On Boxing Day we took a family excursion up one of my favorite creeks that tumbles out of the Black Mountains. There are about a half dozen significant tributaries that each tumble 3000’ out of the cloud forest at the top of the Blacks to the South Toe River at the bottom of the valley. I’ve explored them all to some extent, although it would take a few more lifetimes to find all the waterfalls that mark each branch of each of those tributaries. The particular creek we chose to ascend last Thursday is one of the larger watersheds and is known locally for its swimming holes and “butt slides” carved from bedrock. In particular I wanted to check out a favorite butt slide a couple miles up the creek. It’s one that I rarely take clients to, partly because an adventurous rock hop is required to access it, and I’ve found that most modern Americans, no matter their self-identified fitness level, are not physically prepared for the challenge of leaving the trail and navigating the slippery rocks of a creekbed. Also, this particular swimming hole feels like a sacred local secret, and I’m careful about exposing special spots like that.
Before we set out, I looked at this useful map of Helene disturbances. It’s based on satellite imagery that illustrates the change in forest canopy after Helene swept through. The map does a pretty good job of showing where blowdowns occurred (mostly yellow or spotty red) and where there were landslides and debris flows (red streaks, usually following waterways). On the map I noticed that a landslide was indicated just above our favorite butt slide swimming hole, so I anticipated there would be change, but I wouldn’t know what that meant until we made it to the spot.
On this outing, we chose to extend the rockhopping component of the expedition since my priority was to see how the creek had changed during the flood. So after hiking the unmarked trail for a couple of miles, we dropped into the creek bed and commenced one of my favorite mountain activities – ascending a creek, boulder by boulder, around crystal clear pools, and up little waterfalls. Nearly every rock had moved during the storm, and a few boulders were perched precariously. At one point there was a thunderous thunk and splash – one of my sons had intentionally dislodged a two-ton boulder from its delicate balance. The storm’s potential energy was still stored in spots, and we continued to help the rocky creekbed find its entropy throughout the day. After a few months of lesser floods and cycles of freezing and thawing, the rocks will eventually settle on their own into their “forever” homes – albeit a somewhat fungible forever.
As we climbed the creek, the boulders were relatively easy to walk on. They’d been scoured – sandblasted even – and the typically smooth surfaces, greased with moss and algae, were uniformly scuffed. We were treading on fresh stone surfaces, newly unearthed, some had never seen the light of day, and some had been covered in mosses and lichens for decades. As we went, I did a mental inventory of the status of each of my favorite swimming holes. I had learned the impermanence of mountainside swimming holes a few years ago when TS Fred rolled a boulder into one of my favorite pools in 2021, making a 10’ deep pool into 4’ one.
The first spot we arrived at used to be an expansive 8’ deep pool next to a giant rock (as sunny as a rock would get on this shady north-facing waterway). This pool had completely filled in, inverted even, so what was once deep clear water is now a pile of river rock and gravel. The next pool we came to is now 50% larger than its previous incarnation. Swimming holes come and swimming holes go. As I hopped up the smooth rocks, I mused over whether an event like Helene would be more likely to make pools or fill them in, or whether the results would be a random mix.
Aside from the instability of some rocks, rockhopping is actually easier now, not just because of the roughened stone surfaces. The creekbed is also significantly wider than it used to be. The tangle of birch, sweet pepper bush, dog hobble and Rhododendron that line the banks has been pushed back a few feet, enlarging the prized open space along the sides of the creek.
These Black Mountains creeks are home to rock gnome lichen (Cetradonia linearis), a member of the very small club of lichens that are federally listed as Endangered. Rock gnomes are so common on these creeks that it is hard to believe they are globally rare. I imagine they are very slow growing, and probably lose a significant percent of population after every devastating flood, yet patches of them hold fast on the leeward side of boulders. These remnant colonies are well positioned to spread back over their former terrain, cleared of other lichen and bryophytic competition. Clearly rock gnomes are well suited for life in this ever changing landscape.
After an hour of enjoying the journey up the creek, we arrived at our destination. The smooth bedrock forming the butt slide was unchanged, a stone sculpture contoured by moving water. Just as beautiful as ever, but now it is only an aesthetic wonder – it’s lost its recreational potential. Two enormous boulders that used to rest in the carved creek bed several yards above the slide had tumbled down to their next geological stopover, hazardously reshaping the butt slide’s swimming hole. We didn’t go in the frigid water to test the depth of the landing spot, but I don’t think anyone will want to risk the thrill of swooping off this slide again, at least not until those boulders resume their epic stop-motion trip down the river.
The butt slide in its former glory:
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