Feet in the Cloudland

A name like Cloudland has a mythological ring: Cloudland Canyon. The name sounds as if it should mark some inaccessible part of the Himalayas or some paradise beyond the reach of mortals.  Cloudland Canyon is part of heavily visited Lookout Mountain in far northwest Georgia.

Every write-up about the canyon warned about trails brutal on the uninitiated. Sunday Nancy and I decided to find out for ourselves. We wanted to get out of town for the holiday. A day hike would suffice, especially one as highly touted as Cloudland. 

Just a few minutes off I-59 and up a steep road that switched back four times, we entered the heavily treed state park. Campsites and the park’s yurt village were book up for Memorial Day, but the hiking trails. We came to an trailhead with a handful of cars in a field, the magnificent views of Georgia, Alabama and Tennessee already before us. The West Rim Loop Trail swings along the edge of cliff before turning toward the gorge and its signature waterfalls, two cascades along Sitton Gulch Creek. 

In less than 1/4^th mile, all of Trenton came into view (granted, it’s a town of 2,000 people). I never lose my awe of looking down on cities and geography from great heights. Nor does my frustration ever fade at telephone wires intruding on my pictures. Neither of us struggled much with the terrain and quickly found ourselves alone. 

Flowers adorned the West Rim Trail.

The trail turned onto the lip of the canyon quickly. Below, the unmistakable roar of falling water grew louder.

We passed giant boulders that had eroded from the cliffs and the trails were bordered by wildflowers and tons of sassafras plants, giving us both thoughts of homemade root beer. Every break in the trees opened into a scenic overlook into the canyon’s dense foliage and steep rock walls. Side trails leading to the cabins cut in regularly, but even on Memorial Day weekend, the upper paths were not overwhelmed.

The upper falls splashes down.

The trail skirted past Cloudland's new yurt village, a set of permanent structures reminiscent of the portable homes of Mongolian nomads. In the steppe of Central Asia, grills and patio furniture don't come standard on fabric yurts, but in northwest Georgia, they stand out. Nancy has wanted to try one out for a night. After seeing the yurt complex constructed by Georgia DNR, I do too. 
 

The roaring water began to drown us out as we turned off the rim toward the falls. As we came to the first of two falls, the crowds finally blossomed. People hunched beneath rock shelters. We wanted to hike our way to the falls, but people could park near the staircase then rapidly descend to the water. 

The tiny steps took us to the tiny ribbon of creek separating the two plunges. At the upper falls, the crowd became a mob on the splash pool’s rocky shore. The water dropped hypnotically into its splash pool.

Given the crowds, we didn’t head to the lower falls and returned to the West Rim loop. Coming back from the falls, the grades slowed us down … well, they slowed me down. We took a few granola bar breaks, and all we needed for the afternoon fit snugly into my water backpack (no corporate names here). 

Not a yurt, but I wouldn't mind sleeping here. Wait ... no.

For our final turn, we followed a narrow creek back across the plateau.  More than usual, I found myself short of breath, my heart and lungs unable to keep oxygen in good supply. That uncomfortable sensation didn’t last. Nancy came through fine, the changes in elevation never really fazing her.

There might be a yurt night to come this summer.