Untethered as the Birds: Zip Lining in the Smoky Mountains
September 12th, 2020
It is when our five-passenger ATV—revving loudly in protest—gets its powerful treads stuck in the orange clay trail that leads us up the slopes of the temperate rainforest, that I realize this is not going to be a manicured adventure. I am splattered as the wheels, stationarily spinning, send chunks of mud in all directions. My stomach plummets as I feel our vehicle begin to glide left, then right, and finally—goodness gracious—backwards. I glance at the steep road behind us. Did they just say we have to walk the rest of the way?
Our guides and fellow tourists exit the false security of our buggy, and I am immediately thrown off balance as my feet melt into copper puddles of oozing mud. With each squelching step of my sneakers, smacking loudly as their suction’s release leaves dense imprints behind, I move everywhere but upward.
I am rescued by the steady hands of our youthful instructors (Lowe, Katy, and Reece), who you wouldn’t guess are only here for the summer. When we’ve ascended the wood and iron spiral staircases and reach various platforms among the trees, they are fearlessly agile. As though raised by chimpanzees, they dangle precariously from the landing’s edge with laughter on their lips.
I feel giddy as they lead us higher, higher, higher into the sky, leaving the lush green trees that once surrounded us at our feet, and at the feet of the rugged blue peaks I now spot in the distance, shrouded in wisps of fog. The most biodiverse National Park in the United States, the Smoky Mountains smell of mist, clay, and clouds. I inhale the trees’ breath and relish the tingle of minuscule rain droplets that litter my skin, no longer fighting the inevitable merging of my once-clean body with Earth’s fingerprints.
We cross a suspension bridge to the topmost platform, and my cheeks ache from smiling. The view is panoramic, painted with clouds in every shade of melancholy. Peeking out from the foliage far below, I can see the platforms we came from, small as dollhouses from where I stand. My rib cage expands like a balloon, drinking in the intoxicating tranquility of the scene. And then, as the clinking sound of carabiners on a cable reaches my ears, the balloon pops. It is time to return to the ground.
My companion and I are the first to be ushered to the zip line, so we have no time to think our feet cold. Clinging tightly to the icy metal bars above my head, I sink deeper into the straps of the harness digging into my hips, testing them. Will they hold? It is unnatural: to willingly step into open air. Go. I try once, twice, three times. Then, finally—fighting all instinct—I force my feet to lift.
I am swept away.
The platform, along with my fear, shrinks behind me. A scream of laughter I can’t control escapes my lips, echoing in the vastness. I am flying! Frigid wind hits the water on my face and arms. The line above me hisses like a massive bee. My lungs fill with bliss as I gaze at the endless span of Smokies that float by me. Can they be the very same peaks we witnessed moments before? Untethered as the birds, my weightlessness makes me privy to all dimensions of these sleeping giants. I see them with new eyes. Tourists may capture their likeness from the ground, but there are things they cannot know; things that I do, now—like the secrets of a lover.
My body lunges forward as I reach the end of the cable, gravity claiming me once more as it pulls my limbs in all directions before our guide steadies me on the platform. My fingers tremble, but the smile on my face is secure. I am hungry for more. Line after line, we zip our way through the mountains’ intimate crevasses until her pines surpass our height once more, submerging us in our appropriate place on the ground. The gradual goodbye leaves us kin. I know that when I leave, I will remember her. I will see her in the wisps of steam that rise from my coffee, in the black bears that decorate my baby boy’s room, and—most of all—in the lush green happiness of my memory.
