Instead of taking the faster Interstate route I meandered my way along the southern end of the Blue Ridge Parkway to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. As I had been told, it was dramatic and beautiful and definitely worth the longer drive. 
It’s been interesting to experience the different permutations of mountains I’ve traveled through. Those in the north were rolling and seemed more worn down; each mountain led naturally to the next, with soft valleys between. These were rugged and stark, darker and more mysterious, with sheer raw rock faces and deep ravines. The roads wound around the edges, twisting sharply to match the steep terrain, going steadily up, higher and higher.
Halfway through the park I saw a turnoff for Clingman’s Dome and its observation platform. The name intrigued me and echoed with some long-forgotten bit of geological memory. On an impulse, I turned onto the drive to the visitor center. Based on no information, I anticipated a short drive, but the road coiled up and up, each curve leading to yet more road. Surprisingly, there was quite a bit of traffic. After a good bit of this, I began to question my choice, but I figured, “it can’t be much farther” and kept on.
I offer this as a prime example of escalation of commitment – a human behavior pattern in which, despite increasingly negative outcomes of a decision, the same behavior is continued. I slipped into a series of almosts – I must be almost there - I’ll reach the ranger station around this next curve. Well, no, but likely just beyond that next one. Nope, but it will have to be very soon. Should I turn around at one of the lookouts? After all, it’s still a good drive to Knoxville. Nah, it’ll probably be just ahead. Well, no, not there either.
Before long, I had invested more time and effort than I was willing to waste on a trip to nowhere. The adage about when you find yourself in a hole you should stopped digging crossed my mind, but hope and stubbornness drove me on.
In fact it was only seven miles – but 35 miles an hour was pretty much top speed, so it took longer than I expected. Eventually I arrived at the visitor station and a very full parking area. Clearly I wasn’t the only one who had made their way there and the breathtaking view of the the mountains and valleys fading off into the distance made it worth the journey.
Okay, I’m here, I thought. Where’s this observation platform? Ach, it’s only a half-mile walk and the path is wide and paved and everyone else is going there, so I will, too. There were signs pointing out that we were at 6,000 feet, on the highest peak of the Smokies, in Tennessee, along the 2,174 mile-long Appalachian Trail and, in fact this was the third highest mountain east of the Mississippi (the others only beating it by about 50 feet.) The suggestion was made that the air was thin, so one should use one’s judgment before embarking. Lacking good judgment, I figured that half a mile was not that far, so how strenuous could it be?
In retrospect, I might have decided otherwise, but at the time I wasn’t aware that this involved another 330 foot rise, essentially scaling a 33 story building at a gradient of 13%. Plus another 45 feet to the top of the tower. Knowledge, it has been said, can be a dangerous thing, but ignorance is no protection, so off I went, noting that though quite walkable, the path was steep and was analogous to the road: winding and seemingly interminable. I’ll just go around that bend and see if I’m any closer. Well, all I can see is another bend, but I’ve come this far already, might as well keep going. Sure seems longer than half a mile. Before long the term “sunk costs” popped into my head, unbidden. What did that mean? Oh, yes … an investment already made and unrecoverable which therefore shouldn’t be part of the decision-making process. Damn, I should have been an economist.
I also noted that it was a bright, sunny day … and there was little shade along the path … and a mile less atmosphere between me and the sun … and I hadn’t thought to bring a hat or sun block. Just proves that you don’t necessarily get smarter as you get older. I remembered a long walk around Hong Kong under similar circumstances which resulting in a wicked sunburn – first I was red as a tomato and soon was peeling like a bad coat of paint. Was I being tenacious or obstinate? Was it really worth it? I should do a risk/benefit analysis. Well, maybe just a little farther.
Mindful of the hazards, I decided to gamble, but more cautiously and took advantage of the occasional patch of shade. I eventually reached the observation deck. Yay, me. I rested and took in the amazing panoramic view of the Smokies in all directions, said to be up to 100 miles on a clear day … and it was pretty clear. Yeah, it was worth it. After a while I hotfooted it down the path to my air-conditioned car and drove on to Knoxville, arriving in the late afternoon. I felt a little warm, but had managed to not get toasted. Well, maybe except for just a little bit on the back of my neck – uncomfortable for the evening, but essentially resolved by the next day. I slept well that night.
Some sad notes:
The paved path and trails were apparently well-shaded at one time, but by the 60’s the high level of acid rain had taken a heavy toll on the higher forest. Also, once on the observation platform it is easy to see that there are scattered skeletons of tall, once-dramatic trees throughout the high-mountain spruce-fir forest. It turns out that these are the remains of Fraser fir, which occur naturally only in the southern Appalachians and used to be the dominant tree at the highest elevations. The villain? The nasty little wooly adelgid, well known to those of us with hemlocks on our property. They continue to spread north and are a threat to both the beauty of our own forests and the forestry industry in all of New England.
