Adventuring to Nashville's east

Cliffs above Center Hill Lake

The pontoon boat drifted back into the hollow behind the Center Hill Marina. Remains of the Burton home site lie above the water line. A spot between the two hollers was once claimed by the Center Hill School, the name later selected for the expansive reservoir on the Caney Fork River.

The Caney Fork’s name goes back even further – settlers notes the dense cane breaks (a form of bamboo) found along the banks. Local Native Americans notably used the breaks to ambush intruders.

This Saturday had a pistol start, as former state park manager and ranger educated a boatful of people about Center Hill Lake, its dam, Edgar Evins State Park and the surrounding terrain.

When the Army Corps of Engineers decided to build the Center Hill Dam, they bought out the farms of 800 residents of the valley. Along with tearing down the homesteads and barns, they clear-cut trees all trees beneath a certain elevation, with bluff crews lowered by rope to cut any trees sprouting from the rock walls. Prior to the last devastating flood on the Caney Fork in 1929, steamboats traveled upriver. During that flood, residents stores their belongings in Tennessee Central Railroad box cars on higher ground to avoid losing everything to the rising waters.

Fowl in flight by the Center Hill Dam

The old manager mostly told stories, educating us about the practice of fox hunting, which doesn’t involve any actual hunting. Instead, the hunters find a campsite, release their dogs, start a campfire and roast hot fogs.

On one bank, he pointed to the location of former sportsman club. The members shot skeet, and hikes through nearby wooded hills often turn up pieces of clay targets.

The younger ranger pitched an early morning “What Lies Beneath” tour of Center Hill Lake led by a retired park manager who worked at the park for 38 years, with 18 as manager. The ranger didn’t have trouble tracking down the retired park manager – they were father and son. This was their land, with family inhabiting the region for several generations.

Following in parental footsteps could not have seemed more natural. They revealed an immediate rapport built on a shared love for this place. I mistakenly thought I could finish a two-mile loop before the meeting time. I walked no more than a half-mile into the hollow below the visitor center then huffed and puffed my way up to avoid arriving late. I can’t remember feeling so badly winded. But there will be more trails and more inclines to come.

In a camping shirt with a torn elbow, I should have been cold. Whenever the pontoon boat entered an arm of the lake or cruised close to its many rock bluffs, the temperature didn’t bite me. Out on the open water with a little motoring, the breeze turned Arctic. Anytime the coldness started to impact me, I slid hands under my legs, and recharged with the warmth generated between pant leg and the vinyl seat cushions. Had we spent much time on open water, I would have changed my tune. 

Without another boat in sight, our vessel cruised close to the dam, which ranks second on the federal government’s collapse risk list (it trails Kentucky’s Wolf Creek Dam on the Cumberland River). Leaks in the limestone walls surrounding the dam have developed in its 70-year history and the Corps has built secondary structures to ease pressure on the dam and reduce risks. If the dam ever failed, the immediate area would be wiped out, and 70 miles downriver, Nashville would take significant damage.

The manager told us of one public meeting where a local insisted that the Corps had “dennymite” ready to blow the dam. “As far as I know, there’s no dennymite anywhere around here,” the manager said.

Every bank and outcrop of land held stories – it wasn’t just the rangers, but the other passengers (I was the only non-local). The manager pointed out a former park on one bank and out about 100 feet from its boat ramp to where an old Buick rusted in 90 feet of water. A man chased by local sheriff deputies drove off the cliffs. He survived and was taken into custody after the deputies fished him out.

Blurry loon

Beneath the dam, the Caney Fork is more swollen than I’ve ever seen. Because Interstate 40 crosses the river five times in a few miles, there are ample views of treetops marking islands covered by 20 feet of turgid water. The young ranger confirmed that the water levels were higher than they had been in 10 years. In recent years, the Corps purposely kept the lake levels lower to allow trees and foliage to return to previously submerged land. When the water levels rise again, the submerged foliage will serve as fish habitat.

The loons issued their tremolo call, the mellow warble instead of the shrill laughing call they are also known for. I had no clue that loons wintered in Tennessee, but I spotted the first one bobbing near the marina and at least two dozen others before we docked again. Along the way, the retired manager interspersed many family tales, including a harrowing winter visit with his young boys where one clung to a tree above steep cliffs and had to be rescued via an icy descent and climb.

The manager's love of the land and the lake was clear. He struggled about whether to have himself cremated, wanting to have some part of him returned to the lake he loves when he departs this life. If the retired manager hadn’t kept the boat’s passengers in stitches throughout the trip, the mood might have turned maudlin, but never did.

Calling loon (also blurry)

After the boat trip, I found myself uninterested in a quick return from Nashville. I spent too little time in this territory, rarely visiting more than once or twice a year. From Edgar Evins, Burgess Falls State Natural Area was another 40 minutes east. Around six years clicked off since my previous visit to Burgess Falls. I found myself recalling the windy narrow road leading to the park more than the raw power of its primary cataract.

Due south of Cookeville, the Falling Water River drops 200-plus feet in a half-mile, forming Burgess Falls. Waters falls 130 feet over the final drop, one of Tennessee’s most impressive natural wonders. The river has scoured deep grooves into the gorge’s walls. Burgess’ series of drops buildings anticipation – at first the river waters moved across series fields of intense rapids, then a few minor waterfalls before the main attraction. Turning back too soon could result in disappointment.

The state closed access to one of the lookouts – one we dubbed the PDA Lookout because of the tendency for a random couple to make out and ruin the majestic view – as well as the metal steps that descend to the base of the largest waterfall. The bottom views are worth the walk, but damage to that metal staircases leave no good path of descent.

Burgess Falls

Burgess Falls always dazzles at times of high water. The final lookout provided good views of the churning over the falls. For all the traffic on the rim trail, a higher trail with steeper views was empty. The falls roared below and birds flitted through the dormant vegetation surrounding the park’s pine trees. To escape the crowds further, I wandered to the dam north of the falls, where the water course violently past a jam of dead timber. The banks dropped too harshly and the waters roared toward the falls, squelching any contemplative moments.

I decided to hunt for a lunch spot in Cookeville. The home of Tennessee Tech seemed likely to offer more than the standard chains. Miles of suburban congestion rattled away. I wanted something local. I circled the courthouse and a town square absent of anything eye-catching. On a busier early 20th century commercial block with few dining options, I considered heading home.

Cookeville Depot Museum

Then I saw a small green sign for the Cream City District. Just try to ignore a sign with that name. I could have ignored the road sign, but not the two-story vintage sign advertising Cream City Ice Cream that loomed atop a restored commercial block. The nearby blocks claim two craft breweries – Red Silo and Hix Farms – along with several restaurants and bars, a coffee and ice cream parlor, salons and antique stores.

I contemplated Indian food while I craved a burger, and Father Tom’s Pub won out for Jighead’s Belgian white and a burger with sweet potato fries. The bustling pub was a friendly place, with other people at the bar quick to give advice on what I should see around Cookeville. The few people I spoke to seemed genuinely glad for visitors from Nashville. Some raved about Ralph’s Doughnut Shop. After a giant burger and a beer, I had no room for doughnuts.

Like most American towns where passenger trains no longer stop, Cookeville’s Tennessee Central Railroad depot has become a museum with several engines and cars on the derelict tracks. 

The inescapable sign

Closer to the highway, Cookeville’s third brewer, Jighead, operates from a former community center and has 15-plus taps. Their Bourbon barrel Tripel had no business tasting like orange cream soda and being almost 10 percent alcohol. With three breweries in a town of 30,000 people, Cookeville could turn into a beer aficionado outpost.

As I faced the 70-mile drive down the interstate, I kept coming back to the sign. When I bought an ice cream, the clerk asked if I shot the sign. I had only one reply - “It’s my new favorite thing,” which drew a laugh. I wasn’t kidding or mocking Cookeville. A dash of neon from a vintage sign changes the complexion of a street or skyline. In Cookeville, neon marks the spot for craft brews, ice cream and good reasons to depart the interstate for a few hours.

Cream City District as I first saw it