TALLULAH GORGE by Jeff Strickland

1968
You walked into the gorge with the wrong shoes, man. Those shiny black-scaled rattlesnake boots might have been hip and happening for the Atlanta street scene, summer, 1967. With suede-fringe jacket and bellbottom jeans those sharp-pointed new boots of yours were pretty groovy for cruising Tenth Street head-shops or for checking out free Allman Brothers jams in Piedmont Park. But those boots just didn't make it up here, Jackie. Not in these North Georgia woods, late winter 1968. Not in the gorge, man.
By Saturday night we both could tell you'd stayed one day too many. My little liberal arts college in the hills didn't impress you; nor apparently did the play you'd driven three hours in the rain to see (I was a little pissed when you didn't at least laugh at my bits). I skipped the cast party to hang with you but there wasn't much going down. All the chicks were locked back into their dorms by eleven, the nearest package store was twenty fogged-in miles away, the student center had unplugged the jukebox and switched on the last half-hour of the Carol Burnett Show. A drag.
On a bummer, you said you thought you'd get an early start back to Atlanta tomorrow. I was thinking that was a good idea too, but suggested we swing by the Catacombs before calling it a night. The Catacombs was what we called a little forgotten room in the moldy basement of my dorm. It had once been set aside as a sealed nuclear fallout shelter in case the Russians decided to aim the Big One at Young Harris, Georgia. We'd ripped down the orange 'DANGER! NO TRESPASSING UNDER FEDERAL PENALTY! sign, jimmied the rusty lock and liberated the area as our private 'study room'. We'd also liberated all the blue blankets and first aid kits; all the powdered eggs and Spam; all the scary radiation burn survival guides; and (our most coveted prize) all the plastic-wrapped double-strength Phenobarbital pain capsules we'd be able to either sell or shove down our own throats for the next two years. Barrels of it.
I hipped you in advance to the barb scene and told you I didn't do them anymore. I'd over-tried it once and by the next day my body temperature had plummeted to about 80 degrees or something. "You oughts be dead," the school nurse had casually observed, shaking her thermometer. She gave me an excuse note and suggested I put another one of those pretty blue blankets on my bed since I had so many extra. I figured I'd dodged a bullet and left the stuff alone after that but other guys seemed to thrive on it. Based on the slurred, over¬emotional greetings we received as we entered the Catacombs that night I could tell that a pretty serious all-night session was in progress.
My best college friend, Agnew the chain-smoking Hermit, was there. He supplied the stereo and LPs (Iron Butterfly and Propel Harum that night?) John K., the 'Mad Poet' who'd turned me on to Zen Buddhism and William S. Burroughs was in his corner quietly reading an Evergreen Review: a hyper skinny guy we called 'Fang' was there, who'd lately started to wear a purple cape to class (we were too cool to ask him why); Johnson, the 'Suave Italian', was lounging on a beanbag chair in his silk Hefner-esque Chinese smoking jacket, and 'Hippie Bob' Powell who'd been to the Monterey Pop festival in '66 and hadn't shut up about it since was prowling restlessly around the room. Probably a few more strays were there, but this was the usual Saturday night core.
`Hippie Bob' was in full rap: "Hey, Jeff. Who's your friend? Far out boots, man. I dig the scales. Jeff, you and Jackie want some brandy? Johnson stole some of his old man's best fuckin' brandy. Real expensive shit. Let me get you guys a Dixie cup. Grok it slow, now, just let it, like, EXPLODE in your mouth. We were trippin on poor Otis. You guys wouldn't believe the rush that cat put out at Monterey. I was THERE, man, right by the fuckin stage! I mean, Otis was puttin out some heavy DEEP vibes that night! Tell you what, dudes, if you ever seen Otis close-up in person like I done at Monterey, you could see he had a whole lotta Indian blood in him. Most likely Cherokee, from right around this area. This was holy ground up in these hills, man. Still is. Hey, any you guys ever been down in Tallulah gorge? 1 don't mean the fuckin tourist lookoff. This old coot in Helen told me if you go about a mile past the lookoff to this big-ass electric pylon there's a little ole Ranger trail that'll take you right down to the gorge. He said it's the only way to get down in there and it's a real mellow hike. Oh, man, we gotta do it. That's the central power point up here. The hillbillys'll tell you. Visions, UFOS ... hey, listen up, dudes! we're all takin off in the morning and climbin down into fuckin tallulah gorge! okay, dudes? .... okay, fang?....agnew?.... john k?...Jeff and Jackie, y'all up for some visions and UFOS?"
As usual, nobody in the Catacombs was paying the least bit of attention to Hippie Bob's barbed-up rant; but I started to sense a long-awaited spark of mischief and interest beginning to ignite in you. You took a heavy swig of Johnson's super-sophisticated brandy and swirled it around like cheap mouthwash. Then you swallowed it with a horrified mock grimace, as if Satan himself was force-feeding the rawest rotgut in Hell down your innocent throat.
Eyes bugged wide in severe alcohol shock, you stared dazedly into your empty Dixie cup for about eight frozen seconds. Then you were back in motion. "Hay-ull yeah I'm up for it," you said, reaching out to bewilder Hippie Bob with some sort of endlessly elaborate made-up soul handshake. "Let's go meet the sun in Tallulah Gorge. Great fuckin brandy, man. Pour me another cup and let's get this done."

SUNDAY:
"No hassle, man. I'll be up in a second," you said.
Sprawled prone on the cold granite rock-face, you calmly pondered the breaking clouds over Tallulah Gorge. A few steps onto the path and already you were flat on your ass.
It wasn't too late to turn back. Hell, everyone else had. Even Hippie Bob had failed to make the scene at sunrise, despite last night's solemn fraternal handshake. But at least he'd given clear directions before he crashed. It was no sweat spotting the big-ass electric pylon and locating the path down to the gorge just past the yellow `DANGER! NO TRESPASSING UNDER STATE PENALTY!' sign. But Hippie Bob's 'little ole Ranger trail' turned out to be a twisty alpine goat-run that snaked its crazy way down a near-vertical cliff before disappearing into the deep woods below. In careful stages, with sensible shoes, I figured you didn't really need ropes and mountain gear to do the trail. I was wearing my usual brown hiking boots with rubber cleats so I knew I could make it if I took it slow. I also knew those slick-soled Atlanta street boots of yours weren't gonna cut it. Now, after your first hard fall just minutes into the hike, I was ready to cut losses and split back to school for waffles and ham.
"Not sure about the boots, man. Maybe we should turn back, “I offered, as you delicately maneuvered yourself up from the rock. You stood swaying on wobbly knees. Your jaw was tight and your left eyebrow twitched. You were in your hell-bent mode.
"The boots are fine. We've started. Just keep going."
I shrugged, then angled my body back a little against downward gravity. Walking on the edges of my shoes as a brake against sliding, I led the way. Behind me I heard the soles of your boots desperately scuffling for the slightest bit of traction. Then the bone thumping 'whomp!'of your body hitting the rock again. Then: "FUCK!"
It could have been one of your goofs, the little satiric bits you'd done since grammar school like the brandy-tasting and fake hippie handshake from last night. Maybe a send-up on the most inept uncool rock-climber in the Blue Ridge hills (as played by Don Knotts maybe). But your goofs were never hurtful or dangerous. If you kept this one up we were going to have to find some way to lift your skinny shattered carcass out of here in a helicopter.

When I started to see intermittent light-flashes sparking through the trees ahead, I thought they were lightning bugs; then I realized I was seeing the reflection of the sun off the creek below us. One more short stretch of black sucking mud and moldering dead leaves and we'd be into the gorge.
Behind me I could hear the monotonous squishing of your boots 'and the sound of ragged breathing. These dark tangled woods had been tougher on you than the rocks above. Instead of leveling out as we'd hoped, the trail had made an abrupt mad catapult toward the bottom and you'd had to grasp at sharp, snapping shrubs as you slid and hurtled downhill. Eventually you'd found a solid supporting stick to slow your falls but you were still taking it in wary stages, your concentration never wavering from the next step. To keep your focus on the path, we'd stopped speaking about an hour ago, so when I spotted the darting light from the creek I simply raised my left arm to point and gave you an 'ok' sign. The squishing sounds paused.
"I see it," you said. "Why don't you go ahead and scout the terrain, man. Just let me chill and I'll meet you down there."
I hesitated, but for only a second. I could tell you wanted a little space to re¬coup your cool. Finally able to free the tethered goat inside me, I practically sprinted the rest of the way down.
The late morning sun struck me head-on as I came out into the gorge, fogging my vision for a moment. After my eyes cleared, I could see the creek directly in front of me. The water was running high and fast after days of rain, little lapping waves nipped at the huge indifferent boulders strewn about the creek-bed. My attention was drawn to a white, smoothly rounded boulder in the middle of the creek that resembled a partially submerged tortoise shell. Jumping rock to rock, it took me only a few seconds to leap onto it. I stood on the boulder fighting vertigo, turning myself round and round in a sudden exultation at the enormous spaces opening up around and within me. Then, basking and stretching on Turtle's warm back, I lay down at the center of the world and waited for you to join me.

///////////////

Stepping off the Wheel Of Exile, the old Zen monk emerged from the Dark Demon Wood. Leaning heavily on his staff, he lifted his ancient haunted face upward to honor the Sun, then, trembling and shaking, he resumed his slow pilgrimage toward the end of Time. Brambles and briars clung to his pitiful ragged clothing; his blistered feet were wrapped in the skin of a black scaled Serpent he'd vanquished along the Way. As he hobbled forward the old monk intoned a chant in a curious forgotten language known only to him. Although he sang strongly (in a surprisingly deep and rich bass voice...), it was obvious that his long ordeals in the Demon Wood had drained his Life Force. The end of his Travel was near. If he could only bathe his feet in the Sacred Creek, the Circle would close and he'd escape the Wheel forever. The frail old monk let his staff slip to the ground and staggered toward the flowing Water in palsied jerking steps. Through his rapidly blurring eyes he thought he could make out a hazy shimmering figure sitting in full Lotus position in the middle of the Creek. He thought he could hear the sacred "OM" calling to him from the center of the World. He'd been here many times before but he'd never made it this far. Just a few steps more.... But it wasn't written. The old monk suddenly paused. A rueful bemused smile flooded his face. In gentle slow motion, he lifted his arms to the sky and broadly shrugged his stiff rheumatic shoulders. Then, smile still on his face, like a flower folding into itself, he wilted back into Earth.

//////////////////

After dipping your boots in the creek and leaving them on a rock to dry you nimbly hopped across the water to sprawl beside me in the sun. You leaned back on your elbows and wriggled your bare toes, absorbing the vast jarring scale of the gorge. We didn't speak for a while, even with the sound of rushing water there was a great silence around us that we didn't feel too free to violate.
"I liked the slow motion," I finally said.
"The dying didn't go on too long?"
I remembered the mild criticism you'd made of my comic monologue from last night's play. You'd said I'd 'rushed' and should have stretched the bit to a deliberately absurd length. It had pissed me off, because you were right. Now I had my chance:
"Well, I thought it was a little ..." I paused. Nothing. "Nah, man. It was good." And it was.
"I dug your "OM"s," you said.
You reached into your shirt pocket and brought out our reward for making it into the gorge. We shared and savored it slowly; after that, time played around with us and we hardly talked at all. Eventually you stretched out and calmly went to sleep, with no apparent thought at all in your head of how the hell we were ever going to make it out of here. Leaving you to your dreams, I jumped my way back to the creek-bank to seek out visions and UFOs.
I found Baptists instead. Or some other smiling well-groomed local denomination. Whoever they were, there were droves of them downstream. And more of them still strolling out of the sheer cliff-face, out of the very rock itself it seemed. The men were still in their Sunday suits without ties; they were toting large wicker hampers. The women wore long dresses and flat shoes; they yelled at their kids to stay off the rocks while they laid out pristine white cloths along the creek-bank. Not a baptism today, not an immersion, just a communal post-worship picnic on a quiet Sunday afternoon in Tallulah Gorge.
I turned and walked back upstream. You were already waiting, boots on, stick in hand. Your jaw was clenching.
"Ready to climb, man?" you said. Your dander was up. You were game for it. "You can lose the stick, Jackie. Follow me."
I led us back through the feasting Baptists, who barely looked up as we passed except for the occasional quick double-take at your gaunt face, shoulder-length hair and goatee ("He looks a little like You Know Who..", my girlfriend Rena had said.) Nodding amiably at the picnickers still streaming down into the gorge, we mounted the solid white Corps of Engineers staircase that descended in comfortable stages from the tourist lookoff high above and were back at the school in about thirty minutes. You split for Atlanta in another five.

2009
"DANGER! NO ACCESS BEYOND THIS POINT!"
It might as well be an incredible postcard. After forty-one years we've made it back into Tallulah gorge and now the intimidating Georgia Parks Service sign is telling us we're at the end of the trail. The same swirling whitewater flood I remember is still smashing into the rocks just a few yards below us, but today we'll have to be content to snap our cell-phone photos from this crowded wooden observation deck, safe behind a thick restraining rail. Then we'll cooperatively re¬mount the four hundred redwood steps that brought us here to make room for the next wave of protected, neck-craning tourists.
Two of your sons, both still in their twenties, have traveled with us this time. It's their first trip into the North Georgia hills and I can tell they're disappointed. Back in L.A. I'd stoked them with tall tales about the gorge, even told Jesse, the oldest, that we'd need to rent ropes and special shoes ("Just do everything I tell you to
do!” I'd ominously cautioned). Jesse allowed that it sounded a bit more `intense' than what he'd been expecting, but he was up for it and so was Jake, the youngest. Definitely your sons.
Now I watch them as they roam the packed observation deck, carefully angling their cell-phone cameras like everybody else but obviously frustrated. Jesse keeps being drawn back to the no access sign. He studies it again and again as if re-checking for exceptions in fine print. The sign is attached to a waist-high swinging gate which I assume is locked. At one point Jesse leans to peer over the other side of the gate; then he motions for Jake to join him. They stand with heads together, conferring in private. Jesse keeps pointing down to the rocks and gesturing while Jake calmly strokes his beard and nods.
I wait for them at the other end of the platform, propped against the hard railing, wondering again why you never brought them here, never brought them to Georgia at all. But I'm not going to ask. After you left the school that day in '68 I didn't see you until seven years later when you made a quick trip to Atlanta from Chicago with your first wife. Then it was New York and finally L. A., where you stayed to raise three sons with the leading lady of the last play you acted in. I flew in to be your best man, standing with you under the spotlight on the equity-waiver stage where you were married and later I picked up and joined you out west. Over the years we'd still occasionally go hunting for our visions and UFOs in other far-flung canyons and gorges, but somehow our schedules never meshed to return us here, until today.
Jesse and Jake thread their way through a group of German tourists and join me at my rail. Jesse's jaw is set.
"What could they do to us?" he asks me.
"We could do it quick," Jake offers.
"No, we'll take our time," Jesse says.
I was saving the story for later but I tell it now. I tell them about your boots
and your stick and the rocks and mud. I tell them about the Turtle at the center of the world. I tell them about the old monk who never made it to the creek. Jesse and Jake both listen intently.
When I'm finished, Jesse doesn't hesitate. "We're going," he says.
We stride across the platform like no-nonsense environmentalists with critical work to do below. Jake's beard and my Sierra Club cap probably help. At any rate, nobody challenges us as Jesse lifts the simple latch on the other side of the gate and we step onto the short stairway that takes us down to the rocks, down into the gorge itself.
Jesse's already picked a spot from above and leads us to it. It's a still little pool that's formed itself at the outer edge of the creek, almost touching the sheer wall of the gorge itself. There's a thin ledge of earth separating the water from the cliff-base and we take our seats there, our backs against the warm mossy stone.
Jake brings out the plastic water bottle and the Dixie Cups. Deferring to your tastes, we've brought rum and coke instead of expensive brandy, mixing up just enough for two toasts for each of us. We make our first toast to the gorge itself, for allowing us access, for letting us complete our journey. Then we sit in the silence of this ancient great place, watching the eddying water in the pool as it makes its almost imperceptible circular return to the playful racing creek.
Jesse stirs first. He reaches into his shirt pocket for the oblong incense box he's carried across country. He opens the box to bring out the little baggie. Jake picks up the plastic bottle, ready for the second toast. Jesse opens the baggie and waits for me. I nod to Jesse, then to Jake.
Pour me another cup and let's get this done.

(For Jack Terrell 1949-2008 )