The Road to Tennessee: Finding the Garden of Eden
The road to the Garden of Eden was unassuming, winding through dense forest with little hint of the world awaiting beyond. We had no expectations—just a name and a spot on the map. But what we found was nothing like we imagined.
The property was owned by Miss Iva, an artist whose spirit seemed woven into every inch of the land. One of the first things we noticed were the large hydrangea bushes, their blue and pink blooms bursting with life. The colors were so vibrant, they almost seemed unreal, as if painted by a brush dipped in every shade of the sky and earth. The bushes dotted the property, standing like sentinels guarding the paths, each bloom swaying gently in the breeze as if whispering secrets to the passing travelers.
From the moment we arrived, we could feel it—something wild, something alive. Every corner seemed touched by the hand of a loving gardener. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, alive with the hum of nature. It was quiet, yet not empty. The kind of quiet that hums beneath the surface, waiting to be heard.
We wandered the property, following the winding drive that led us past an ancient stone wall. At the end of a narrow gravel path stood our cabin—a tiny honeymoon retreat nestled beneath the trees. At first, it felt eerie, as though the place carried echoes of the past. But as time passed, the unease melted away, replaced by something softer, more enchanted. The dim glow from the windows, the gentle rustling of leaves—it felt like a world apart from time itself.
Beyond the cabin, a river wound its way through the land, its waters clear and cold. Stepping into it was like entering another realm. The stones beneath our feet, smooth and worn by the current, ranged from deep charcoal to marbled veins of white and rust. Towering boulders jutted from the riverbed, their surfaces shimmering in the afternoon light. I had never seen anything like them—massive and unmoving, yet shaped by water and wind into something delicate, almost fragile.
We wandered with the current, tracing the edges of the stones with our fingertips. Above us, a canopy of rhododendrons arched gracefully over the stream, their broad leaves casting dappled shadows on the water. The branches seemed to frame the world in a protective embrace, as if nature itself was shielding this quiet sanctuary from the outside world. It was the kind of place that made you feel small in the best way possible. Like the earth had been here long before us and would remain long after, quietly reshaping itself with patience.
The next morning, we set out for Hen Wallow Falls, following the Gabe’s Mountain Trail as it wound through the forest. The path was well-worn, flanked by thick rhododendrons that arched overhead like a natural tunnel. The hike started gently, the damp earth beneath our boots. Our pup trotted ahead, his nose working overtime, his tail wagging at every new scent.
But as we climbed, the air grew heavier and the incline steeper. Roots tangled across the path, their gnarled forms forcing us to focus on each step. We struggled to catch our breath as the altitude increased. The trees thickened, the canopy darkening the trail, until suddenly, we emerged into a clearing. And there it was.
Hen Wallow Falls cascaded down a sheer rock face, its waters fanning out like silver threads against the stone. Mist rose from the base, cool and sweet against our skin. We stood there, quiet, letting the sound of the falls fill the space between us. Walking into those waters was a release—the cool mountain stream flowing through my fingers, past my ankles.
The hike back was long, our legs aching with the effort, but it was the kind of ache that feels earned. By the time we reached the cabin again, the sky had turned soft and golden, with the first stars blinking awake.
As we settled in for the night, the air around us was thick with the scent of the river, carrying with it the quiet hum of something ancient, something unshaken.
The Garden of Eden had lived up to its name—not in the way we expected, but in the way that mattered most. It was a place that felt untouched, yet deeply personal—a place that, for a brief moment, felt entirely ours.