After an hour and a half of walking, I had risen above the matted
rhododendron vines, risen away from the bounding little rock-bedded
mountain stream, risen to heights where the trail came out from among
the trees and one could stand and look forever.
And it was then I realized for the first time in my life, that there can
be as much majesty and stirring beauty in Eastern mountains as in the
Rockies.
Many times on the trail I just stopped and stared and stared. I don’t
know that I have ever seen a lovelier sight than the onward-stretching
undulations of the haze-softened and color-splashed immensities of the
Great Smoky Mountains.