, using my good arm, I packed my tent and rapidly diminishing optimism to head for my next destination: Clingman’s Dome, at 6643 feet the second-highest mountain in the eastern United States.

This attraction is a destination for many park visitors and I certainly wasn’t alone while hiking up the paved but very steep ½-mile trail to the summit observation tower. I was clad in dirty hiking clothes and carried a small daypack containing foul weather gear as a cold wind blew up the ridge, causing many of my fellow hikers to shiver in their t-shirts, Bermuda shorts and high-heels. One clueless man was even struggling with a baby stroller.

On top, I surveyed the mass of citified humanity as creeping smugness again filled my heart. After a swig of lukewarm lemonade from the water bottle, I fixed my steely gaze toward the horizon. I looked good, the embodiment of the rugged lone hiker, one man against the elements, surveying his kingdom from a lofty, hard-earned perch.

I suppose the effect would have been better if anyone had seen me. Did I mention the cloud base was at 5000 feet?