Twists and Turns to Rendezvous With Elk

The elk that populate Cataloochee Valley wear a dark tan coat with a ruffle of darker brown hair around their thick necks. A bull elk’s antlers can span more than four feet across. In the late afternoon and near dusk, individuals, pairs and small herds materialize out of the dark forests that surround the valley’s expansive meadows to graze the open fields. 

Bull elk guard their harem from younger interlopers, chasing them off with a sudden lunge. Not being inclined to share the gene pool, the bulls call their grazing females closer with a high-pitched warbling trumpet sound to keep them nearby. They come to him from across fields and roads to gather and graze.

Mixed in the herd are baby calves standing next to their mothers, nursing beneath broad stomachs or prancing among the other elk. Young bucks butt heads and look wistfully at the cows. 

Drivers can pull off to the side of the road to watch the elk that mostly ignore their quiet stares. There is a hushed peacefulness as visitors from across the United States watch and photograph the magnificent animals.

Getting to Cataloochee Valley from our home in the mountains to see the elk is a journey. You must drive down a dirt and gravel road from our house at the top of Tracking Elk Trail, and then follow Yonah Trail a mile and half to the bottom. It’s a winding and sometimes rain-rutted road with several hairpin turns and few places to let another vehicle pass. 

Like many mountain roads, it had a purpose long before our arrival. There’s an old homestead up in the holler at the head of the dirt road. All that remains is a stone pile that was once a chimney. The stream that runs through our property comes out of the ground here, and old apple trees languish in the shadows of larger pines and hardwoods. 

Hinted outlines of old logging roads are carved along the edge of the mountains. Yonah Trail was once one such a road, used by strong men and oxen to haul enormous hardwoods out of the mountains. Today, it carries neighbors to homes built into the mountains.

The winding and narrow Yonah Trail lives up to its name and is not for the faint of heart. But after several bumpy rides up and down, most people get acclimated.

Yonah Trail begins and ends at Cove Creek Road, so named for the small creek that runs beside it year-round. Where Yonah Trail empties onto Cove Creek Road, a left turn takes you down the narrow valley past cows grazing, grass and boulder-strewn pastures that push up to towering trees, a scattering of trailers and faded farmhouses, more modern homes, the continually rushing stream to Jonathan Creek Road, and on to Waynesville or Asheville. 

But we didn’t go that way. We turned right up the cove. For the next 15 minutes, the SUV growled and climbed up the blacktop, past homes tucked into the side of the mountain on one side and a drop off to the tree-covered valley floor on the other. Up we went, switching back up the mountain until we came to the end of the pavement and the beginning of a dirt road.

There is no guardrail between the edge of the road and a journey to God, so prudence (go slow) and caution (don’t look down) are exercised. Sharp turns are navigated slowly, lest another car driven by a frightened tourist is coming down, hogging the entire roadbed. 

The road has changed from when it was the only eastern way in and out of Cataloochee Valley. The people who once lived in the valley rode horses and guided buckboard wagons over what was then a narrower and bumpier path carved by wagon wheels. They followed a trail used by animals, native residents and explorers for hundreds of years. For valley settlers, this was their highway to Waynesville, North Carolina, to buy sugar, textiles, salt, needles and thread, medicine and other essentials.

It took us less than an hour to navigate the road, but once took valley people in wagons a day or more. For generations people farmed the valley, raising cattle, hogs, chickens and crops to sustain themselves, and hunted the woods for elk, deer, bear and turkey. The spring-fed creek served their spring houses—keeping their milk and cheese cool and providing a place to hang their cured meats. In later years, it was stocked with trout for the tourists.

At one time the Appalachian Mountains towered as tall as the Swiss and French Alps. Snow crested and etched by the upward movement of tectonic plates, the mountains have been eroded by ice and water to gentler reflections of their former selves. 

The federal government decided in 1938 that the greater good would be served to create a national park from the area that included the ancient valley and the thousands of square miles of surrounding woodland and mountains. The residents were removed, all but a few of their houses destroyed and, for those families that could not take their livestock with them, their animals were slaughtered or left to fend for themselves. A church, school, graveyard, clapboard barn and a two-story wood-frame house that is now home to bats were left standing to echo the once-vibrant community.

Like tourists, we twisted and turned up the dirt road to get to the valley, cresting the top of the mountain and passing an open single-bar metal gate that is swung shut and locked during winter snowstorms. We wound slowly through the shadows cast by ancient trees with trunks the circumference of a kitchen table. Dust kicked up from those that preceded us, lightly coating the windshield and car. Minutes later we arrived at another paved road. If we went right, we would continue on through the woods on a narrower dirt road that would take us into Tennessee. As we turned left into the valley, I occasionally took my foot off the gas pedal, letting the road’s steepness propel us down the mountain. An overlook promised magnificent views of rolling mountains to the western horizon as we curved smoothly around the edge of tree-covered rock outcroppings.

As we entered the valley, a white house with a small porch appeared on the right. It serves as a ranger station and has a grassy open field divided by a split-rail fence. Two young male elk were grazing. I pulled the SUV to the side of the road and stepped out to get a closer look. Unlike the fully-grown bucks, which weigh about 700 pounds and each year carry a magnificent rack of horns, these were not as hefty and their racks not as developed.

With camera in hand, I walked up along the edge of the fence, keeping it between the elk and me. As I drew nearly even, one of the elk raised his head, stared, and started toward me. I took pictures as he approached, concentrating on the shots.

He came closer to crane his head and neck over the fence. I stopped taking pictures and looked at him, just an arm’s length away. 

In the background I heard my mother yelling. “Be careful David! Come away from him.” Mothers seem to forget that their sons grow up and have made their way in the world fairly successfully without injury since they were in their late teens. Yes, I have done some foolish things in my 55 years, but this situation was different.

I ignored my mother’s urgent words as I have often done since I was old enough to get away with it. Park rangers warn people not to approach the elk. I rationalized that I was not actually approaching this particular elk. In fact, he was approaching me. I stood my ground.

I extended my hand toward the young elk’s face. He extended his head toward my hand and took the tips of my fingers in his lips and tasted them. His outer lips were slightly rough yet gentle and soft on the inside. His large brown eyes stared at me. For a few seconds we stood there, connected to each other across the fence, in an ancient valley, timeless. And then he stepped back, snorted, turned and slowly walked away.

People had probably given him food in the past and he may have expected the same from me.

I had nothing to share—just a calm moment in time and a connection between a man and a wild animal. I suspect it was more enjoyable for me than for him.