May 30, 2000 — My mom, a mountain and I. Not a bad way to spend Mother’s Day.
We escaped to the granite cliffs of nearby Yonah Mountain three Sundays ago, hiking along the path of legend, history and dispute.
We sat atop the 3,175-foot summit for hours — the buzzards, the blue sky, my mother and I — watching the lush Piedmont roll its way north into the Blue Ridge Mountains.
We had Yonah to ourselves that day, but we were not alone. The mountain’s history is as rich as the Chattahoochee National Forest that surrounds it. And it’s inescapable.
The forbidden love of Nacoochee, a Cherokee maiden, and Sautee, a Chickasaw warrior, came to its bloody end on Yonah’s bluff, legend tells us. Incensed by the affair, Cherokee warriors tossed Sautee from the mountaintop. Nacoochee followed her lover and jumped off the cliff voluntarily.
Hernando de Soto, the Spanish explorer credited with the discovery of the Mississippi River, reportedly spent considerable time searching Yonah’s caves for a lost Indian treasure of inestimable value in the early 1500s. He never found it, and in 1834 gold miners discovered the buried village once inhabited by de Soto’s men.
Recently, the late-20th century saw Yonah become a haven for thousands and thousands of rock climbers, campers and sight-seers. The flow of visitors slowed five years ago, however, when owners of the private land that moats the public rock face closed Yonah Mountain Road, the area’s only access route.
Now only the landowners and the Army Rangers from nearby Camp Frank D. Merrill in Dahlonega, who train on the mountain, can drive the gated road.
For the rest of us, a 2.5-mile hike along the gravel thruway remains the only legal means of access to the national forest that lies above. If you have the time and stamina — and if you don’t have a lot of heavy climbing equipment to lug along — the ascent can be a beautiful, peaceful, even spiritual experience.
It’s a fine way to spend an afternoon with your 58-year-old mother from Pennsylvania, as well.
We stopped at the Piggly Wiggly in Cleveland to grab some water and snacks, and then headed toward the mighty monadnock in the distance. Yonah’s name is derived from the Cherokee word for bear, and some say the mountain looks like the animal from a distance. I’ll let you be the judge of that.
A few minutes north of downtown on Ga. 75, we found Yonah Mountain Road on the right, directly across the highway from the Yonah Station store. A gate and a large “PRIVATE ROAD” sign let us know we had found the correct place.
We parked in a dirt patch on the side of the road and began our trek.
Hardy hikers keeping a steady pace can easily reach the summit in an hour or less. But, as I learned from my mother, there’s no need to rush.
“You’ve got to enjoy it along the way,” she said as she kneeled down to examine a wildflower. She did this several times along the way.
Wildflowers, butterflies and wildlife rustling in the woods are good reasons to stop and study, I learned. Good excuses to rest your knees and take a drink of water, as well.
The road’s rise is steady, but never steep. It winds between the homes and cabins that dot the mountainside. But eventually the dwellings appear less frequently. Eventually only the road remains.
“Around every corner there’s more road, Dan,” my mom said. I thought perhaps she was having regrets about agreeing to the hike. She assured me she wasn’t.
“But it can’t be much further,” she added. “All I see is blue sky up there.”
Indeed, we soon came upon the campground, which meant our final destination wasn’t far away. The campground is primitive and, on this day, empty. Rudimentary benches look well used, but forgotten.
We plugged along. At times the road was replaced by large patches of granite. We knew we were getting closer. And several paces later, we were there.
A large clearing, flat and grassy, amidst a ring of trees. That is what awaits at the very top of Yonah Mountain. It’s impressive in its normality. This clearing could be anywhere.
But look up. The clouds are closer. A buzzard hovers nearby. Its shadow envelopes all.
We were on top of a mountain, to be sure.
“It just seems cleaner up here,” my mom said. “The air is fresh.”
But on the other side of the tree line the air is fresh and the view lasts forever. That is where we were headed. And it took some searching. 
We found the correct trail near a “Purify Before Drinking” sign back on down the road. A short scramble through trees, and Yonah’s rocky brow unfurls. North Georgia opened up before us.
“It’s amazing,” my mom said. “All of the masses of people down there, and we’re the only two up here.”
We sat there alone, my mother and I, where thousands had sat before. Cherokees and Chickasaws. Gold miners and Spanish explorers. Rock climbers and Army Rangers.
Another buzzard swooped down and glanced at me guilefully.
I realized Yonah Mountain will outlive us all.