Climbing in the Bible Belt
By David Whalen
I.
The road is immaculate with clean white lines and traffic signs, nary a bullet hole in them. As the sedan glides up the winding roads of the mountain, grand views of the city sitting in the valley can be glimpsed between the infrastructure of the much more fortunate residences.
Despite the Southeastern sunshine, the photosynthetic ambition turns to angst as the parking lot is already full and it’s only 11:00 a.m. After scooting a traffic cone or two, paying the ever increasing entrance fee, and practicing patience for geriatric golf cart drivers, the psyche reinstates itself. As the caffeine starts to kick in, the boulder field behind the 18th hole comes into focus. What should be a gentle jaunt to warm up devolves into dodging brightly colored crash pads bleeding into eroded trails and a sacrilegious display of should-be spotters forsaking the safety of their fellow climber to tinker with their tripods to get the best angle for Instagram.
It’s almost cute, but the number of modest climbers on either side of the bell curve seem disproportionate to the middle majority of materialists shrieking up their first V7. Bellowing, letting it known throughout the field that they have reached ascension, yet their epithets express an eagerness to disembark to an unknown destination…
“Let’s fucking go!”
Kids will be kids and despite the bad footwork, pajama pants, YouTube channels with silly names (and worse “content”), and inflated egos, they are still the future. A future that (hopefully) will mature into something a little more self aware and a little less profane.
The crusty curmudgeon who scours the field, however, brings no potential for prosperity. Past their prime and eager to take any opportunity to appear sage or at the very least, seen. Evangelizing the good ol days and proclaiming by virtue of a green laser pointer which holds within reach are “not allowed” to any unwilling congregation.
There seems hardly a nook or cranny of sanctuary in the narrow strip of curated forest and stone. Privately owned and ramshackled by its recreational users. Fenced in somewhere between young & dumb and faded & jaded, when the idolatrous adolescents amble into the ad hoc ark the partners share a look…
“Let’s fucking go”
II.
The road is rugged, steep and narrow. To risk a sip of coffee could procure major spillage on the only down jacket worthy of winter wear. The discoloration and mystery stains (probably coffee) that pleat the oversized robe paint a postmodern past with little concern for quality control. One attempted sip and unexpected stone in the road later, and the mural continues.
The parking is anywhere the Tundra won’t get stuck (so anywhere) and the approach breaks off at the bleached beer can on the branch. Despite the beacon, the trail is merely a westward walk in scraggly brush. Pristine, manicured trails hardly exist where less than a dozen people trode in a calendar year.
Cliffs in the Southeast are actually a dime a dozen. Acres and acres bought on a whim by some out-of-towner with enough money to spend but no time to tend to their little slice of heaven, sanctuary is little more than four wheel drive away for locals. But the renegade nature of surpassing signs citing “private property” means that this process cannot be proclaimed to the masses, only admired amongst acolytes.
By its very nature, exclusive.
But the rogue players of this game can see themselves as pilgrims in their aspirations. Cherishing the arduous trek to the promised lands where there will always be open projects and filming for online credibility is strictly forbidden. When sworn to secrecy the purpose, in theory, of pursuit should turn introspective and pure. For the sake of [insert virtue here]. These convictions were originally doctrined for conservation but now seem more like hierarchy, hoarding and gatekeeping.
Maybe someone ought to hammer a couple dozen theses onto the church door.
Unlike allegories of oppression and biblical allusions, the legion of posted signs aren't free-associated. They are literal and many. To be caught isn't necessarily to be convicted, depending on the garden one is spotted in, but when there are several unrecognized vehicles and the sound of heavy machinery in Eden, it's best to make an Exodus.
Climbing in the Bible Belt feels like choosing between witnessing the wicked ways of wayward souls skew the essence of outdoor adventure for vanity or joining rank with a secret society of puritans seemingly also for vanity. The Pharisees had power and access, but the Sodomites had more fun, and it's hard to shape climbing as anything other than a vanity project anyways.
There is no divine purpose for climbing, merely an endlessly ascension to exalt.
III.
The roads are paved, or rather, were paved, but the years have not been kind. Freeze-thaw mixed with neglect cracks and expands the asphalt, but there is an art to dodging potholes. Zipping and weaving with the grace of Formula 1 and skill of Mario Kart in a little bug of a car. The only price of admission for this government owned track (ergo massive potholes) is an annual hunting license, although most sojourners don't own a firearm.
The parking is vast and up for interpretation and climbers don’t have to worry about infringing into residential driveways or fear any renegade drives from golfers. Twenty miles from the nearest town with a Walmart, this mountain top is legally the middle of nowhere.
This place hasn't been a secret in almost half a century. The pure sandstone is densely clustered with only 10 minutes of flat trail through undeveloped woodland. Blocks of all shapes, sizes and difficulty with thick iron deposits protruding perfect handholds, of course it would draw a crowd. Being publicly owned (a rarity in the South), individuals couldn't be trusted of their own volition to not fuck it up eventually, so for sustainability's sake, a brazen Coalition stepped in as a guiding light.
Unlike the rogue factions who take their vows of silence, the Coalition welcomes all guilelessly, exchanging access and community for the price of abidance, working a few trail days and a small monetary tithing. Not without their flaws of utilitarian tending, dogmatic demarcations and semi political endeavors, at least erosion hasn't destroyed the trails, there isn't garbage under every boulder and Uncle Sam hasn't shut down the whole damn thing and fracked the mountain yet.
Open air convocations in clusters are offered around rock in proximity to narrow aisles leading to Sancta Sanctorum of ancient sandstone. Solitude is found for the self-excused on the walks and blocks of lesser travel while the classic climbs look like a mosh pit of young disciples, just beginning their peregrination and eager to prove themselves. Either way there's no cellphone signal to hound beta videos online, leaving a forced cohesion amongst the cloister.
These woods are too vast to not be perpetually peaceful and serene, idyllic and nostalgic. Woodpeckers smashing their faces against the tree echo-rhythmically, replacing any sort of motorized sound of an industrialized monotony. Each boulder is a sculpted relic to reflect one's own experience and (hopefully) growth. Simplicity of being secluded, whether alone or in droves, for the purpose of play. One of the few areas left where change throughout the years is found solely in the people, not the place, not the reason for vocation. A refuge from growing pains and the soreness from swimming in the mainstream.
A gentle reminder that maybe we won’t destroy ourselves.
David Whalen is an aspiring writer with a crippling rock climbing addiction. Based in Chattanooga, Tennessee he spends any and all free time outside in search of stories and inspiration.
