5 Hills I Am Willing to Die On

Before I fell in love with my wife, I thought it was okay, noble even, if I died while rock climbing. At least that's what I thought when climbers and alpinists I admired lost their lives in the mountains. "They died doing something they loved," or some nonsense like that. Nowadays, I'd really rather not die doing something so silly. And rock climbing is silly. There are, however, still some hills I am willing to die on.

Though technically a mountain, Lookout is not only a hill I am willing do die on, I'd actually prefer to die there. Not in a "my belayer and I miscommunicated about how I was going to lower from the top of a rock climb" kind of death. Lord, no. I'm thinking more of a, "I have one hour to live so I am going to the top of my favorite mountain in the world to say my final goodbyes" kind of way. Is that morbid? I don't think so. Spread my ashes from these sandstone cliffs, okay? (And pour some out at the Wacissa River back home). 

Don't tell my employer that the coach of their rock climbing team doesn't think so, but it's not. I mean, it definitely is. Rock climbing is in the olympics now. But it shouldn't be. Why? Because rock climbing, at its best, is a mystical union between human and stone; "the freedom of the hills," if you will. It is, at least, an act of rebellion, an eschewing of societal norms and constructs to retreat to the mountains or woods, doing something that has absolutely zero productive value. Grades and points and comps ruin all that. There's a reason John Sherman, who developed bouldering's V-Scale, later lamented grades as "the excrement of rock climbing." I want the kids on my team to fall in love with the activity and, more importantly, the outdoors. That's it. Seeing former students getting out there, sleeping in the dirt, eating Vienna sausages like a dirtbag, and sending the gnar, whatever "the gnar" is for them, is one of the things I'm most proud of. I don't care about winning competitions or "making the playoffs;" I've never even looked at our scores. Leave points and scores to the meat-headed, thick-necked jocks. Go rock climbing for the sake of climbing a rock. 

Relax, e-commuters. I'm talking about six-figure salaried, able-bodied goonies taking the easy way to the top of the MTB trails so they can blast back down. The only acceptable reason to ride an E-bike on trails is if you're eligible to receive Medicare and Social Security from the federal government. Otherwise, learn how to pedal uphill. Or get off and push it, like me. 

Refusing to leash your dog on public trails is anti-social behavior. You are a trail-runner. I am a mountain biker. It is our common interest to be outside. We are responsible to one another. That responsibility is our freedom. To avoid it is to lose our freedom. (Yes, I'm plagiarizing Ursula K. Le Guin's The Dispossessed.) We should build a giant crane big enough to hurl all the people who don't leash their dog into the ocean. Simple as that. Keep the dogs. Fling their owners into a deep watery grave. 

Politics and religion. The best burger in town. Hurling selfish dog owners into the sea. "I reserve the right to be wrong about everything." The highlight of my teaching career is a graduating student using this as her senior quote in the yearbook and attributing it to me (I heard it from Will D. Campbell). 

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A Place Called Providence

Providence Canyon, Georgia

Between Chattanooga and my hometown, I drive a long stretch of Highway 27 through the prosaic farmlands of southwest Georgia. In the early 1800s, plantation owners and other farmers clearcut the native forests of Stewart County to grow cotton mostly, also peanuts. Being the big-brained geniuses they were, they failed to consider rain runoff, which cut the soft soil like a hot knife in butter. By the 1850s, a vast network of ditches 3-5 feet deep ran throughout the county. By the end of the nineteenth century, those ditches became gullies, and the gullies became canyons that now descend as deep as 150 feet into the earth.

They call it Providence Canyon. It's a state park now; considered one of Georgia's "seven wonders" with hiking trails, scenic overlooks, and backcountry campsites. All of this, even though there is nothing naturally wonderful about the place. Georgia's "Little Grand Canyon" is the product of human activity: the forced removal of the Muscogee by European settlers, the destruction of native forests, and the short-sighted implementation of unsustainable farming practices. 

It took God, the Everlasting Song of the Universe, eons to carve the many canyons of the world. It took careless Georgians less than a century.

Without getting too deep in the theological weeds, certain reformed protestant traditions understand providence to mean that God governs the course of nature and history down to its minute details. I think this view of things is bogus but it is held by a great many people, both in its hardline Calvinist and slightly softer Augustinian formulations. 

According to this view, God orchestrated (Calvin) or oversaw (Augustine) the Creek Wars of 1812 and 1836, the clear-cutting of native pine forests, and the implementation of unsustainable farming practices fueled by the horrors and human misery of the Atlantic slave trade. And finally, God pushed the rainwaters through the fields in such a way that a canyon worthy of a spaghetti western formed in the coastal plain region of southwest Georgia.

If this view of things is correct, then it would also be true that God breached the human-made earthen work dam on Pennsylvania's south fork of the Little Conemaugh River that killed 2,200 people in 1889. The private owners of the dam even argued in court that the dam's failure was the product of divine providence rather than human negligence, despite overwhelming evidence of the latter. They won. Think about that. Their legal defense was "God did it" and they paid zero dollars in legal compensation for the losses. If folks want to fill up the Sunday morning pews to worship a god like that, I cannot stop them; but I will not. 

It seems much more likely, moral, and coherent that God's initial aim for the world is one of beauty and flourishing for both the human and non-human world. Humans inhabit a space of open possibilities and may accept this aim or reject it. Because God is love and love, by nature is noncontrolling, then God needs humans to actively participate in working towards that aim or expectation of wholeness, order, and flourishing -- what the Hebrew writers called shalom.

Pope Francis wrote in the 2015 encyclical Lautado Si that "The present world system is certainly unsustainable from a number of points of view, for we have stopped thinking about the goals of human activity." He continues, "If we scan the regions of our planet, we immediately see that humanity has disappointed God’s expectations." We often reject the "initial aims" or "goals of human activities" for short-term gain, private interests, and profit margins.  

Hence Providence Canyon, hence the Johnstown Flood, hence a lot of things. 

The walls of Providence Canyon are diminutive compared to the canyons of the Four Corners region. The destruction is also small compared to the man-made disaster of the Johnstown Flood. But Providence Canyon does bear witness to the awful potential of human ignorance and avarice. That's not to say you shouldn't visit it. It is truly something to behold. So go. Hike. Picnic. And when you do, consider the irony of its name because Ignorance and Avarice Canyon State Park doesn't roll off the tongue quite as well.

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Summer of '69 Syndrome

Climbing trip to Colorado (2012) from Kyle Sumner on Vimeo.

Summer of 2012, I headed west to Colorado. I did the same thing in 2013 and 2014, working for a backpacking guiding outfitter. In 2015, I headed west with my friend Josh. We had so much fun we did it again in 2017 and 2018. (I spent 2016 driving up, down, and around the Appalachians, climbing with anyone who would join me.) In the summer of 2019, I got married. That ruled. It still does. 

But the last few summers have looked different. 

One of the saddest tendencies of our species is the tendency to think that their best days are behind them. We all knew a guy still wearing his lettermen jacket years after graduation at the hometown bar. Maybe it's not the saddest, but it is pathetic. 

Let's call this desire to live in the past "Summer of '69 Syndrome." Named after, of course, Bryan Adams' baby boomer anthem that recounts the youthful bliss of summer. I like recounting those days too. It's fun. But the song repeats the line, "Those were the best days of my life!" Those were the best days of your life? Really? Nostalgia is a powerful drug and marketing strategy but come on, man. Get a life. 

My friend Leah and I worked together in Colorado, taking kids up mountains during some of those previously mentioned summers. We're neighbors now. She works with my wife, and her husband is one of my best friends. I'm at her house 1-2 times a week. We never really talk about "the glory days" because I think we're both in an unspoken agreement that the glory days are right now.

Wilderness Expeditions, Mt. Elbert, 2013

Yes, my summers look different. I sleep in a bed next to my life partner instead of a tent with my belay partner. I make my morning coffee in the kitchen rather than in the back of my truck. But I still use a Moka pot and I still get sweaty doing rad things and exploring beautiful places outside. 

Those trips dirtbagging and climbing around were amazing and I remember them fondly. They undoubtedly helped shape who I am. But instead of holding on to them like some kind of pearl of great price or faded letterman jacket, I try to let that adventurous spirit shape my life in this particular place: pushing myself to do hard things outside, coaching our school's rock climbing team, and exploring the creeks, cliffs, and hollers of the Cumberland Plateau. No, Mr. Adams, these are the best days of my life.

Summer 2022

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Ranking Chattanooga's Mountains

The Tennessee River Gorge

I love mountains. Living in Chattanooga, mountains surround me. From downtown, I am within a twenty-minute radius of no less than five mountains teeming with creeks, capped by cliffs, and sprawling with trails. They are what makes Chattanooga Outside Magazine's "Best Town Ever" twice and one of their 24 Best Mountain Towns in the U.S. for 2022. But not all mountains are created equal. That's why I have created a definitive, objective, and exhaustive ranking of Chattanooga's mountains.

About Our Mountains

 Some snobbishly inclined folks from America's "greater" mountain ranges thumb their noses at the Appalachians, especially the southern Appalachians. When I say I'm from Tennessee, these people turn into Crocodile Dundees of elevation. "That's not a mountain. That's a mountain." 

*shows you a google image search of Longs or Shasta* 

*flails on a southern V3 boulder problem or 5.8 trad line* 

Yes, our mountains are small. The Rockies would be too if they were 400 million years older and succumbed to the geologic pressure of erosion. 

In the ridge-and-valley province of the Appalachian region, mountains are long rather than tall. Lookout Mountain peaks at a mere 2,392 ft but runs 88 miles south starting from Chattanooga. Because of this, "peaks" and rises above the mountains' plateaus often receive local, colloquial names. For example, Raccoon Mountain is also Elder Mountain; I will use "Raccoon" because trash pandas are cooler than old people. This is also the case with Signal Mountain and Suck Creek Mountain. Both are part of the Cumberland Escarpment, known as Walden Ridge, that runs 74 miles through Tennessee. It all gets confusing. For my purposes, I will use Suck Creek Mountain to refer to areas west of and including Suck Creek Canyon and Signal Mountain for everything else.

A: Lookout Mountain

B: Mowbray Mountain

C: Raccoon Mountain

D: Signal Mountain

E: Suck Creek Mountain

About My Methodology

I rank the mountains according to arbitrary categories: swimming holes, mountain biking, rock climbing, etc. If you don't like my categories or think them insufficient, make your own mountain rankings. 

Points are awarded based on the quality of the category for each mountain. The point system goes as follows:

No (0 points): nope, nada, zero. This mountain does not offer anything in this category. Or it does but it's on private property which means it does not. I award this mountain no points and may God have mercy on your soul. 

Not really (1 point): Practically speaking, no. Sure, you could cool off in the pools above and below Glen Falls but you can't swim in them. 

Yes (2 points): This mountain has swimming holes or rock climbing or trail running and is worth your time but other mountains have better.  

Amazing (3 points): This mountain offers amazing recreation opportunities. Its [insert category] is unrivaled regionally and maybe even nationally (just look at the license plates in rock climbers' parking lots in winter around here). 

 

Admitting My Presuppositions

I've stood on summits from Maine to Washington, New Mexico to Canada. Little ol' Lookout is still my favorite mountain in the whole world. I've climbed hundreds of pitches (Mountain Project), logged  thousands of miles (Strava), and made a lifetime of memories (my brain) on this ancient prominence. I'll try to keep that love of place in check throughout my analysis.

Ranking Chattanooga's Mountains

Mowbray Mountain takes the swimming hole KOM with ease. From the ever-popular and ever-crowded Blue Hole to the not-so-secret-but-hard-to-get-to spots up in Big Soddy Gorge or Deep Creek: cold and clear wollerin' holes abound. Suck Creek And Signal Mountain have great roadside holes for a summer escape. Lookout gets a "Not Really" score because a truly majestic, God-tier, swimming spot exists but is inaccessible behind the private property lines of the Lula Lake Land Trust. Raccoon comes in last, though you could jump into the green, tepid waters of one of America's most polluted rivers if you wanted to. 

Rebecca about to take the plunge somewhere on Mowbray Mountain

Lookout Mountain's Guild-Hardy and Truck Trail systems are excellent after-work ramble or pieces of a bigger adventure ride. Expect everything from pea gravel to baby head-sized chonk. The area's best gravel is on top of Suck Creek Mountain in the Prentice Cooper State Forest. The main road offers 25 miles of out-and-back gravel grinding and the numerous Jeep spur trails make for rowdy and fun adventure biking. 

Alea, Brooks, and some folks I don't remember on Game Reserve Road

This is Raccoon Mountain's time to shine. The High Voltage trail was featured on Patagonia's "Best of Home" and I think the Live Wire trail gives it a run for its money. If you like technical and chunky riding with blistering, singletrack descents, then this is the trail system for you. Not to be outdone, Lookout Mountain features fast and fun mountain biking across its plateau. Many of which can be strung together via the 14-mile long Cloudland Connector Trail. 

Notice that Signal gets an alternative ranking because Walden's Ridge Park will be completed soon and offers downhill trails that people will want to travel from all over to ride. So that's cool.  

Brooks playing on the Chunky Trail of Raccoon Mountain

Again, everyone gets points here. If there are trails, then there's trail running. Raccoon comes in last because if you run here you may get mowed down by an unsuspecting mountain biker. I know because I've almost mowed down a few myself. They're MTB trails for a reason. 

Lookout Mountain's battlefield national park offers a web of trails that link up in a myriad of ways but its 10-mile Big Daddy Loop is its pride and joy. Suck Creek boasts the Pot Point and Mullins Cove loops. Both measure about 13 miles and can be done together in a figure-8 for a trail marathon(ish) that will kick you in the pants. Finally, don't sleep on Mowbray Mountain where the Cumberland Trail traverses its plateau and descends and climbs back out of its steep cliff-lined gorges. 

Rebecca descending the Bluff Trail on Lookout Mountain

Chattanooga drops the ball in this category, at least in its greater-metropolitan statistical area. Segments of the Cumberland Trail cut through Mowbray, Signal, and Suck Creek Mountains and make for nice overnighters but the real good stuff is a few hours away in the Smokies. 

Reid backpacking the Cumberland Trail on Mowbray Mountain

Everybody gets points here. Even you, Raccoon. Chattanooga is the crown jewel of southern rock climbing and maybe even climbing east of the Mississippi. My favorite single-pitch trad crag in the world is Sunset Park atop Lookout Mountain. Mowbray boasts overhanging sport climbing and world-class bouldering (LRC, yes but don't miss the horizontal roof-pulling down the road on the Cumberland Trail). Lastly, Tennessee Wall attracts trad climbers from all over the country to its orange and tan sandstone walls during the year's coldest months. Because "T-Wall" is southern facing, you can climb in a t-shirt in January. 

myself bouldering at the base of Signal Mountain

The Final Analysis: Chattanooga's Mountains Ranked

Suck Creek Mountain: 14

Lookout Mountain: 13

Mowbray Mountain: 11

Signal Mountain: 10 (though soon to be 12, probably)

Raccoon Mountain: 7

Chattanooga's best mountain is Suck Creek Mountain. You can climb the formidable cliffs of the Tennessee Wall; dunk in the numerous swimming holes along Suck Creek Road; run the Pot Point loop; backpack the Cumberland Trail; bike Game Reserve Road to Insurance Bluff; or car camp at Davis Pond. All of these reasons make it Chattanooga's best mountain -- even better than Lookout. 

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Not My Words: How to Blow Up a Pipeline

possums rule and monkeywrenching is good

How to Blow Up a Pipeline is not an instruction manual. It is, instead, a philosophical reflection on the utility of violence (re: property destruction). It was a challenging read for this anabaptish, Quaker-lite, grad-school-ethics-class-psuedo-pacifist but I'm glad I did. A recent study of 20,000 people across 27 countries found that a fifth of all those under the age of 35 think it's too late to fix climate change. Here, Malm decries climate fatalism and urges imaginative action. 

"Climate fatalism is a performative contradiction. It does not passively reflect a certain distribution of probabilities but actively affirms it. Or, it may become a self-fulfilling prophecy: that which is repeatedly asserted to impossible can thereby become impossible. The more people who tell us that a radical reorientation is scarcely imaginable, the less imaginable it will be. 

Imagination is a pivotal faculty here. The climate crisis unfolds through a series of interlocked absurdities: not only is it easier to imagine the end of the world than the end of capitalism, it is also easier, at least for some, to imagine learning to die than learning to fight, to reconcile oneself to the end of everything one holds dear than to consider militant resistance. Climate fatalism does all in its power to confirm these paralyzing absurdities." -- Andreas Malm, How to Blow Up a Pipeline (2021)

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