The Southern Appalachians have my heart. For more than fifty years, I’ve hiked worn footpaths through these ancient mountains – among the oldest on Earth – from Virginia to the foothills of North Georgia. Unglaciated, this range is known for its folded mountains, distinctive blue haze, steep ridges, and high elevation spruce-fir forests: a heavily eroded landform shaped by time and water.
When I close my eyes and think about the temperate Appalachian forests of hardwoods and pines, I see rhododendron tunnels with tangled, arching branches. I see spring’s ephemeral wildflowers and immense old-growth trees. In my mind’s eye, I gaze on waves of peaks and valleys in all shades of blue, extending to infinity. I hear birdsong and the sound of water flowing over rocks and logs in cold, clear streams: the music of flowing, dripping, cascading, and rushing water. Crisscrossed by hundreds of thousands of miles of rivers and streams, the Southern Appalachians are damp and lush. They are also comforting. I return to these woods not for dramatic landscapes but to come home.
Winter Woods
As a birthday gift, my sons invited me to hike with them in late February to a rustic backcountry lodge in North Georgia – only a few miles from the beginning of the iconic Appalachian Trail. In 1999, a year after it opened, we visited the Len Foote Hike Inn for the first time. Our Thanksgiving that year was spent in nature, surrounded by like-minded strangers. Charles, Rob, and I joined them at long wooden tables for meals and then afterwards around the warmth of a wood stove in the “sunrise room.” It rained, but we didn’t mind. Over the decades, I’ve returned to the inn with friends and colleagues.
As we set off on our recent five-mile hike to the inn, the weather is excellent. For much of the way, my sons allow me to set the pace, slower than their long legs prefer, but at a respectable speed. Still winter, the largely deciduous Southern Appalachian forests showcase their tree canopy architecture with minimalist lines, curving branches, and textured bark. Long views down steep slopes without summer’s greenery emphasize the contours of the land.
The trunks of understory sourwood trees lean and twist to find gaps of sunlight. I love the deep furrows and scaly ridges of their beautiful bark. Nestled among the fallen, brown leaves, I see single green leaves with deep purple undersides. By spring, each crane-fly orchid leaf will disappear, replaced in mid-summer by a slender stalk adorned with delicate, insect-like blooms. After more than two hours on the trail, a mile marker indicates we are nearing our destination. I look upslope and see the outline of a gray building that appears to be growing organically out of the mountain. We have arrived.
Almost Didn’t Happen
Every time I visit the inn, I think of my friend Hillrie Quin, who died six years ago. A dynamic conservationist with a passion for the outdoors and a hearty laugh, he was essential to the success of Georgia’s only true backcountry lodge–along with a handful of other people. They never gave up on their dream, despite repeated setbacks. As his wife Beverly observed when Hillrie died: “Any problem he saw, he faced it head on and tackled it, and would usually solve it.” The same could be said of the other individuals whose work manifested the Len Foote Hike Inn.
Like many other positive efforts in Georgia and around the world, the inn’s story begins with Jimmy Carter. In the early 1970s, as governor, he reorganized the state government and created the Georgia Department of Natural Resources (DNR). To its board, he appointed Len Foote, a noted natural scientist and author, along with other well-respected conservationists and environmentalists. (Today, this governor-appointed board does not include a single scientist, conservationist, or environmentalist.)
Foote helped the DNR evaluate natural areas statewide for possible purchase. He was particularly enthusiastic about a study that recommended the creation of lodges, including a backcountry-style lodge: a rustic, off-grid facility. Sadly, insufficient funding and Foote’s death in 1989 brought the project to a standstill.
In 1995, Lonice Barrett became commissioner of DNR, and Burt Weerts became parks director. The backcountry lodge dream was given new life. A necessary land swap was finalized and construction drawings commissioned. Money from the legislature was still an issue, as always, but Weerts persisted and ultimately prevailed. The state would build the inn and own the property, but who would manage it? Because of personnel cutbacks, the state couldn’t hire operating staff.
Barrett turned to Hillrie Quin, who had started the nonprofit Friends of Georgia State Parks, to help solve the problem. A new nonprofit was created to manage the inn. As Hillrie noted later: “The right people with the right skills stepped up at just the right time.” The new organization needed a not insignificant amount of start-up money. Board members ponied up personal funds, with Quin leading the effort.
Other issues and construction challenges followed, notably mud from an unusually rainy year–not easy to navigate when trying to build a sustainable structure with minimal impacts. A decision to develop an on-grid facility changed the project’s original vision to some degree, but the team stayed true to its mission. Designed to look like a traditional Japanese inn on stilts, the handsome structure follows the natural slope of the mountain. No grading was required.
Len Foote’s spirit permeates the inn named in his honor through his wildflower photos, vintage wooden backpack, books, and commitment to sustainability – minimal waste, passive solar, natural lighting and ventilation, use of native plant species, and composting toilets. Our lives are made immeasurably better by the persistence of visionary leaders and average citizens.
Find out more about the Len Foote Hike Inn at hike-inn.com.
