Time is running out to experience the fire towers of the Smokies
There used to be 17 fire towers in the Great Smoky Mountain National Park that were utilized prior to the 1930s by the Forest Service. I know little of their effectiveness in those days or what someone was supposed to do when they saw distant smoke prior to air drops from big planes. But I would have stood in line for that interview to get paid to sit on top of a mountain and have my coffee with the day breaking over the oldest mountains in the world.
One of my favorite bushwhacks runs up Groundhog Creek on the park’s western end. Many cool mornings have found me crawling through snow, getting smacked by rhododendron while scrambling Class 3 rock. Rising over 2600 feet from its start in Cosby, this path bounds and weaves through the stream until crossing the Lower Mt. Cammerer trail well past a backcountry campsite. I know better than to tread here in warm months as clawing loose ground is preferable to a tail full of rattles on these now rocky, precipitous slopes.
On one visit in particular, my objective comes into full view as sunlight bounces from its chipped windows: The Mt. Cammerer Fire Tower. An hour or so in to our trek and the crawling is about to commence. I’ve made this journey a dozen times but distinctly recall how this notion first came about. Wayne Davis told me he thought we could skinny up from his cabin at the park boundary.
I thanked him for volunteering to lead me as he reluctantly signed on for the initial part on a cold, January morning. His look when I shoved micro spikes and mountain gear in the pack prompted, “..but only to the lower trail,” from my friend. Wayne had plenty of opportunities to turn around and retreat to the warmth of his wood stove so he can’t blame me for what happened next.
Due to some navigational “challenges,” I will call them, we clawed to the foot of this defunct structure as the sun was dipping low on the North Carolina/Tennessee border we were straddling. Mt. Cammerer saw us emerge from the foliage drenched in sweat and clothed in dirt. Snagging sunset shots from this fire tower wasn’t necessarily the plan but we nailed some spectacular vistas as the temperature followed the waning sun. Alone in this room with a view, darkness now crept up the valley to our 5000-foot elevation. Although remodeled in the ’90s, Mt. Cammerer Fire Tower was missing windows and groaned all winter night.
You see, Wayne didn’t have all the down garb as he had only intended to join me for a small, initial portion of this ascent up the creek. I seem to remember him toting a coffee mug clad in sneakers. But these adventures and some friendly goading can lure you skyward bearing out Cammerer’s reputation as a siren of the Smokies. There’s an old mountaineering adage which implies that the word bivouac is French for “mistake.” A bivouac was in order here as we considered the icy descent and inherent dangers therein. A less than restful night atop this iconic peak ensued as we channeled the spirit of caretakers long past. I had enough extra snacks and clothing. The floors squeaked and windows rattled with the constant winter breeze. Like the old caretakers, we scanned the ridges leading up to our spot and swore we saw bobbing headlamps all night long.
First light was a welcomed sight as we rose from where we leaned against the inner frame of this octagonal structure. Its stone and wood facade were wrapped by a 360-degree porch, perfect for chasing the views in all its elusive, cloud-filled glory. Rays pierced a blanket of billowy cotton draping the valley from which we rose the day before. White Rocks is what the Native Americans called this place. To Wayne and me, our night atop Cammerer will forever remain an indelible mountaintop experience.
I have a similar relationship to the Shuckstack Fire Tower on the North Carolina side of the Smokies. On our annual canoe pilgrimage over to Eagle Creek, the day hike up one of the park’s steepest trails, Lost Cove, tops the agenda. Despite some mild protestation from my friends, the climb to the Appalachian Trail and eventual spur off to the metal structure is its own breathtaking reward. From this vantage is seen three states and peaks from the Blue Ridge down into Georgia across beautiful Fontana Lake. I don’t expect them to allow us up there for long given the declining health of this metal perch. Holes in a plywood floor and rattling handrails give pause to many who claim the base as their summit. But then they’d miss one of the best views in the Southeast.
The last remaining tribute to a century-old fire mitigation method, Mt. Sterling tower is an exact duplicate of the Shuckstack in identical disrepair. The views up there are much scarcer as that side of the park experiences continuous clouds moving in from the west. If you time your hike accordingly to catch a break, however, you soon realize that blip directly across from you is Cammerer, although many trail miles and climbs separate these Smokies sisters. Movements to restore these towers have fizzled like distant smoke so I would simply suggest you get up there and visit these survivors before they melt into the mist with the ghosts of their caretakers and furtive glimpses they afford.