A Narrow Escape

The Rockcastle owes me one. I’ll just put it that way. Certain trails and hikes make up a mental blacklist in my mind, a reminder of woods gone bad. Mammoth Cave has a trail on that list, as does woodland near Cumberland Falls. Places where I’ve either gotten lost in a bad way or suddenly had to give up the adventure due to disappearing trail blazes. The Rockcastle Narrows is on that list. A list full of aggravation waiting for an encore if I were to return. But I will someday, including the Narrows.

It was late July 2009 and I sat out of Bowling Green on an unusually cool Saturday morning towards Somerset. I had read about the Rockcastle Narrows after seeing it highlighted on KET. It promised views of whitewater where the river meets several rocks funneling the channel for a period of time. It was a chance to return to the Daniel Boone National Forest as well and see the always welcoming landscape there. Twenty minutes east of Somerset on KY 192 and I was parked in a remote lot near Mt. Victory. It took me a moment to decide which way was right, but I did and took off towards the woods.

Let me tell you a little about my hiking regimen. It’s easy, meant to be easy, and will always be easy. Though safe, I don’t carry loads of gear into the woods. I’m what some would call a day hiker or slack packer. So as you’re reading, take that large pack you’re imagining off my back, ok? Replace it with a fanny pack. And please, stop giggling. I go in with a flashlight, fire starter, knife, compass, whistle, phone, camera, water, and crunchy peanut butter bars. Where’s my map? I had a handwritten one I scribbled from the internet. I was asking for trouble. Keep reading.

I had on a t-shirt and cargo pants with my Red Wing boots. Serious hikers can already fill in the blanks on what I’m missing and where I’ve already gone wrong, and advise me on staying indoors next weekend. But it has worked for well over 150 hikes, and tried to work on this day.

The national forest never disappoints. It has a landscape all its own unique to any other part of Kentucky. Hemlocks abound. Mountain Laurel. Wildflowers and waterfalls. My favorite forest in the state, even if it is several hundred miles.

The plan was to spend about seven miles round trip on a lollypop trail in the woods to see that wild and scenic river, one of just a handful in the state. I was off to a good start anyway. A couple miles in and I see a family. A couple of kids, two women and a couple of men, one in the lead with a big stick. Looked like a simple lunchtime outing, with all of them wearing shorts, tennis shoes and faded polo shirts. No packs or gear save a couple water bottles. The kids were giving play-by-play of things they were seeing in the woods, a common occurrence. I knew what was coming up on the trail a half-mile before I got there. Just lucky I never heard the word “snake.” I paused to chat with the stick-bearer for a moment and asked if I was in fact on course to see the Narrows. He said he had been there once as a kid, but it had been several years. I unfolded a sweaty hand scribbled map from my back pocket and neither of us could determine what my lines and dots meant. I continued walking.

Further in and a stop and look point. Van Hook Falls has its own sign, as well as Cane Creek nearby with a nice walking bridge over rapids. I crossed the bridge, which hosted several onlookers. After edging along a cliff line for several feet I came to a trail junction. It was a simple sign with two arrows. One pointing up, and one pointing left. I didn’t even bother to consult my prized map at this point. I looked one way then the other. No mention of the Narrows, plus you have to be careful anytime you’re using the Sheltowee Trace as your highway. It could take you all the way to Morehead without apology. I continued with a guess on the Sheltowee when I should have made a left turn. It would be a few hours before I realized. Deeper into the woods I went, leaving all the other hikers at the falls. I was now the lone man in the forest. It got quiet. Dead quiet, the only sound was the brush of my feet against the trail. I would stop and listen for noise. Not even a bird chirping. No airplane overhead. No play-by-play from children. No squirrel rustling in the leaves. It was spooky.

I had to constantly keep an eye on my legs as well, which were now host to several deer and dog tics. The deer tics being the most troublesome, as they’re tiny and can be overlooked if not careful. Every half mile or so I’d look down to see no more than seven or eight on my socks, legs, and pants. Not good.

After a few miles and another hour in the woods I finally come to a forest service road with signage, but with no mention of the Narrows. I go on further in foolishness thinking I’ll find the right sign and come to another junction. This time, the next destinations are listed as 10 to 20 miles away. I cringe. I’m lost. Good news is, I know where I’ve come from and can get back to the truck. Bad news is I’m now several miles out of whack and my peanut butter bars are gone as well as most of my drinkable water. I was ten miles or so from my truck.

I pulled my phone out and tried to get a signal strong enough to consult the internet for a map or number to the forest service should something go awry. Not much luck finding a map, and really needed to start back anyway. A couple hours back through the silent woods and I found that sign with two arrows again. My sweaty map did show a turnoff at one point, and that had been the only one I saw, so on a hunch I took it. Risky, since I was now without water and the woods can always wait for another day. It was the right path though. Two miles on the trail and I come to a sign, this time mentioning the Narrows. Another two miles and I hear the water as I make my way down the winding staircase of a trail, one of two routes to the river. I should have been excited at this point, but by now was too disgruntled to care.

The Rockcastle was down a bit from its class III reputation, thanks to what had been a drought filled summer. I stayed long enough to snap a couple of pictures beside the river, including Bee Rock across the way, high up on a cliff. Local lore has it an active beehive once produced so much honey there that it flowed down the rock and into the river. But the locals, legend has it, got pissed at the bees and dynamited the rock, blasting the hive into wild and scenic history. I didn’t know for sure, but I did know that I was thirsty! Four miles back to the original trail junction, then three more to get back to my truck, limping from joint pain the last two miles due to dehydration. I had gone 17.5 miles, about 10 more then planned. Back to my truck and into Somerset, where I guzzled two water bottles outside a K-Mart in seconds. I was down, but not out. I’ll be back to the Narrows, and this time with a map and plenty of common sense. The Rockcastle owes me one.