The Cave at Hanging Rock

While attending UNC-Greensboro the city began to close in my spirit and I developed a yearning for the mountains and the freedom that only a ridge top vista can give you. My home in Old Fort was more than two hours away and I didn’t want to travel that far to satisfy my fix for a high ridge experience. I had heard that there were mountains about an hour’s drive from my dorm in Greensboro that might fit the bill for a daytime adventure, away from the business of the university. Armed with a road map and my college roommate, Alan, we set off early on a Saturday to discover what Hanging Rock State Park might offer a couple of carefree college bums in the way of entertainment.

The road to the park began with a circuitous drive through the northern part of Greensboro, since there were no good routes that led northwest from the campus. After a few wrong turns, we found the state route that appeared on our NC map heading toward our objective. The road opened up to rolling hills and fields of soybean, corn and cattle pastures, broken by stands of hardwood trees. Houses that were so prevalent when we started our journey disappeared into the landscape. The rural homes and mobile homes didn’t have the flash and size of the city houses but they reminded me of my own landscapes from back home. We settled into to a constant speed of 50 to 60 miles per hour, fast enough to keep cars from backing up on our rear. With our windows down and the music blaring from my Chevy Nova to the unsuspecting tranquil countryside, Alan and I were temporal nomads looking for our mountain kingdom.

Being young men, our minds were generally consumed with either sex or hunger or both. The former didn’t appear to have any possible way of being satisfied on our road trip but the billboard advertising “Hillbilly Hideaway Restaurant” might possibly take care of the later. The advertisement talked about an all-you-can-eat buffet of ‘homemade vegetables and meats.’ One of our dorm mates was from near the park and he had recommended the Hideaway as a possible lunch stop. Living in Guilford dorm meant that we were tied to the campus cafeteria as our primary eating establishment. The cafeteria always had plenty of food but as far a being a culinary delight, it was not. The problem we had was the universal problem of most young college students…… money. We had put most of our funds for the month into the gas tank of the Nova for our Saturday outing. It was towards the end of the month and I knew that my Navy Reserve check would be in the mail at the first of the month so I wouldn’t be completely broke for long. Together, Alan and I had almost $30 but the day was early. The sign for the Hillbilly Hideaway marking the short driveway to the restaurant lured us like the sirens of Stokes County; its smells of corn, ham and other assorted foods wafting into our cracked windows. The distinctive scent of fresh bread was the clincher as I turned my Nova into the driveway and the parking lot filled with pickups and late-model cars. The place was packed.

We were happy to see the sign posted in the foyer that we would be able to eat without breaking the bank. $7.99 with free tea was the ticket for two college guys that hadn’t had a good home cooked meal in a couple of months. Though we were a couple of misplaced college boys, we didn’t feel uncomfortable as the young waitress flirted with us while she showed us to our red-and-white checkboard table with its cane bottom-ladderback chairs. Alan used his gift of gab with the girl but I quickly reminded him that she was no more than a high school junior and that he had no business trying to make time out in the middle of the country. She brought us our teas, in mason jars, and asked if we needed anything else. Alan bit his tongue when I kicked him under the table and I asked about the location of the buffet. She pointed towards an opening that led to another room. The narrow passage looked like an entrance to a yellow jacket nest, people coming and going with piles of food on the plain white plates. Alan and I didn’t have to told twice where the food trough was.

After an hour and a half and multiple trips to the buffet, Alan and I finally quit. The food was so much better than our usual fare at the school which only invited gluttony. We also had the mentality that we were going to get our money’s worth since we didn’t have much money in the first place. My nose for good bread didn’t betray me as one of the most popular items on the bar was the large homemade perfectly browned biscuits. They were light and fluffy, a perfect scotch for loose vegetables and the honey that was a condiment on every table. I have no idea how many biscuits I consumed but as I reared back in the chair my distended stomach spoke of pleasure though I did suffer some discomfort. We tipped our still flirtatious server and made our way to the cashier to pay our bill. The owner seemed glad that we were leaving, figuring that she had lost money on the buffet to us. We didn’t regret our unintended lunch stop at the restaurant and the Hideaway became a highly recommended eatery for the guys at Guilford for months in the future. It wasn’t until the owner caught onto the influx of college boys coming to her restaurant, usually on weekends, that she raised the rates by a few dollars. The additional cost was enough to keep us at bay from the bi-weekly trips we had been making to gorge on the homemade buffet.

Back in the road, Alan and I began to see the Sauratown Mountains gently rise in the windshield of my Nova. The mountains aren’t imposing like the Black Mountains back home but they were certainly defined ridges, standing silently above the piedmont plain. As we closed in on the park, the finger-like ridges that made up the mountains became more defined giving the hills their rugged structure. In places, rocky crags poked through the blanket of trees that shined in the multi-colors of their autumn glory. I turned my Chevy into the park entrance and Alan and I were grateful that the booth at the park entrance didn’t require a daily use fee. We grabbed a map of the park and follow the route to the parking lot that was at the foot of the trail to the high top of Hanging Rock itself. Alan and I took note of the campground on our way commenting about how great a weekend at the facility might be. The parking lot was fairly full since it was a Saturday and an autumn weekend.

Alan and I quickly started up the trail which gradually increased in elevation towards the rocky face of Hanging Rock. Our objective came into view as the trail made its way up the south facing slope, a rocky face that appeared to be 100 feet of jumbled rock with sheer edges mixed into the obstruction. We followed the trail around the mountain until we came to the top of the mountain. The view off the top gave me a sense of my smallness and the greatness of the piedmont which lay in patches of pastures, trees and rivers which snaked through the stilled landscape. A gentle breeze caused some of the leaves to detach and flutter off the mountain into the vast abyss of air, rising and falling with the updrafts, before disappearing into the canopy of trees below us. It was a picture post-card of fall on a mountain-top despite it being 100 miles from the Blue Ridge escarpment.

After knocking down a few gulps of water and a couple hands full of trail mix, Alan and I decided to retrace our steps and find the foot of the cliffs. We had heard that there was a good climb up the face of the rock just below us. The view from above looking daunting and I wasn’t sure about the wisdom of trying to navigate the rocks, especially without any climbing equipment. Alan wasn’t deterred in the least. His personality was always bent toward the edge of safety. After graduation from UNC-G he enlisted in the Marine Corp, looking for the next thrilling challenge. I’ve heard he works oversees in a Blackwater type outfit providing support for various groups of militants in the Arab world. On this day he wouldn’t be satisfied until we found the bottom the cliff and challenged ourselves on an untethered climb.

It took us about an hour and some bushwhacking to arrive at the bottom of the rock face. There were so many rudimentary trails that indicated that we weren’t the first folks to take on the cliff but they held little comfort for me. My acrophobia had already begun, causing my palms to sweat and dry my mouth. Alan said he would take the lead which didn’t help me a great deal other than giving me a clear path to follow up the escarpment. The initial climb wasn’t too bad since the height wasn’t much and the rock was broken enough to provide large foot and hand holds for my big hands and size 13 feet. In fact, my early success gave me the confidence I would need as we snaked our way up the rock. I did have to slow Alan down at times since he was so determined to find a route to the top which was still many feet above us. The rock helped with this somewhat when he slipped slightly on a loose hold, the rock kicking some of itself from his hand. Fortunately, it was only small pieces, none of which came close to hitting me below. Alan found a ledge 40 feet into our climb, about 2 feet deep and 10 feet wide, where we decided to rest and reassess our decision.

Waves of anxiety hit me as I looked off our perch on the side of the mountain. I was questioning whether or not my decision to follow my crazy roommate was a wise one. After some water and trail mix and words of encouragement, I turned back toward the task before us. I felt better looking at the rock face than the vista that opened behind us. I poured my concentration into the nooks and crannies of the climb, none of which were over taxing but enough to keep my focus sharp. Alan finally came to portion of the rock where the easy climb became more difficult. The jumble of rock became more of a smooth face leaving Alan few choices to ascend. There was a chimney-like structure in the rock that Alan felt we could navigate by back pressuring up the divide. I was completely unsure of this maneuver, but he assured me that he had used this move in the past to get up similar rock features. We were well up the cliff by this time and the top was within view. Despite my protests, Alan wedged himself into the chimney and began a slow ascent, using his back as leverage as his feet slowly pulled his body upwards. It was as if he were doing a controlled dance within the rock itself, wriggling up the tight quarters, the 15 feet of struggle seeming to be 100 feet. However, in no time Alan made his way to a large ledge, encouraging me to join him at the top. He also pointed out that there appeared to be a cave-like entrance at the top of the chimney and that I need to see it for myself.

I stood at the bottom of the chimney for some time, examining the smooth rock that was supposed to hold my now quivering body. Alan had prodded me at other times on the climb but his cajoling was not enough to motivate me to get started on this part of the climb. My breathing was rapid, my palms were soaked and knew that I had screwed up by getting myself into such a perilous position. I glanced over my shoulder and looked down the rock, realizing that I had reach a point of no return. The climb down would be difficult, especially without my partner. Alan pointed this out as well, which spurred me to the chimney. I carefully propped my back against the rock and pulled my feet into position to begin the ascent. I was surprised how well I did in this type of climb. My taller than normal body allowed me to leverage myself even better than my roommate in the rock. I purposely didn’t look off the mountain, keeping my focus on where I placed my feet and the amount of rock to be navigated. After a few minutes of hyper-focus, I arrived at the ledge, greeted by the welcome hand of my roommate. I was so relieved I could almost cry.

When we got to the outcrop, I realized that Alan was correct about a possible cave opening. We navigated an opening to what looked like a fissure in the cliff, its darkness concealing its contents. We eased into the darkness, trying to dissipate it with our BIC lighters. The cave’s opening was 4 feet wide and 10 feet high but it quickly reduced a small shaft after we got 5 or 6 feet into the cave. We struggled to get to the end of the cave and saw that it closed off no more than 15 fifteen feet from the entrance. Bummed that the cave didn’t offer more, we turned back and started back up the rock face. Alan was correct in his assessment of the climb above the chimney, it was more of having to navigate boulder-like climbs rather than sheer faces. In a few minutes, we had topped the mountain and were enjoying the pastoral scene once again.

The warm autumn sun soothed my tense muscles as Alan and I relaxed on one of the large boulders on top of Hanging Rock. I couldn’t believe how well I had handled the challenge of the rock climb and precarious positions I had place myself. The last of our water in our bottles quenched my throat and we both destroyed the bag of trail mix. We both gabbed about our victory over the cliff as if we were some kind of conquering heroes. In retrospect, I am grateful that our foolish behavior wasn’t accompanied by some tragic outcome. As we talked, Alan and I began talking about the cave and how it would be if it had led to some deep passageway, complete with a couple of huge rooms, tight crawl spaces and unfathomably deep pits. It was at this point we conspired to embellish our climb with just such a story about the fissure cave to our dormmates back at UNC-Greensboro. Many of them knew Alan and I were going to Hanging Rock and were interested in following us in the coming weeks if the trip seemed to be worth the effort. The story of a mythical cave would certainly generate a great deal of interest.

Alan and I made our way off the mountain and began our return journey back to city. The trail down the mountain gave us one final thrill as we recklessly ran down the path, grabbing trees to keep from falling and slinging ourselves around the switchbacks. We hollered gleefully, our primal screams warning other hikers that out-of-control trailblazers were flying down the trail. We were given strange and derisive looks as we descended without any concern for life or limb. It was exhilarating!

Alan and I considered a return trip to the Hideaway but realized the visit would probably eat up the rest of our meager funds. We opted for a dope and a pack of crackers, hoping to get back to campus in time to catch free food from the cafeteria. Our return was timed out well since we made supper with 15 minutes to spare. At the cafeteria, several of our dormmates were finishing up supper so we had a very engaged audience that wanted to hear about our adventure at Hanging Rock. We shared about the great find at the Hillbilly Hideaway, which was an easy sell since the evening meal at the cafeteria featured what we called ‘train wreck’, aka. rigatoni noodles with marinated beef, one our least favorite meals. After much agreement about the worthiness of the Hideaway, Alan and I began to detail our hike and climb at the park. We carefully led our captive audience through the rigors of the climb and hooked them with the fabricated story of the mysterious cave. I could see all of them envisioning exploration of the cave with several of them planning their assault for the following weekend. Alan and I dismissed the idea of going back to lead the climb due to pressing issues we each had for the following weekend. We looked forward to the report they would bring back after their assault.

Alan and I could barely hold our tongue as our planned prank worked out to perfection. We saw a group of eight guys load up in a couple of vehicles bound for ‘the Rock.’ They had secured some rope and a couple of camping lanterns, fully prepared to uncover the secrets of the abyss. That day seemed to pass slowly as Alan and I waited for their inevitable return. Just as dark settled on the campus, the gang of eight banged on our door, demanding to speak to us. Alan and I first protested their assaults on our tale, insisting that they had climbed the wrong face of the mountain and therefore not encountered the cave of wonders.  They insisted they had since they all had negotiated the chimney climb that Alan and I had mentioned in our reporting of our visit to the mountain. Finally, Alan and I both lost our composure and began laughing. To their credit, there were no hard feelings, only disappointment that our mythical cave didn’t exist. We did talk for sometime about the challenging climb and the beauty of the park.           

I returned to the park a couple more times in my two year stint at UNC-Greensboro. Each trip we challenged ourselves with the climb and visited the small fissure cave that provided so much levity and enjoyment. It wasn’t the climb or the cave that drew me back to this lone outpost of mountains rather it was the mountains themselves. Our daily lives are filled with mundane activities and flatness that needs to be levitated with occasional trips to mountain tops. The vastness of our world can only be assess from the vistas they afford us. The challenges of their climbs tax but also charge our confidence and psyche. The hidden caves they hold allow us to expand our imagination in order to weave stories that can spur others to action.