At 6:30 in the morning, you can’t see what the spiders have been up to.

You’re blind to their sticky little deeds. You’re hapless up to that sudden moment when a mesh of gooey webbing stretches over your eyelids and into your lips and you howl in horror.

Unless you have a headlamp.

Always wear a headlamp.

But even then, you’re in for a trek through an octagonal hell of white walls and eight-legged monsters. And that’s what I faced when I set out to conquer the Cove Mountain Trail.

Let me back up.

If you’ve been to Great Smoky Mountain National Park, you’ve probably been to Laurel Falls.

Laurel Falls is a lovely spiggot of crystal clear water visited by thousands of tourists every year. It is easily accessed from Gatlinburg and Townsend, and the 1.3 mile trail is mostly paved, save for the sections that have fallen victim to erosion and washed away. It’s also worth mentioning that if you’ve tried to pass through the parking area (known as Fighting Creek Gap) and you’re anything like me, you’ve probably cursed at the jerks who slow to a death march to find a parking spot.

Anyway, Laurel Falls lies on the aptly named Laurel Falls Trail. But it doesn’t stop at the featured attraction, and each time I’ve ventured to the popular attraction with family and loved ones, I’ve wondered where the trail wandered off to.

Earlier this year I found out. There’s another waterfall behind the Sugarlands Visitor Center called Cataract Falls. Just past it is the start of the Cove Mountain Trail. The first time I discovered this hidden gem, I noticed something surprising: It leads to Laurel Falls.

How? I wondered. The two seemed far apart.

Sure enough, the trail map answered my question. The two waterfalls were connected by two trails: The Cove Mountain Trail, and the Laurel Falls Trail. From that moment forward, I had a goal. I wanted to hike to a popular tourist destination the hard way.

I just didn’t know how hard it would prove to be.

The top of Cove Mountain represents the north-central border of the the national park. On one side you’ll find cabins with somewhat cheesy names, like “Bear Bottom” or “High Heaven.” On the south side lies the largely untraveled face of Cove Mountain and its numerous watery branches that drain into rivers that eventually tumble down well-eroded rock formations like Laurel and Cataract Falls. For 8.3 miles, the Cove Mountain Trail would be my road until it intersected the Laurel Falls Trail just below the summit.

Almost right away I encountered beauty and challenge: The burn scar from the infamous (and tragically deadly) fire of 2016. Its canopy long gone, the mountainside gave way to breath-taking views of the stars. But it also had been left unmaintained in order to allow regrowth, and the trail was overgrowth through much of this area. And so I came to my first encounter with the eight-legged beast.

The light of my headlamp sparkled in the darkness, shimmering off the sticky tendrils of webbing that spanned the width of the narrow, leaf-infested trail. In its middle was Shelob incarnate, chewing on the crunchy exoskeleton of some unfortunate creature. I stopped cold at the sight and swore aloud. My lungs heaved.

Holy shit. 

Now bear with me. I’ve always been afraid of spiders.

Always. 

And at that moment, a collosal one stood between me and my goal.

Should I surrender and turn around? Was it better to try a different trail for the day? Was Cove Mountain simply not to be?

I stared at the thing for another minute, watching it pick at and devour its meal, unconcerned at my presence.

Jesus, I thought, shivering.

Then I raised my hiking pole above the impressive spiderweb, gripping it with two shaking hands.

“Sorry,” I said.

Then I brought the whole thing down.

That was just the first spider.

In the burn area alone, I encountered four more complete cobwebs, each tenanted by an arachnid lord. And each time, I slowly brought the thing down, moving the spider to the side where he (or she) could begin reassembling the trap for the next poor hiker.

Finally, after another mile or two, I emerged from the burn scar. A towering cabin smiled down at me from just beyond the national park border, its windows still dark in the early hours. I paused to gaze behind me into the east as the sun painted with beautiful orange and purple strokes over the morning sky.

The rest of the hike brought its own challenges, including more cobwebs that required crouching or strategic relocation with my hiking pole. Every step was its own labor up the long incline of the mountain, some of which required carefully dodging sprouts of poison ivy, a la Indiana Jones spelling out “Jehovah” in Latin.

Near the mountaintop I heard the loud crashing of two native guests – bears, as best I could guess – that I scared off with a heart clearing of the throat. While part of me is sad I didn’t get to see the majestic beasts, the part of me that is edible is grateful they are (for some odd reason) frightened of a human like me.

After 8.3 miles, I reached the junction with the Laurel Falls Trail. From here, the adventure turned tame except for the occasional ankle turn thanks to a camoflouged root, and the nerve-wracking cracks of acorns dropping from 100 feet in the air. Trust me – something that was more startling than you’d think!

And then the moment came.

As I descended a particularly rocky switchback from high above, I heard the gleeful cries of children splashing in the pools of the upper and lower falls. The lower are off-trail, of course, and the park staff prefer visitors wouldn’t venture down so many slippery rocks to get there. But they do, often accompanied by parents and grandparents, all in search of their own kind of adventure.

Balancing on a pair of sore feet, I crossed the rocks until I stood below Laurel Falls in a sweat-soaked shirt and a face smeared with old spiderwebs, many of which I’m still plucking out of my beard.

And you know what?

No one noticed.

Perhaps it was smug of me to envision myself emerging from the wilderness like a wild man, and for the gathered throngs at Laurel Falls to turn their heads and behold me as I staggered victorious into their midst.

Where did you come from? I wanted them to ask.

“The Visitors Center,” I would have hoarsely replied.

How many miles is that? they’d ask in breathless amazement.

“About eleven,” I’d answer, rounding down to make sure my humble-brag was secure.

That’s amazing! another amazed observer would say. How’d you do it?

Then I would tell them.

I would tell them of my 6:00am start. Of the burn scar and its beauty and danger. Of a half-dozen spider walls and their ferocious hosts. Of the long miles of climbing and ducking and ivy-dodging and so much more.

Instead I sat for a moment on a sloping rock and listened as a mother asked a park volunteer about another nearby trail, the Little River Trail at Elkmont. It’s an easy one. Flat. Very accessible. Great for the family.

“It’s a good one,” I added when there was a pause in the conversation.

“Yeah?” the woman replied.

I nodded. “You’ll love it.”

Then I rose and headed toward Fighting Gap Creek over the remaining trail, sharing the paved and easy path with everyone else, each on his or her own private adventure, the world none the wiser.

All images © David Safford, 2019