Mark Millican: Dodging the ‘laurel hells’

Published 11:00 am Tuesday, March 4, 2025

After getting our backpacks out of the van atop Grassy Mountain, we laid a map on the ground to plot our course to Beech Bottoms and its rambunctious Jacks River Falls. “We” were eight teenagers led by an older teen, myself. It wasn’t the first time I’d hiked through rugged terrain without a trail, thanks to my old scoutmaster, Jack Rowland. He’d even taught us how to orient a map to true north using a compass, which is what I showed the group of 13- to 15-year-olds. I was 19.

Little did I know as our van driver left us in the summer of 1974 that the map plotting included a 30-hour trip through hell, so to speak, that included extreme up-and-down trekking on the flanks of the Cohutta Wilderness, rebellious muscles and spirits in my young charges, and accusations of mis-leadership toward yours truly. (It’s all recounted in a wild, but true, story in my outdoors book.)

And yet I still love maps. In fact, I had one laminated recently. It’s the plat of a new development in my soil erosion inspection work, which I lovingly call The Beast. That’s because it’s an uphill beast to walk, and takes my measure on a weekly basis. After trying to drive my two-wheel drive Ranger up it once and getting stuck, I just decided to hoof it going forward. When the roads get paved, it will be much easier.

The first time I ventured into the wild portion of the site to scrutinize some silt fences, I learned anew about “topo” (topographical) maps. The squiggly lines on the map curve around to depict draws and eventually mountaintops, and when they run close together it means steepness of terrain.

I found a wide trail near an unpaved cul-de-sac, figuring it was how the silt fence installation crew got down to the draw with their tracked entrenching machine. Walking down the mountain a ways, I came upon the dual rows of “Type C” silt fence, which means it has a steel mesh backing in squares to reinforce the fence against a downhill onslaught of red clay mud sometimes caused by construction.

After looking around a bit, I spied the silt fence on the other side of the draw where it had looped around near the head of a ravine. Should I walk down and up to get to the other section? Noticing all the downed trees in the way, whether from a windstorm or just over time, a decision was made to just walk around that way on the inside of the fences (they’re about 4 feet apart), even though their curvature also went up and down at times.

On the other side, I looked up to where the map told me there would be a road constructed. However, there were laurel trees growing together so dense it’s what the old-timers called a “laurel hell” when you tried to navigate through them. According to an Artificial Intelligence overview, a laurel hell refers to a “dense, impenetrable thicket of mountain laurel (Kalmia latifolia) or rhododendron shrubs found in the Southern Appalachian Mountains. These thickets are so dense … that they are nearly impossible to traverse, earning them the name ‘hell’ due to their challenging nature.”

So I dodged the laurel hell and kept walking, finding another way up to the road. Still, I hadn’t made it to the top of the mountain, where because of the scenic views it’s likely where the first fashionable homes will be built. Again glancing at the map, I noticed how far out of the way I’d have to go to get to that upper road. I looked up the mountainside and saw a small green utility box that workmen had recently installed. The only thing was, the 50 yards to that box were through very close (steep) lines on the map. But hey, nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?

Even though I no longer finish concrete for a living (thank you, Lord!), I still wear the boots of the trade — knee high, thick rubber and chunky lug soles. Since my job involves inspecting land-disturbing activity, known as LDA in the trade, that means it’s often muddy. As I began to walk uphill on the edges of the lug soles for grip, it was noticed nonetheless that underneath the dried leaves and pine needles it was slippery from a recent rain. So there was some sliding backward.

Some laurel trees had been noticed between my position and that guide star utility box. Be that as it may, they were more like “laurel hecks” rather than hells. Although my breathing was only slightly labored starting out, it increased exponentially with each upward step. Eventually, a couple of stops had to be made where I leaned back against trees to allow my pounding heart to slip back into my chest.

Then wouldn’t you know it? When I finally reached the utility box, it was actually on the edge of the uppermost cul-de-sac. I had literally climbed the mountain and could complete my inspection. But not yet.

Looking to the west while catching my breath, the leafless view revealed the Cohutta Mountains standing starkly on the far horizon, above what the locals call Hell’s Hollow. One hundred years ago it was indeed hell for those settlers in the hills. Diphtheria ran unchecked through mountain communities, and many children died. When I worked at The Chatsworth Times more than two decades ago, former district forest ranger Bill Black and a man who once worked for him, Ray Tankersley, took me up into the Cohutta Wilderness Area where we rode around in a pickup truck for a few hours. We stopped at an old cemetery on Dyer Mountain where row after row of small, unmarked stones stood on end to mark the resting places of children. Ray told me they were stricken with diphtheria, and that his own sister had awoken in good health one morning yet by nightfall had smothered to death due to catching the respiratory infection. It was a time of great fear for families.

Turning and looking to the east, sections of Lake Blue Ridge came into view. Its shoreline is now dotted with expensive homes, yet back in the day when the dam was built it provided electricity and eventually became a recreational hotspot and economic boon to support those pursuits.

As I scanned these two directions, it was if the past and the present were also canvassed in the panorama. Too, it gave me pause to consider my own course. If it’s true that adversity builds character, how much of the hardship had come by my own hand? And how much would it matter in the future?

The next week I had to find a section of fence damaged by a falling tree limb that I’d marked the Monday prior. Inwardly, I said my Sunday school lesson as I realized to find it again meant walking almost to the bottom of the mountain. After using a lock-blade knife and some zip ties to fashion it back together, I followed the silt fence back up the mountain to the roadway. (Always use a lock-blade when you’re by yourself deep in the mountains — if a folding knife folds in on you and draws some major blood, you could be in trouble.)

At one point, I looked up through the woods and spied that utility box at the cul-de-sac. However, this time I didn’t have to look at the map. I took the long way. There would be more to see, less stress and still the awesome view to relish once on top.

And I would wonder if those eight young men became a bit more trustworthy of a map and compass, and themselves, after our ultimately successful trek in the long ago. I certainly hope so, because that adversity sure built some character into this wandering, and at times, restless soul.

Mark Millican is a retired newspaper editor and a former staff writer for the Dalton Daily Citizen.