Just 90 minutes of heavy rain turns placid Basin Creek into a wild thing! A few weeks ago the usual two-hours-in, and two-hours-out, stretched into eight hours of walking, slipping, sliding, falling in and falling down. Five of us were up the creek without a paddle, and there were a few times when a paddle might have helped.

The Blue Ridge Parkway’s Highlands District has three new interpretive rangers. As they settled in, tales of Basin Cove and Caudill Cabin kept bubbling to the top. Perhaps Wildcat Rock should be called “Wondering Rock.” The tiny cabin attracts folks like a porch light draws bugs. It attracted the new rangers, too, including their supervisor, who drove two hours to hike in with us.

The mile-and-a-half walk between Longbottom Road and the campground was filled with casual chatter as we cleared the trail of troublesome limbs and rocks. A short visit to Alice Caudill’s grave and the old church/schoolhouse site turned our attention to the three-mile trek ahead.

About halfway in, raindrops began pattering the leaves high overhead. Unable to see the clouds, we kept on, more concerned with the serious climbs than anything else. Huffing and puffing around words took too much energy, so we walked on silently. Our leafy overhead shelter soon collapsed and dumped its contents, taking us instantly from damp to soaking, dripping wet. Heavy rain followed and continued for more than an hour. Water crossings were dealt with and quickly forgotten. The dry cabin a couple of miles ahead practically beckoned us to keep moving through the chilling rain. Trailside cabin ruins drew brief glances, but little more.

Small patches of blue sky broke through soon after we reached the cabin. Opening one door and rattling a hiking staff around inside made us feel less threatened by slithery critters that might have sought shelter inside. The opposite door’s wood-bolt latch needed a little coaxing, but it finally slid back far enough to free the door, flooding the cabin with light. The ugly graffiti gouged into the logs bothered us all, but most hikers’ remarks in the visitor registry praised the cabin’s condition and the Cove’s primitive beauty. Others unaccustomed to such lengthy and strenuous exercise bemoaned the long and mostly-uphill walk. Not one mentioned hiking in through a downpour. As the clouds scattered, we sat around outside eating energy bars and emptying water bottles. Weeds chopped back a month before had grown to a height that hid boot-tops – a potentially dangerous situation, given a very real presence of slippery rocks and the occasional snake.

After 30 minutes of rest, fanny packs and daybags were eased into place for the hike back out. The once-distant goal had been reached. Unfortunately, the trail between there and the cars had become five miles of mush and puddles. But that was just a glimpse of the troubles ahead.

We were all aware of the 1915 flood, and how a pair of hurricanes tangled overhead, dumping 24 inches of rain in just 18 hours. Scores of cabins were washed away and three people died. Unfortunately, none of us were adequately prepared for a cold, 90-minute drenching in that same cove.

The trail crosses moving water about 30 times between Longbottom Road and the cabin. Crossings can be just two or three cautious steps, or 20 feet of rock-to-slippery-rock balancing. Stout hiking staffs are essential, as are boots with cleated soles that grip tightly, even when wet. On the way in, such crossings went pretty well; however, the downpour had buried familiar stepping stones under gallons of rushing water. Basin Creek had changed. By the time we’d crossed this unexpectedly different creek a half-dozen times, our water-logged boots squished with every step.

The first few full-length sprawls brought self-conscious laughter. When they became more commonplace, we just slogged across and splashed our way down the mushy trail. We’d fallen in so many times that being muddy and soaking wet seemed normal. My suggestion that we take a short side trip to see a pair of missed chimneys brought glares, not glee. All that mattered was reaching the cars and dry clothes, still five miles away.

As the hike wore on, we noticed unusual things. Ordinarily, the cove’s tallest waterfall funnels water through a rock chute roughly four feet across at the top. Though the rain had ended hours earlier, the torrent now sprawled nearly twice that wide, much of it spraying straight out and dropping perhaps 60 feet onto rock shelves below. Even smaller falls drove thousands of beady white bubbles deep, churning pools that barely gurgled on our hike in.

Just an hour and a half of steady rain had changed the quiet, calming nature of Basin Cove. But that summer shower was nothing like the 18 hours of howling wind and torrential rain of mid-July, 1915. Likewise, our minor inconveniences vanish when compared to people who fled for their lives as rapidly-rising water claimed everything they left behind.

Finally back at the cars, we shook hands all around and headed for home. Our objective had been reached despite the weather, and we’d learned a little more about ourselves, determination, and taking Basin Cove for granted.