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Publisher’s note: I wrote this column after taking a vacation in Cherokee County in 2000, when I was executive editor of the Lake City (Fla.) Reporter. Not much has changed since then, which in this case is a good thing. Reprinted by my express written permission.
It stands about 25 feet above the water, jutting out from the side of a mountain just enough for a few people to stand and admire the view over Lake Hiwassee. It is called Alabama Rock, although it’s actually somewhere between the rural red clay communities of Hanging Dog and Grape Creek in western North Carolina, the place where I could easily have died – twice – 18 years ago.
Why go back now, especially with my 15-year-old son, Ian, in tow? Psychologists often say it’s good to face one’s fears, to stare them down like boxers do during pre-fight rituals in a cheesy attempt to intimidate one another. My motivation was much purer and simpler: Why not?
Getting there is no easy task. First, you must manage Joe Brown Highway, a twisting mountain road where passengers eat Dramamine like candy and taking a sharp turn at 35 mph can seem like a dance with the Grim Reaper. In 1982, my friend “Crazy Mike” and I were coming home from a typical Saturday night (actually way too early Sunday morning) when I rather unwisely decided to do a bad Richard Petty impersonation.
We ended up going backward off a cliff at about 90 mph. My boat of a 1970 Monte Carlo was totaled, but its bulk absorbed the blows that should have sent us to Nut Shook’s junkyard in the sky. As it was, my worst injury was the headache I developed incurring the Wrath of Mom.
Second, you must turned at the sign marked “CEMETERY” and climb a 45-degree gravel road to the top of a tall hill. Before you reach the tombstones, there is a thin trail leading down to the lake, a majestic blue-green creation that weaves in and around the Nantahala National Forest, an undeveloped outdoors amusement park of sorts.
A week ago today, Mike and I returned to Alabama Rock for the first time since 1982. The water level had dropped dangerously low back then, but since we had been diving off of bridges and into mine pits and everywhere else that summer, it didn’t seem like a big deal. After all, when you’re 16, you think you’re indestructible.
As is usually the case, Mike went first, leaping from Alabama Rock without hesitation, his hands splitting the water before him. A second later, he came up with a gasp; he had actually touched the rocky bottom, something none of us had ever done before. The fear was real, but the challenge was more enticing. I had to give it a try.
I dove, of course; jumping in feet first would have been too wimpy. But while Mike went in at an angle, my tall frame entered the water straight up. My head hit the lake bottom before may feet even got wet.
Dazed, I vaguely remember choking for breath as Mike grabbed my neck and pulled me to shore, where I experienced the joy of my second migraine. Only years later, when a young boy was paralyzed after diving in from a nearby bridge, did I realize how close I had come to being seriously hurt.
God looks after drunks and fools, as my Grandma likes to say. On that day we were sober, but we still made fun of “Gung-ho Gordon” (we still don’t know how he got that name) for refusing to tame Alabama Rock after me.
Fast-forward to last week, when we returned to the scene of the headache after splashing around with younger kids in an icy mountain stream of Unaka. I had forgotten the way, but once we got on the trail everything came back to me in waves. Stepping on the Rock was liking taking a step back in the day, when we were a few sizes smaller and a lot more carefree. Ian, now the same age that I was the first time I set foot in Lake Hiwassee, became an old friend instead of just my teenage son.
The weather was perfect, the water an ideal temperature. Showing the wisdom of our years, Mike walked to the lake first and swam around to make sure it was deep enough. The bottom couldn’t be found, and about 12 feet under it turned into an icebox. The time was right. He dove in with a whoop.
My son ventured to the edge. After a moment’s thought, Ian leapt, smacking the water with a resounding splash. He quickly came to the surface, yelling, “That’s the coolest thing I’ve ever done in my life!” Such moments are the kind dads live for.
To be truthful, I wasn’t in the mood for swimming, and the memory of long ago was still haunting me a bit, but the temptation proved too irresistible. I removed the 57 items from my pockets, pulled off my shirt and sneakers, then crept down to the corner of Alabama Rock, being extra careful not to slip. As my friend Dean said, if it wasn’t at least a little scary, it wouldn’t be nearly as much fun.
There at last, I contemplated life, with all of its ups and downs, good times and bad, being young and getting old. I thought of how my wife would be upset with me for letting one of our children jump from something this high, then regretted that she missed it. I thought of how much responsibility and work I had waiting for me in the real world after my vacation was over, and how with one leap forward all of that would melt into nothing.
Then I felt the wind rushing by. I felt the water greet me with goosebumps. I felt unbridled joy. I couldn’t have felt more alive.
David Brown is publisher of the Cherokee Scout. You can reach him by phone, 828-837-5122; email, dbrown@cherokeescout.com; or on Twitter @daviddBstroh.