CHATTANOOGA SO MUCH MORE THAN THE CHOO CHOO
Curving through a land of caves and hidden waterfalls
As a Prairie boy, I’m not sure why I have long yearned to visit the Southern U.S., but there has always been a grit and shimmer to Dixie that I could not shake.
I blame it on the works of William Faulkner, Mark Twain and Daniel Woodrell, among others. Although, to be fair, it likely has more to do with watching too much Dukes of Hazzard during my formative years.
Whatever the reason, the South has long beckoned and in June, my wife and I finally answered.
Nestled in the southeast corner of Tennessee, Chattanooga might not leap to mind as a likely place to visit.
A strategic river and railway crossroads during the U.S. Civil War and site of brutal military battles as a result, the town boomed then busted over the course of the 20th century.
In the wake of an ugly EPA report, in 1969 Walter Cronkite declared it the “dirtiest city in America.”
But visionary revitalization, coupled with abundant natural beauty, a burgeoning cultural scene and rich history, now put Chattanooga near the top of the list as a slightly-off-the-beatent-rack destination.
So we’ll spend two days — not nearly enough time, it turns out — exploring Chattanooga as part of a weeklong trip through Tennessee and Kentucky, our introduction to the southern states.
By the time we’re finished our coffee on the first morning, the temperature is already well into the mid-30s. In Chattanooga, one way to escape the heat is to gain altitude, and that means one thing — the incline railway.
The 1.6-kilometre train trip is, in places, closer to an elevator ride … a hot elevator ride.
With a more than 72 per cent grade near the top of Lookout Mountain, it’s the steepest passenger train in the world and, thankfully, as promised, it’s cooler at the summit, more than 300 metres above the lower station.
The trip feels vaguely mandatory for a first-time visitor.
After all, the incline railway has been in operation for more than a century and possesses all the resulting charms and hokum you might expect from such a venerable tourist attraction.
But it provides an easy and spectacular commute up and down Lookout Mountain, which looms over Chattanooga, with views of the Tennessee River winding through the city below and the verdant hills and valleys of the Appalachians stretching to the horizon.
At the summit we agree that on its own the incline railway might not be worth the price, but in the tradition of millions of travellers before us we double down on the touristy stuff and upgrade our tickets, buying into the package deal that will get us into Rock City and Ruby Falls, too.
Driving through Tennessee, we’ve seen myriad old barns emblazoned with the antique directive to “See Rock City.”
Neither of us knows what to expect, but both of us are braced to meet the experience with a shrug.
Instead we’re bemused, charmed and finally amazed as we make our way through a forested and lush network of garden paths, bridges, narrow channels between building-sized boulders, and tunnels before we emerge at Lover’s Leap, a high parapet of rock on the eastern brow of Lookout Mountain from which, on a clear day, you can reputedly see seven states.
Geology may have created Rock City, but Frieda Carter made it what it is. She plotted the original paths in the 1920s, gathered wildflowers to plant along the way and then went a little overboard in populating it all with an un-ironic army of garden gnomes and fairytale characters.
Despite some occasional runaway kitschiness, the unique beauty of the place shines through.
Our next stop is geological, too. We head to Ruby Falls and it’s only when we’re in the elevator headed down that my wife says, “Wait, it’s underground?”
I thought the underground part was clear when we were planning our itinerary, but it’s news to her.
She’s a trouper, though (as she is later in the trip when we visit Mammoth Caves in Kentucky — definitely underground), and wrestles down her mild claustrophobia.
Nearly 350 metres below Lookout Mountain, we hike a kilometre or so through a cave festooned with flowstone, stalactites, stalagmites and other formations, including one that looks like rashers of fatty bacon hanging from the ceiling.
You can hear the falls long before you see them. Our subterranean journey has been in a lit and lowslung passage with many places to knock your head.
Now we enter a darker space, inky black ahead of us and far larger, judging by the echoes.
When the lights come up, they reveal an elegant arc of water streaming down from a cathedrallike ceiling nearly 50 metres overhead and splashing into a pool on the floor of the cave. Delight. It’s an underground wonder hidden from the outside world.
We set out early the next morning to make the most of our last day in Chattanooga.
A friendly local urges us to check out a secret spot. It’s in the same general direction we’re heading, and so we add it to the itinerary.
Armed with our “trusty” GPS, we set out to find Falling Water Falls. Instead, 30 minutes later we’ve only succeeded in finding Falling Water Baptist Church in the fetchingly named town of Soddy Daisy. (This is the first of many such navigational misadventures on this trip — the most exciting of which will be a back-road, whiteknuckle romp through northern Tennessee after our GPS guides us into the hollers at sunset and then abandons us in terra incognita.)
We burn a little cellular data and discover we’re close.
The Falling Water Falls State Recreation Area is just a couple of kilometres away. Two kilometres as the crow flies, however, requires a looping and beautiful half-hour drive up Signal Mountain.
But once we’re there, a short walk through a forest ringing with bird song delivers us to the top of a 35-metre waterfall where we gaze out over the wooded valleys and uplands to the north. As promised, the view is magnificent.
It’s time for our final Chattanooga adventure and we find it down in the valley. The idea of floating down one of the region’s great rivers resonates deeply, so we make a switchback descent of Signal Mountain to a kayak rental place along the Tennessee.
Shoals of small fish hover in the shade of a pink-blossomed mimosa tree leaning over the water by the dock. Around us, the slopes of the Tennessee River Gorge, clothed in a dense and impossibly green hardwood forest, rise more than 300 metres from the river’s shores. The water itself hardly seems to move, until we’re on it.
The woman who rents us the boat recommends that we paddle upstream first so that our return trip is with the current.
Wise advice. We make our way slowly upriver. Like the little fish at the boat launch, we move from one shady spot to the next, and under each welcome tree we hold onto branches to keep from drifting back into the sunshine as we cool off and soak up the scenery.
On our way back to the landing, we paddle past a trio of fishermen who tell us they’re playing hooky from work and boast that they just lost an alligator gar (yes, it’s a fish) bigger than our kayak. Doubtful, but I’ll wait until we’re safely back on shore before I share more about this legendary predator.
It seems a fitting ending to our Chattanooga visit, a Huck Finn moment on a wide and lazy river, curving through a land of caves and hidden waterfalls, primeval forest and mountains, ripe for adventure.