The fires have turned a hiker's paradise into hell

In 1992, the Great Smoky Mountains loomed before me as a place where I could behold nature that was unbowed to human encroachment.

That spring my friend, Bonnie Arnold, organized a group to hike Mount LeConte — the third-highest peak in the Smokies. And one of the most fascinating, 6-mile trails we hiked, inhaling the balsam-infused air to power ourselves upward to the lodge at the top, was Trillium Gap Trail.

That trail is named after the smallish, snowy flowers that erupt along it during the spring; the flower is so prized that in some places, picking some species of it is illegal. We saw more along the way: Grotto Falls, chipmunks, and, at the top of the mountain, a stag and a sunset that put the day to bed with blankets of scarlet and gold.

Yet for us to witness all the gloriousness on that trail, we first had to go through Gatlinburg. That’s where the trailhead for Trillium Gap, as well as the Boulevard and Rainbow Falls trails, begin.

But recently, the only things being allowed through Gatlinburg are battalions of firefighters and tankers — likely because of someone for whom neither the beauty of the mountains nor the amusements of the city, inspired caution.

Instead, it fueled carelessness.

Last week wildfires raged through the Gatlinburg area — a prized vacation spot for many Memphians. According to The Tennessean, the National Park Service reported that more than 17,000 acres have been consumed, and some 700 buildings have been destroyed. Trillium Gap and the other trails to Mount LeConte are all closed.

Park Service officials also say they believe the wildfires were manmade. And while they haven’t harmed Mount LeConte and most of the nature that surrounds it high in the sky, they have exacted human tolls miles below it.

Fourteen people have died in the fires — including Memphis couple Jon and Janet Summers, who were vacationing in Gatlinburg with their three sons.

Gatlinburg Fire from the Air and on the Ground

Arnold, who invited me on that first hiking trip to Mount LeConte and Gatlinburg in 1992, said it was difficult to picture the death and devastation in a place that had, for many years, been a place of rejuvenation for her.

“Gatlinburg was where I used to take my two children when they were growing up, to go hiking at Mount LeConte,” Arnold told me. “We started hiking the trails when they were 10 and 11-years-old. There was the trillium in the spring, the rhododendron in the summer, and the magnificent foliage in the fall…

“And of course, you’d get the sunrise and the sunset, with the sun bouncing off the clouds …”

Then there’s Gatlinburg at the bottom of the mountain, with its wedding chapels, chalets, homages to Elvis, and other amusements and indulgences to entice people to hang out a bit longer.

Now it’s all being choked out by fires that may have been forged by humans. And that didn’t have to happen.

Anyone should know that fall is an active season for wildfires, and that any cigarettes tossed or any campfire ember not completely extinguished could lead to uncontrollable blazes.

“This tragedy goes beyond people,” Arnold said. “That area is home to all kinds of living creatures.”

She’s right.

So as firefighters try to extinguish the wildfires, save lives and salvage what’s left of the city, I think of how Gatlinburg was not only a place where people could enjoy various touristy amusements, but a place where people could access trails into the mountains to experience aspects of nature that remain largely untouched.

I think of how the visages along Trillium Gap, Rainbow Falls and other trails, as well as all the nature that can be found throughout the Great Smoky Mountains, should inspire enough awe in anyone to handle it all with care.

But right now, it looks like somebody or some people didn’t. And a whole lot of living things are paying the price.