Upon the great wild folds of the Cumberland Plateau (a broad, deeply dissected, and densely wooded plateau that drops from Northern Kentucky to the northern tier of counties in Alabama) and its mountains and gorges there flow ten thousand wild, falling streams, if not far more. Swift and clear they are, cascading over rock and tree and cold-riven earth. Rill and brook, branch and creek, fork and river – laughing, leaping, meandering, sleeping they go, making for the ocean far off. Lovely in spring, summer, harvest, and winter, they froth and foam. The aroma of a mountain stream under a bower of rhododendron has no equals. I wish I could adequately describe it to you, but it defies description or capture. The spray of a plunging silver waterfall from a great ledge refreshes the face and tongue and soul. The melody of a stream meeting a ledge and boulder and exchanging greeting surpasses all the music of the world in its sublimity.

These streams are bone-chillingly cold in winter. For that matter, they are cold year-round, but winter brings snowmelts and ice and cold nights and days. Winter brings rains and melting snows that cause the streams to flow to their brims, and over. Swifter, deeper, wider, colder – the winter pours forth watery grandeur and beauty, but it is perilous beauty for those who go on two feet and have not those indelible luxuries we call bridges.

A bridge is something we take for granted in our modern world: a rare privilege, it is, to have good, dependable bridges. I suppose some lands have such privileges, however, my own state of Mississippi has yet to discover them. A word to those inclined to travel here: beware of dubious-looking back-road bridges! But, that is straying from the point. At any rate, no matter how unsafe our bridges are, they can still (usually) bear up under foot traffic. But not all lands and routes have bridges. In dim, far-off times, folk had to ford streams, and that slightly odd – no, quite odd – breed of modern folk, known as backpackers, still do. These are those folk who hoist massive packs and wander off into the wilderness in order to eat granola and instant noodles and shiver in a cramped little tent. Of which I am one, quite gladly.

So I and a friend found ourselves, hoisting heavy packs bearing little tents and granola, off in the magnificent wilds along the Tennessee-Kentucky state line. The nearest town to the region, known as the Big South Fork, is either Jamestown or Onieda, neither of which is a regular feature of the nightly news. We struck off on the Laurel Fork Loop, described in the guidebook as one of the loveliest streamside hikes in the area. Which it is – once one is past a handful of fordings. This I knew, but my companion maintains that he did not learn of it until we were halfway down the trail.

“Yeah, uh, once we get over this ford, there’s only, uh – look! what a nice tree! – ten or twelve fords, and, uh, are your shoes back on?”

“Ten or twelve fords?” The emotion here is one of disgusted surprise. Though, of course, he had nothing to be surprised at, as I had of course lain all before him beforehand. Or, at least, most of the details.

“We’ve only gone ten yards – we’ve got to cross this thing again?”

“Well, yes….”

The first stream on our route, besides Station Camp Creek some miles before, which was bridged, was Black Camp Branch – a “rock-hop” according to the guidebook, “except in wet-weather.” It had been, of course, exceptionally wet weather before our trip.

“Of course, this is only a branch – I mean, the big creek, er, Laurel Fork, shouldn’t be much bigger, I don’t think. Come on man, it’s just a little water!”

Certainly, the water was cold. Bone-chilling, yes. I could feel my feet, somewhat; I have no idea what he was complaining about. I suppose my feet are rather tough – I make it a habit in summer to go unshod, for situations such as this. Guidebooks advise you to carry “wadingshoes”: nonsense if there ever was any. City slickers wear “wadingshoes.” Real adventurers trample the sharp jagged stone and piercing limbs with the “wadingshoes” we were born with.

We forded Black Camp Branch for the last time. I discovered a patch of snow beneath a fallen tree, and a patch of climbing fern – still green – was still compressed from the snow and glistening wet from the melt. It was in the low fifties, but the area had experienced an early snowfall the Saturday before. We came to a junction of trails. The horse trail we had been on struck out straight; our hiking path veered left and east, down Laurel Fork.

Not twenty yards from the trailhead the path dropped down through a little cleft in the bank and crossed the creek. No stepping-stones here, and no narrows: thirty, forty feet of swift, knee-deep water, and precarious rocks and sharp gravel. Actually, the crossing would not have been bad had it not been for an irregularity of my companion’s equipment. His sleeping bag hung down at the bottom of his pack, but wasn’t secure – it rather dangled down. He liked it that way, he said.

Down into the quick-flowing water he went, shoes in one hand, his other hand against his bag to keep it from being prematurely cold-wash cleaned. I sat down on the bank and took off my shoes and socks and watched his progress. He looked rather comical, so I took the chance to take a photo. I was feeling rather jovial at the moment, and was quite enjoying our fordings – a taste of danger and what not, great fun, not to mention a refreshment for weary, cramped feet. I imagined myself trudging on some great adventure in Middle Earth or Scotland or some vague, indefinable place where such adventures take place. Suddenly, my imaginative rapture was broken.

“My shoe! My shoe! Ahhh!”

“Nooo!”

As my friend crossed the stream, he slipped on a stone, and his sleeping bag slipped as well. Instinct brought his other hand to grab it; unfortunately, instinct forgot that said hand was already occupied. One shoe was saved – the other took off down the stream at a very fast clip. Immediately thoughts began to flash through my mind of the imminent end of our trip, of the imminent end of my friend’s foot, and the certain end of my good-sense. Crying out some sort of ancient utterance of battle against the hostile forces of the world, I sprang madly across the stream. It was cold, and my pants legs were not completely rolled up. Ah well. My friend, succumbing to despair and a sudden desire to end our adventure, sat down on the opposite bank and threw off his pack. He looked as if were going to throw something at me. But he didn’t have the chance, as I threw off my pack and coat and took off through the woods – barefoot and pants somewhat rolled up – on the chase of the shoe. On reflection, chasing one’s (or someone’s) shoe down a remote mountain creek has a certain amount of romantic appeal to it, if not some strange contorted heroism about it. I could have cared less for those things at the moment. Rather, the utter humor of it sprang at me, and as I ran I laughed. Hanging upon the edge of peril, I laughed. There is a Finnish proverb stating that when a certain man found himself treading water in a river, a bear on either side, he began to laugh, “For laughter prolongs life.”

I ran by an opening in the streamside brush, and could see the shoe racing by. On I ran, pushing through an old, tumbled-down hemlock tree. On, on, until I reached a spot where the stream came to the peak of a U-bend. A calm, deep pool lay on one side; fast, deep rapids on the other. I waded, slowly, into the rapids. They were much deeper and held much worse footing than the ford. I failed to worry about my pants, or the long underpants beneath them. Or my feet for that matter, which I could scarcely feel. I could feel my legs, however, quite well, thank-you. Invigorating is one word for it. I stood in the midst of the cold stream, and waited. I suppose one could glean great symbolism from such a stance, but I had only one thing upon my mind: a solitary shoe, making its way towards me, or so I hoped. It was not a sacred chalice, or ancient sword, or golden hoard: a shoe, but as hard a quarry as I could chase. But then, what use are hoards of gold, if you do not have clothing? What use a sword if you have not food? And what use a sacred chalice if you do not know the God who lends it its significance?

But as I said, I was not troubled now with much thought. I watched the bend in the waters eagerly, and at last, my quarry approached. No sooner had I caught sight of it than it disappeared behind a fallen log. Up onto the bank I went, no longer heeding the sharp stones and jabs of branch. But, even as I neared the log, I saw the shoe drift back out into midstream and make for the rapids! I scurried back down into the waters: knowing, full well, that I would have little, if any, chance of recovering the shoe if it slipped me now. I splashed into the water – the shoe quickened its pace, the waters hastening underneath – I balanced on a stone, catching myself. The shoe began to shoot forward. I could not reach it! It would soon be gone, I would be heading homeward, my friend would be heading for a doctor – I caught sight of a stick. I grabbed it, and with a quick thrust, impaled my prey upon it and dragged it to me. Back across I went. My friend appeared on the opposite shore. I held the shoe aloft, rejoicing in my victory. We walked back to our packs, my feet beginning to hurt rather fiercely by now. My shoes were still on the other side of the ford.

We plan to hike the Laurel Fork Trail again – it is magnificent, and many lovely waterfalls jewel its course. But we will come in summer, when swimming and wading is more enjoyable. Oh, the shoe dried out over the hastily lit fire well enough – only a little damage. I later caught one of the legs of my pants on fire, but they can be worn as shorts. The second and last ford of the day was a mere hundred yards from the first. We crossed on a massive log, albeit in an uncomfortable position, particularly when old, stubby branches were met. Yes, we will return: but chasing shoes, in order to put one’s full thought into it, is best done in summer.

(Jonathan Allen is usually not the sort for adventures, but they have an uncanny way of sneaking up on him, though they are usually not in the manner described in most books.)