Appalachian Summit
45. On Horseback
In the summer 1884, Charles Dudley Warner traveled through the Appalachian Summit area from Abington, Virginia to Asheville, North Carolina “on horseback”. His sometimes humorous and largely unflattering account of his trip was published in four installments of The Atlantic Monthly in 1885 and later as part of a book by the same name.
The Atlantic Monthly
July – October 1885
“On Horseback”
By Charles Dudley Warner
July
It was a hot
afternoon, and it needed some courage to mount and climb the sandy hill leading
us away from the corn-crib of Tatem.
But we entered almost immediately into fine stretches of forest, and
rode under the shade of great oaks. The
way, which began by the New River, soon led us over the hills to the higher
levels of Watauga County. So far on our
journey we had been hemmed in by low hills, and without any distant or mountain
outlooks. The excessive heat seemed out
of place at the elevation of over two thousand feet, on which we were
traveling. Boone, the county seat of
Watauga County, was our destination, and, ever since morning, the guideboards
and the trend of the roads had notified us that everything in this region tends
towards Boone as a center of interest.
The simple ingenuity of some of the guide-boards impressed us. If, on coming to a fork, the traveler was to
turn to the right, the sign read,
To BOONE 10 M.
If he was to go to the left, it read,
.M 01 ENOOB oT
A short ride
of nine miles, on an ascending road, through an open, unfenced forest region,
brought us long before sundown to this capital. When we had ridden into its single street, which wanders over
gentle hills, and landed at the most promising of the taverns, the Friend
informed his comrade that Boone was 3250 feet above Albemarle Sound, and
believed by its inhabitants to be the highest village east of the Rocky
Mountains. The Professor said that it
might be so, but it was a God-forsaken place.
Its inhabitants numbered perhaps two hundred and fifty, a few of them
colored. It had a gaunt, shaky
court-house and jail, a store or two, and two taverns. The two taverns are needed to accommodate
the judges and lawyers and their clients during the session of the court. The court is the only excitement and the
only amusement. It is the event from
which other events date. Everybody in
the county knows exactly when court sits, and when court breaks. During the session the whole county is
practically in Boone, men, women, and children. They camp there, they attend the trials, they take sides; half of
them, perhaps, are witnesses, for the region is litigious, and the neighborhood
quarrels are entered into with spirit.
To be fond of lawsuits seems a characteristic of an isolated people in
new conditions. The early settlers of
New England were.
Notwithstanding
the elevation of Boone, which insured a pure air, the thermometer that
afternoon stood at from 85 to 89 deg.
The flies enjoyed it. How they
swarmed in this tavern! They would have
carried off all the food from the dining-room table (for flies do not mind
eating off oilcloth, and are not particular how food is cooked), but for the
machine with hanging flappers that swept the length of it; and they destroy all
possibility of sleep except in the dark. The mountain regions of North Carolina
are free from mosquitoes, but the fly has settled there, and is the universal
scourge. This tavern, one end of which
was a store, had a veranda in front, and a back gallery, where there were
evidences of female refinement in pots of plants and flowers. The landlord himself kept tavern very much
as a hostler would, but we had to make a note in his favor that he had never
heard of a milk punch. And it might as
well be said here, for it will have to be insisted on later, that the traveler,
who has read about the illicit stills till his imagination dwells upon the
indulgence of his vitiated tastes in the mountains of North Carolina, is doomed
to disappointment. If he wants to make
himself an exception to the sober people whose cooking will make him long for
the maddening bowl, he must bring his poison with him. We had found no bread since we left
Virginia; we had seen cornmeal and water, slack-baked; we had seen potatoes
fried in grease, and bacon incrusted with salt (all thirst-provokers), but
nothing to drink stronger than buttermilk.
And we can say that, so far as our example is concerned, we left the
country as temperate as we found it.
How can there be mint juleps (to go into details) without ice? and in
the summer there is probably not a pound of ice in all the State north of
Buncombe County.
There is
nothing special to be said about Boone.
We were anxious to reach it, we were glad to leave it; we note as to all
these places that our joy at departing always exceeds that on arriving, which
is a merciful provision of nature for people who must keep moving. This country is settled by genuine
Americans, who have the aboriginal primitive traits of the universal Yankee
nation. The front porch in the morning
resembled a carpenter's shop; it was literally covered with the whittlings of
the row of natives who had spent the evening there in the sedative occupation
of whittling.
We took that
morning a forest road to Valle Crusis, seven miles, through noble growths of
oaks, chestnuts, hemlocks, rhododendrons,--a charming wood road, leading to a
place that, as usual, did not keep the promise of its name. Valle Crusis has a blacksmith shop and a
dirty, flyblown store. While the
Professor consulted the blacksmith about a loose shoe, the Friend carried his
weariness of life without provisions up to a white house on the hill, and
negotiated for boiled milk. This house
was occupied by flies. They must have
numbered millions, settled in black swarms, covering tables, beds, walls, the
veranda; the kitchen was simply a hive of them. The only book in sight, Whewell's--"Elements of
Morality," seemed to attract flies. Query, Why should this have such a
different effect from Porter's? A white
house,--a pleasant-looking house at a distance,--amiable, kindly people in
it,--why should we have arrived there on its dirty day? Alas! if we had been starving, Valle Crusis
had nothing to offer us.
So we rode
away, in the blazing heat, no poetry exuding from the Professor, eight miles to
Banner's Elk, crossing a mountain and passing under Hanging Rock, a conspicuous
feature in the landscape, and the only outcropping of rock we had seen: the
face of a ledge, rounded up into the sky, with a green hood on it. From the summit we had the first extensive
prospect during our journey. The road
can be described as awful,--steep, stony, the horses unable to make two miles
an hour on it. Now and then we
encountered a rude log cabin without barns or outhouses, and a little patch of
feeble corn. The women who regarded the
passers from their cabin doors were frowzy and looked tired. What with the heat and the road and this
discouraged appearance of humanity, we reached the residence of Dugger, at
Banner's Elk, to which we had been directed, nearly exhausted. It is no use to represent this as a dash
across country on impatient steeds. It
was not so. The love of truth is
stronger than the desire of display.
And for this reason it is impossible to say that Mr. Dugger, who is an
excellent man, lives in a clean and attractive house, or that he offers much
that the pampered child of civilization can eat. But we shall not forget the two eggs, fresh from the hens, whose
temperature must have been above the normal, nor the spring- house in the glen,
where we found a refuge from the flies and the heat. The higher we go, the hotter it is. Banner's Elk boasts an elevation of thirty-five to thirty-seven
hundred feet.
We were not
sorry, towards sunset, to descend along the Elk River towards Cranberry
Forge. The Elk is a lovely stream, and,
though not very clear, has a reputation for trout; but all this region was
under operation of a three-years game law, to give the trout a chance to
multiply, and we had no opportunity to test the value of its reputation. Yet a boy whom we encountered had a good
string of quarter-pound trout, which he had taken out with a hook and a feather
rudely tied on it, to resemble a fly.
The road, though not to be commended, was much better than that of the
morning, the forests grew charming in the cool of the evening, the whippoorwill
sang, and as night fell the wanderers, in want of nearly everything that makes
life desirable, stopped at the Iron Company's hotel, under the impression that
it was the only comfortable hotel in North Carolina.
August
Cranberry
Forge is the first wedge of civilization fairly driven into the northwest
mountains of North Carolina. A
narrow-gauge railway, starting from Johnson City, follows up the narrow gorge
of the Doe River, and pushes into the heart of the iron mines at Cranberry,
where there is a blast furnace; and where a big company store, rows of tenement
houses, heaps of slag and refuse ore, interlacing tracks, raw embankments,
denuded hillsides, and a blackened landscape, are the signs of a great
devastating American enterprise. The
Cranberry iron is in great esteem, as it has the peculiar quality of the
Swedish iron. There are remains of old
furnaces lower down the stream, which we passed on our way. The present "plant" is that of a
Philadelphia company, whose enterprise has infused new life into all this
region, made it accessible, and spoiled some pretty scenery.
When we
alighted, weary, at the gate of the pretty hotel, which crowns a gentle hill
and commands a pleasing, evergreen prospect of many gentle hills, a mile or so
below the works, and wholly removed from all sordid associations, we were at
the point of willingness that the whole country should be devastated by
civilization. . . .
Bakersville,
the capital of Mitchell County, is eight miles from the top of Roan, and the
last three miles of the way the horsemen found tolerable going, over which the
horses could show their paces. The
valley looked fairly thrifty and bright, and was a pleasing introduction to
Bakersville, a pretty place in the hills, of some six hundred inhabitants, with
two churches, three indifferent hotels, and a court-house. This mountain town, 2550 feet above the sea,
is said to have a decent winter climate, with little snow, favorable to
fruit-growing, and, by contrast with New England, encouraging to people with
weak lungs.
This is the
center of the mica mining, and of considerable excitement about minerals. All around, the hills are spotted with
"diggings." Most of the mines which yield well show signs of having
been worked before, a very long time ago, no doubt by the occupants before the
Indians. The mica is of excellent
quality and easily mined. . . . .
The jail at
Bakersville is a very simple residence.
The main building is brick, two stories high and about twelve feet
square. The walls are so loosely laid up that it seems as if a colored prisoner
might butt his head through. Attached
to this is a room for the jailer. In
the lower room is a wooden cage, made of logs bolted together and filled with
spikes, nine feet by ten feet square and perhaps seven or eight feet high. Between this cage and the wall is a space of
eighteen inches in width. It has a
narrow door, and an opening through which the food is passed to the prisoners,
and a conduit leading out of it. Of
course it soon becomes foul, and in warm weather somewhat warm. A recent prisoner, who wanted more
ventilation than the State allowed him, found some means, by a loose plank, I
think, to batter a hole in the outer wall opposite the window in the cage, and
this ragged opening, seeming to the jailer a good sanitary arrangement, remains. Two murderers occupied this apartment at the
time of our visit. During the recent
session of court, ten men had been confined in this narrow space, without room
enough for them to lie down together.
The cage in the room above, a little larger, had for tenant a person who
was jailed for some misunderstanding about an account, and who was probably
innocent-- from the jailer's statement.
This box is a wretched residence, month after month, while awaiting
trial.
We learned on
inquiry that it is practically impossible to get a jury to convict of murder in
this region, and that these admitted felons would undoubtedly escape. We even heard that juries were purchasable
here, and that a man's success in court depended upon the length of his
purse. This is such an unheard-of thing
that we refused to credit it. When the
Friend attempted to arouse the indignation of the Professor about the barbarity
of this jail, the latter defended it on the ground that as confinement was the
only punishment that murderers were likely to receive in this region, it was
well to make their detention disagreeable to them. But the Friend did not like this wild-beast cage for men, and
could only exclaim,
Oh,
murder! what crimes are done in thy
name."
If the
comrades wished an adventure, they had a small one, more interesting to them
than to the public, the morning they left Bakersville to ride to Burnsville,
which sets itself up as the capital of Yancey.
The way for the first three miles lay down a small creek and in a valley
fairly settled, the houses, a store, and a grist-mill giving evidence of the
new enterprise of the region. When Toe River was reached, there was a choice of
routes. We might ford the Toe at that
point, where the river was wide, but shallow, and the crossing safe, and climb
over the mountain by a rough but sightly road, or descend the stream by a
better road and ford the river at a place rather dangerous to those unfamiliar
with it. The danger attracted us, but
we promptly chose the hill road on account of the views, for we were weary of
the limited valley prospects.
The Toe River,
even here, where it bears westward, is a very respectable stream in size, and
not to be trifled with after a shower.
It gradually turns northward, and, joining the Nollechucky, becomes part
of the Tennessee system. We crossed it
by a long, diagonal ford, slipping and sliding about on the round stones, and
began the ascent of a steep hill. The
sun beat down unmercifully, the way was stony, and the horses did not relish
the weary climbing. . . .
The eighteen
miles to Burnsville had now to be added to the morning excursion, but the
travelers were in high spirits, feeling the truth of the adage that it is
better to have loved and lost, than never to have lost at all. They decided, on reflection, to join company
with the mail-rider, who was going to Burnsville by the shorter route, and
could pilot them over the dangerous ford of the Toe.
The mail-rider
was a lean, sallow, sinewy man, mounted on a sorry sorrel nag, who proved,
however, to have blood in her, and to be a fast walker and full of
endurance. The mail-rider was taciturn,
a natural habit for a man who rides alone the year round, over a lonely road,
and has nothing whatever to think of.
All the way
along, the habitations were small log cabins, with one room, chinked with mud,
and these were far between; and only occasionally thereby a similar log
structure, unchinked, laid up lie a cob house, that served for a stable. Not much cultivation, except now and then a
little patch of poor corn on a steep hillside, occasionally a few apple-trees,
and a peach-tree without fruit. Here
and there was a house that had been half finished and then abandoned, or a
shanty in which a couple of young married people were just beginning life. Generally the cabins (confirming the
accuracy of the census of 1880) swarmed with children, and nearly all the women
were thin and sickly.
In the day's
ride we did not see a wheeled vehicle, and only now and then a horse. We met on the road small sleds, drawn by a
steer, sometimes by a cow, on which a bag of grist was being hauled to the
mill, and boys mounted on steers gave us good-evening with as much pride as if
they were bestriding fiery horses.
In a house of
the better class, which was a post-house, and where the rider and the woman of
the house had a long consultation over a letter to be registered, we found the
rooms decorated with patent- medicine pictures, which were often framed in
strips of mica, an evidence of culture that was worth noting. Mica was the rage. Every one with whom we talked, except the rider, had more or less
the mineral fever. The impression was
general that the mountain region of North Carolina was entering upon a career
of wonderful mineral development, and the most extravagant expectations were
entertained. Mica was the shining object of most "prospecting," but
gold was also on the cards.
The country
about Burnsville is not only mildly picturesque, but very pleasing. Burnsville, the county-seat of Yancey, at an
elevation of 2840 feet, is more like a New England village than any hitherto
seen. Most of the houses stand about a square, which contains the shabby
court-house; around it are two small churches, a jail, an inviting tavern) with
a long veranda, and a couple of stores.
On an overlooking hill is the seminary.
Mica mining is the exciting industry, but it is agriculturally a good
country. The tavern had recently been
enlarged to meet the new demands for entertainment and is a roomy structure,
fresh with paint and only partially organized. The travelers were much
impressed with the brilliant chambers, the floors of which were painted in
alternate stripes of vivid green and red.
The proprietor, a very intelligent and enterprising man, who had
traveled often in the North, was full of projects for the development of his
region and foremost in its enterprises, and had formed a considerable
collection of minerals. Besides, more
than any one else we met, he appreciated the beauty of his country, and took us
to a neighboring hill, where we had a view of Table Mountain to the east and
the nearer giant Blacks. The elevation
of Burnsville gives it a delightful summer climate, the gentle undulations of
the country are agreeable, the views noble, the air is good, and it is
altogether a "livable" and attractive place. With facilities of communication, it would
be a favorite summer resort. Its
nearness to the great mountains (the whole Black range is in Yancey County),
its fine pure air, its opportunity for fishing and hunting, commend it to those
in search of an interesting and restful retreat in summer.
But it should
be said that before the country can attract and retain travelers, its
inhabitants must learn something about the preparation of food. If, for instance, the landlord's wife at
Burnsville had traveled with her husband, her table would probably have been
more on a level with his knowledge of the world, and it would have contained
something that the wayfaring man, though a Northerner, could eat. We have been on the point several times in
this journey of making the observation, but have been restrained by a
reluctance to touch upon politics, that it was no wonder that a people with
such a cuisine should have rebelled.
The travelers were in a rebellious mood most of the time.
The evidences
of enterprise in this region were pleasant to see, but the observers could not
but regret, after all, the intrusion of the money-making spirit, which is
certain to destroy much of the present simplicity. It is as yet, to a degree, tempered by a philosophic spirit. The other guest of the house was a sedate,
long-bearded traveler for some Philadelphia house, and in the evening he and
the landlord fell into a conversation upon what Socrates calls the disadvantage
of the pursuit of wealth to the exclusion of all noble objects, and they let
their fancy play about Vanderbilt, who was agreed to be the richest man in the
world, or that ever lived. . . .
In the course
of the morning a couple of stout fellows arrived, leading between them a young
man whom they had arrested,--it didn't appear on any warrant, but they wanted
to get him committed and locked up. The
offense charged was carrying a pistol; the boy had not used it against anybody,
but he had flourished it about and threatened, and the neighbors wouldn't stand
that; they were bound to enforce the law against carrying concealed weapons.
The captors
were perfectly good-natured and on friendly enough terms with the young man,
who offered no resistance, and seemed not unwilling to go to jail. But a practical difficulty arose. The jail was locked up, the sheriff had gone
away into the country with the key, and no one could get in. It did not appear that there was any provision
for boarding the man in jail; no one in fact kept it. The sheriff was sent for, but was not to be found, and the
prisoner and his captors loafed about the square all day, sitting on the fence,
rolling on the grass, all of them sustained by a simple trust that the jail
would be open some time.
Late in the
afternoon we left them there, trying to get into the jail. But we took a personal leaf out of this
experience. . . .
September
From
Burnsville the next point in our route was Asheville, the most considerable
city in western North Carolina, a resort of fashion, and the capital of
Buncombe County. It is distant some
forty to forty- five miles, too long a journey for one day over such
roads. The easier and common route is
by the Ford of Big Ivy, eighteen miles, the first stopping-place; and that was
a long ride for the late afternoon when we were in condition to move.
The landlord
suggested that we take another route, stay that night on Caney River with Big
Tom Wilson, only eight miles from Burnsville, cross Mount Mitchell, and go down
the valley of the Swannanoa to Asheville.
He represented this route as shorter and infinitely more
picturesque. There was nothing worth
seeing on the Big Ivy way. With scarcely a moment's reflection and while the
horses were saddling, we decided to ride to Big Tom Wilson's. I could not at the time understand, and I
cannot now, why the Professor consented.
I should hardly dare yet confess to my fixed purpose to ascend Mount
Mitchell. It was equally fixed in the
Professor's mind not to do it. We had not discussed it much. But it is safe to say that if he had one
well-defined purpose on this trip, it was not to climb Mitchell.
"Not," as he put it,--
"Not mine own fears, nor the
prophetic soul
Of the wide world dreaming on things to
come,"
had suggested the possibility that he could do it.
But at the
moment the easiest thing to do seemed to be to ride down to Wilson's. When there we could turn across country to
the Big Ivy, although, said the landlord, you can ride over Mitchell just as
easy as anywhere--a lady rode plump over the peak of it last week, and never
got off her horse. You are not obliged
to go; at Big Tom's, you can go any way you please.
Besides, Big
Tom himself weighed in the scale more than Mount Mitchell, and not to see him
was to miss one of the most characteristic productions of the country, the
typical backwoodsman, hunter, guide. So
we rode down Bolling Creek, through a pretty, broken country, crossed the Caney
River, and followed it up a few miles to Wilson's plantation. There are little intervales along the river,
where hay is cut and corn grown, but the region is not much cleared, and the
stock browse about in the forest.
Wilson is the agent of the New York owner of a tract of some thirteen
thousand acres of forest, including the greater portion of Mount Mitchell, a
wilderness well stocked with bears and deer, and full of streams abounding in
trout. It is also the playground of the
rattlesnake. With all these attractions Big Tom's life is made lively in
watching game poachers, and endeavoring to keep out the foraging cattle of the
few neighbors. It is not that the
cattle do much injury in the forest, but the looking after them is made a
pretense for roaming around, and the roamers are liable to have to defend
themselves against the deer, or their curiosity is excited about the bears, and
lately they have taken to exploding powder in the streams to kill the fish.
Big Tom's
plantation has an openwork stable, an ill-put-together frame house, with two
rooms and a kitchen, and a veranda in front, a loft, and a spring-house in the
rear. Chickens and other animals have
free run of the premises. Some
fish-rods hung in the porch, and hunter's gear depended on hooks in the
passage-way to the kitchen. In one room were three beds, in the other two, only
one in the kitchen. On the porch was a
loom, with a piece of cloth in process. The establishment had the air of taking
care of itself. Neither Big Tom nor his
wife was at home. Sunday seemed to be a
visiting day, and the travelers had met many parties on horseback. Mrs.
Wilson was away for a visit of a day or two. One of the sons, who was lounging on the veranda, was at last
induced to put up the horses; a very old woman, who mumbled and glared at the
visitors, was found in the kitchen, but no intelligible response could be got
out of her. Presently a bright little girl, the housekeeper in charge,
appeared. She said that her paw had gone up to her brother's (her brother was
just married and lived up the river in the house where Mr. Murchison stayed
when he was here) to see if he could ketch a bear that had been rootin' round
in the corn-field the night before. She
expected him back by sundown--by dark anyway.
'Les he'd gone after the bear, and then you could n't tell when he would
come.
It appeared
that Big Tom was a thriving man in the matter of family. More boys
appeared. Only one was married, but
four had "got their time." As
night approached, and no Wilson, there was a good deal of lively and loud
conversation about the stock and the chores, in all of which the girl took a
leading and intelligent part, showing a willingness to do her share, but not to
have all the work put upon her. It was
time to go down the road and hunt up the cows; the mule had disappeared and
must be found before dark; a couple of steers hadn't turned up since the day
before yesterday, and in the midst of the gentle contention as to whose
business all this was, there was an alarm of cattle in the corn-patch, and the
girl started off on a run in that direction.
It was due to the executive ability of this small girl, after the cows
had been milked and the mule chased and the boys properly stirred up, that we
had supper. It was of the oilcloth,
iron fork, tin spoon, bacon, hot bread and honey variety, distinguished,
however, from all meals we had endured or enjoyed before by the introduction of
fried eggs (as the breakfast next morning was by the presence of chicken), and
it was served by the active maid with right hearty good-will and genuine
hospitable intent.
While it was
in progress, after nine o'clock, Big Tom arrived, and, with a simple greeting,
sat down and attacked the supper and began to tell about the bear. There was not much to tell except that he
hadn't seen the bear, and that, judged by his tracks and his sloshing around,
he must be a big one. But a trap had
been set for him, and he judged it wouldn't be long before we had some bear
meat. Big Tom Wilson, as he is known
all over this part of the State, would not attract attention from his
size. He is six feet and two inches
tall, very spare and muscular, with sandy hair, long gray beard, and honest
blue eyes. He has a reputation for
great strength and endurance; a man of native simplicity and mild manners. He had been rather expecting us from what
Mr. Murchison wrote; he wrote (his son had read out the letter) that Big Tom
was to take good care of us, and anybody that Mr. Murchison sent could have the
best he'd got.
Big Tom joined
us in our room after supper. This
apartment, with two mighty feather-beds, was hung about with all manner of
stuffy family clothes, and had in one end a vast cavern for a fire. The floor was uneven, and the hearthstones
billowy. When the fire was lighted, the
effect of the bright light in the cavern and the heavy shadows in the room was
Rembrandtish. Big Tom sat with us
before the fire and told bear stories.
Talk? Why, it was not the least
effort. The stream flowed on without a
ripple. "Why, the old man,"
one of the sons confided to us next morning, "can begin and talk right
over Mount Mitchell and all the way back, and never make a break." Though Big Tom had waged a lifelong warfare
with the bears, and taken the hide off at least a hundred of them, I could not
see that he had any vindictive feeling towards the varmint, but simply an
insatiable love of killing him, and he regarded him in that half-humorous light
in which the bear always appears to those who study him. As to deer--he couldn't tell how many of
them he had slain. But Big Tom was a
gentleman: he never killed deer for mere sport. With rattlesnakes, now, it was different. There was the skin of one hanging upon a
tree by the route we would take in the morning, a buster, he skinned him
yesterday. There was an entire absence,
of braggadocio in Big Tom's talk, but somehow, as he went on, his backwoods
figure loomed larger and larger in our imagination, and he seemed strangely
familiar. At length it came over us
where we had met him before. It was in
Cooper's novels. He was the
Leather-Stocking exactly. And yet he
was an original; for he assured us that he had never read the Leather-Stocking
Tales. What a figure, I was thinking,
he must have made in the late war! Such
a shot, such a splendid physique, such iron endurance! I almost dreaded to hear his tales of the
havoc he had wrought on the Union army.
Yes, he was in the war, he was sixteen months in the Confederate army,
this Homeric man. In what
rank?" Oh, I was a fifer!"
But hunting
and war did not by any means occupy the whole of Big Tom's life. He was also engaged in "lawin'." He had a long-time feud with a neighbor
about a piece of land and alleged trespass, and they'd been "lawin'"
for years, with no definite result; but as a topic of conversation it was as
fully illustrative of frontier life as the bear-fighting.
Long after we
had all gone to bed, we heard Big Tom's continuous voice, through the thin
partition that separated us from the kitchen, going on to his little boy about
the bear; every circumstance of how he tracked him, and what corner of the
field he entered, and where he went out, and his probable size and age, and the
prospect of his coming again; these were the details of real everyday life, and
worthy to be dwelt on by the hour. The
boy was never tired of pursuing them.
And Big Tom was just a big boy, also, in his delight in it all.
Perhaps it was
the fascination of Big Tom, perhaps the representation that we were already way
off the Big Ivy route, and that it would, in fact, save time to go over the
mountain and we could ride all the way, that made the Professor acquiesce, with
no protest worth noticing, in the preparations that went on, as by a natural
assumption, for going over Mitchell. At
any rate, there was an early breakfast, luncheon was put up, and by half-past
seven we were riding up the Caney,--a half-cloudy day,--Big Tom swinging along
on foot ahead, talking nineteen to the dozen.
There was a delightful freshness in the air, the dew-laden bushes, and
the smell of the forest. In half an
hour we called at the hunting shanty of Mr. Murchison, wrote our names on the
wall, according to custom, and regretted that we could not stay for a day in
that retreat and try the speckled trout.
Making our way through the low growth and bushes of the valley, we came
into a fine open forest, watered by a noisy brook, and after an hour's easy
going reached the serious ascent.
From Wilson's
to the peak of Mitchell it is seven and a half miles; we made it in five and a
half hours. A bridle path was cut years
ago, but it has been entirely neglected.
It is badly washed, it is stony, muddy, and great trees have fallen
across it which wholly block the way for horses. At these places long detours were necessary, on steep hillsides
and through gullies, over treacherous sink-holes in the rocks, through quaggy
places, heaps of brush, and rotten logs.
Those who have ever attempted to get horses over such ground will not
wonder at the slow progress we made.
Before we were halfway up the ascent, we realized the folly of
attempting it on horseback; but then to go on seemed as easy as to go
back. The way was also exceedingly
steep in places, and what with roots, and logs, and slippery rocks and stones,
it was a desperate climb for the horses.
What a
magnificent forest! Oaks, chestnuts,
Poplars, hemlocks, the cucumber (a species of magnolia, with a pinkish,
cucumber-like cone), and all sorts of northern and southern growths meeting
here in splendid array. And this
gigantic forest, with little diminution in size of trees, continued two thirds
of the way up. We marked, as we went
on, the maple, the black walnut, the buckeye, the hickory, the locust, and the
guide pointed out in one section the largest cherry- trees we had ever seen;
splendid trunks, each worth a large sum if it could be got to market. After the great trees were left behind, we
entered a garden of white birches, and then a plateau of swamp, thick with
raspberry bushes, and finally the ridges, densely crowded with the funereal
black balsam.
Halfway up,
Big Tom showed us his favorite, the biggest tree he knew. It was a poplar, or
tulip. It stands more like a column
than a tree, rising high into the air, with scarcely a perceptible taper,
perhaps sixty, more likely a hundred, feet before it puts out a limb. Its girth six feet from the ground is
thirty-two feet! I think it might be
called Big Tom. It stood here, of
course, a giant, when Columbus sailed from Spain, and perhaps some sentimental
traveler will attach the name of Columbus to it. In the woods there was not
much sign of animal life, scarcely the note of a bird, but we noticed as we
rode along in the otherwise primeval silence a loud and continuous humming
overhead, almost like the sound of the wind in pine tops. It was the humming of bees! The upper branches were alive with these
industrious toilers, and Big Tom was always on the alert to discover and mark a
bee-gum, which he could visit afterwards.
Honey hunting is one of his occupations. Collecting spruce gum is
another, and he was continually hacking off with his hatchet knobs of the
translucent secretion. How rich and
fragrant are these forests! The
rhododendron was still in occasional bloom' and flowers of brilliant hue
gleamed here and there.
The struggle
was more severe as we neared the summit, and the footing worse for the
horses. Occasionally it was safest to
dismount and lead them up slippery ascents; but this was also dangerous, for it
was difficult to keep them from treading on our heels, in their frantic
flounderings, in the steep, wet, narrow, brier-grown path. At one uncommonly
pokerish place, where the wet rock sloped into a bog, the rider of Jack thought
it prudent to dismount, but Big Tom insisted that Jack would "make
it" all right, only give him his head. The rider gave him his head, and
the next minute Jack's four heels were in the air, and he came down on his side
in a flash. The rider fortunately
extricated his leg without losing it, Jack scrambled out with a broken shoe,
and the two limped along. It was a
wonder that the horses' legs were not broken a dozen times.
As we
approached the top, Big Tom pointed out the direction, a half mile away, of a
small pond, a little mountain tarn, overlooked by a ledge of rock, where
Professor Mitchell lost his life. Big
Tom was the guide that found his body.
That day, as we sat on the summit, he gave in great detail the story,
the general outline of which is well known.
The first
effort to measure the height of the Black Mountains was made in 1835, by
Professor Elisha Mitchell, professor of mathematics and chemistry in the
University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Mr. Mitchell was a native of
Connecticut, born in Washington, Litchfield County, in 1793; graduated at Yale,
ordained a Presbyterian minister, and was for a time state surveyor; and became
a professor at Chapel Hill in 1818. He
first ascertained and published the fact that the Black Mountains are the
highest land east of the Rocky Mountains.
In 1844 he visited the locality again. Measurements were subsequently
made by Professor Guyot and by Senator Clingman. One of the peaks was named for the senator (the one next in
height to Mitchell is described as Clingman on the state map), and a dispute
arose as to whether Mitchell had really visited and measured the highest
peak. Senator Clingman still maintains
that he did not, and that the peak now known as Mitchell is the one that
Clingman first described. The estimates
of altitudes made by the three explorers named differed considerably. The height now fixed for Mount Mitchell is
6711; that of Mount Washington is 6285.
There are twelve peaks in this range higher than Mount Washington, and
if we add those in the Great Smoky Mountains which overtop it, there are some
twenty in this State higher than the granite giant of New Hampshire.
In order to
verify his statement, Professor Mitchell (then in his sixty-fourth year) made a
third ascent in June, 1857. He was
alone, and went up from the Swannanoa side.
He did not return. No anxiety
was felt for two or three days, as he was a good mountaineer, and it was
supposed he had crossed the mountain and made his way out by the Caney
River. But when several days passed
without tidings of him, a search party was formed. Big Tom Wilson was with it.
They explored the mountain in all directions unsuccessfully. At length Big Tom separated himself from his
companions and took a course in accordance with his notion of that which would
be pursued by a man lost in the clouds or the darkness. He soon struck the trail of the wanderer,
and, following it, discovered Mitchell's body lying in a pool at the foot of a
rocky precipice some thirty feet high.
It was evident that Mitchell, making his way along the ridge in darkness
or fog, had fallen off. It was the
ninth (or the eleventh) day of his disappearance, but in the pure mountain air
the body had suffered no change. Big
Tom brought his companions to the place, and on consultation it was decided to
leave the body undisturbed till Mitchell's friends could be present.
There was some
talk of burying him on the mountain, but the friends
decided
otherwise, and the remains, with much difficulty, were got
down to
Asheville and there interred.
Some years
afterwards, I believe at the instance of a society of scientists, it was
resolved to transport the body to the summit of Mount Mitchell; for the tragic
death of the explorer had forever settled in the popular mind the name of the
mountain. The task was not easy. A road had to be cut, over which a sledge
could be hauled, and the hardy mountaineers who undertook the removal were
three days in reaching the summit with their burden. The remains were accompanied by a considerable concourse, and the
last rites on the top were participated in by a hundred or more scientists and
prominent men from different parts of the State. Such a strange cortege had never before broken the silence of
this lonely wilderness, nor was ever burial more impressive than this wild
interment above the clouds.
We had been
preceded in our climb all the way by a huge bear. That he was huge, a lunker, a monstrous old varmint, Big Tom knew
by the size of his tracks; that he was making the ascent that morning ahead of
us, Big Tom knew by the freshness of the trail. We might come upon him at any moment; he might be in the garden;
was quite likely to be found in the raspberry patch. That we did not encounter him I am convinced was not the fault of
Big Tom, but of the bear.
After a
struggle of five hours we emerged from the balsams and briers into a lovely
open meadow, of lush clover, timothy, and blue grass. We unsaddled the horses
and turned them loose to feed in it.
The meadow sloped up to a belt of balsams and firs, a steep rocky knob,
and climbing that on foot we stood upon the summit of Mitchell at one
o'clock. We were none too soon, for
already the clouds were preparing for what appears to be a daily storm at this
season.
The summit is
a nearly level spot of some thirty or forty feet in extent either way, with a
floor of rock and loose stones. The
stunted balsams have been cut away so as to give a view. The sweep of prospect is vast, and we could
see the whole horizon except in the direction of Roan, whose long bulk was
enveloped in cloud. Portions of six
States were in sight, we were told, but that is merely a geographical
expression. What we saw, wherever we
looked, was an inextricable tumble of mountains, without order or leading line
of direction,--domes, peaks, ridges, endless and countless, everywhere, some in
shadow, some tipped with shafts of sunlight, all wooded and green or black, and
all in more softened contours than our Northern hills, but still wild,
lonesome, terrible. Away in the
southwest, lifting themselves up in a gleam of the western sky, the Great Smoky
Mountains loomed like a frowning continental fortress, sullen and remote. With Clingman and Gibbs and Holdback peaks
near at hand and apparently of equal height, Mitchell seemed only a part and
not separate from the mighty congregation of giants.
In the center
of the stony plot on the summit lie the remains of Mitchell. To dig a grave in the rock was
impracticable, but the loose stones were scooped away to the depth of a foot or
so, the body was deposited, and the stones were replaced over it. It was the original intention to erect a
monument, but the enterprise of the projectors of this royal entombment failed
at that point. The grave is surrounded
by a low wall of loose stones, to which each visitor adds one, and in the
course of ages the cairn may grow to a good size. The explorer lies there without name or headstone to mark his
awful resting-place. The mountain is
his monument. He is alone with its
majesty. He is there in the clouds, in
the tempests, where the lightnings play, and thunders leap, amid the elemental
tumult, in the occasional great calm and silence and the pale sunlight. It is the most majestic, the most lonesome
grave on earth.
As we sat
there, awed a little by this presence, the clouds were gathering from various
quarters and drifting towards us. We
could watch the process of thunder-storms and the manufacture of tempests. I
have often noticed on other high mountains how the clouds, forming like genii
released from the earth, mount into the upper air, and in masses of torn
fragments of mist hurry across the sky as to a rendezvous of witches. This was a different display. These clouds came slowly sailing from the
distant horizon, like ships on an aerial voyage. Some were below us, some on our level; they were all in
well-defined, distinct masses, molten silver on deck, below trailing rain, and
attended on earth by gigantic shadows that moved with them. This strange fleet
of battle-ships, drifted by the shifting currents, was maneuvering for an
engagement. One after another, as they
came into range about our peak of observation, they opened fire. Sharp flashes of lightning darted from one
to the other; a jet of flame from one leaped across the interval and was buried
in the bosom of its adversary; and at every discharge the boom of great guns
echoed through the mountains. It was
something more than a royal salute to the tomb of the mortal at our feet, for
the masses of cloud were rent in the fray, at every discharge the rain was
precipitated in increasing torrents, and soon the vast hulks were trailing torn
fragments and wreaths of mist, like the shot-away shrouds and sails of ships in
battle. Gradually, from this long-range
practice with single guns and exchange of broadsides, they drifted into closer
conflict, rushed together, and we lost sight of the individual combatants in
the general tumult of this aerial war.
We had barely
twenty minutes for our observations, when it was time to go; and had scarcely
left the peak when the clouds enveloped it. We hastened down under the
threatening sky to the saddles and the luncheon. Just off from the summit, amid the rocks, is a complete arbor, or
tunnel, of rhododendrons. This
cavernous place a Western writer has made the scene of a desperate encounter
between Big Tom and a catamount, or American panther, which had been caught in
a trap and dragged it there, pursued by Wilson. It is an exceedingly graphic narrative, and is enlivened by the
statement that Big Tom had the night before drunk up all the whisky of the
party which had spent the night on the summit.
Now Big Tom assured us that the whisky part of the story was an
invention; he was not (which is true) in the habit of using it; if he ever did
take any, it might be a drop on Mitchell; in fact, when he inquired if we had a
flask, he remarked that a taste of it would do him good then and there. We regretted the lack of it in our
baggage. But what inclined Big Tom to
discredit the Western writer's story altogether was the fact that he never in
his life had had a difficulty with a catamount, and never had seen one in these
mountains.
Our lunch was
eaten in haste. Big Tom refused the
chicken he had provided for us, and strengthened himself with slices of raw
salt pork, which he cut from a hunk with his clasp-knife. We caught and saddled our horses, who were
reluctant to leave the rich feed, enveloped ourselves in waterproofs, and got
into the stony path for the descent just as the torrent came down. It did rain. It lightened, the thunder crashed, the wind howled and twisted
the treetops. It was as if we were
pursued by the avenging spirits of the mountains for our intrusion. Such a tempest on this height had its
terrors even for our hardy guide. He
preferred to be lower down while it was going on. The crash and reverberation of the thunder did not trouble us so
much as the swish of the wet branches in our faces and the horrible road, with
its mud, tripping roots, loose stones, and slippery rocks. Progress was slow. The horses were in momentary danger of breaking their legs. In the first hour there was not much
descent. In the clouds we were passing
over Clingman, Gibbs, and Holdback. The
rain had ceased, but the mist still shut off all view, if any had been
attainable, and bushes and paths were deluged.
The descent was more uncomfortable than the ascent, and we were
compelled a good deal of the way to lead the jaded horses down the slippery rocks.
From the peak
to the Widow Patten's, where we proposed to pass the night, is twelve miles, a
distance we rode or scrambled down, every step of the road bad, in five and a
half hours. Halfway down we came out
upon a cleared place, a farm, with fruit-trees and a house in ruins. Here had been a summer hotel much resorted
to before the war, but now abandoned.
Above it we turned aside for the view from Elizabeth rock, named from
the daughter of the proprietor of the hotel, who often sat here, said Big Tom,
before she went out of this world. It
is a bold rocky ledge, and the view from it, looking south, is unquestionably
the finest, the most pleasing and picture- like, we found in these mountains. In the foreground is the deep gorge of a
branch of the Swannanoa, and opposite is the great wall of the Blue Ridge (the
Blue Ridge is the most capricious and inexplicable system) making off to the
Blacks. The depth of the gorge, the
sweep of the sky line, and the reposeful aspect of the scene to the sunny south
made this view both grand and charming. Nature does not always put the needed
dash of poetry into her extensive prospects.
Leaving this
clearing and the now neglected spring, where fashion used to slake its thirst,
we zigzagged down the mountain-side through a forest of trees growing at every
step larger and nobler, and at length struck a small stream, the North Fork of
the Swannanoa, which led us to the first settlement. Just at night,--it was nearly seven o'clock,--we entered one of
the most stately forests I have ever seen, and rode for some distance in an
alley of rhododendrons that arched overhead and made a bower. It was like an aisle in a temple; high
overhead was the somber, leafy roof, supported by gigantic columns. Few widows have such an avenue of approach
to their domain as the Widow Patten has. . . . .
The Widow
Patten's was only an advanced settlement in this narrow valley on the
mountain-side, but a little group of buildings, a fence, and a gate gave it the
air of a place, and it had once been better cared for than it is now. Few travelers pass that way, and the art of
entertaining, if it ever existed, is fallen into desuetude. We unsaddled at the veranda, and sat down to
review our adventure, make the acquaintance of the family, and hear the last
story from Big Tom. The mountaineer,
though wet, was as fresh as a daisy, and fatigue in no wise checked the easy,
cheerful flow of his talk. He was
evidently a favorite with his neighbors, and not unpleasantly conscious of the
extent of his reputation. But he
encountered here another social grade.
The Widow Patten was highly connected.
We were not long in discovering that she was an Alexander. She had been a schoolmate of Senator
Vance,--" Zeb Vance "he still was to her,--and the senator and his
wife had stayed at her house. I wish I
could say that the supper, for which we waited till nine o'clock, was as
"highly connected" as the landlady.
It was, however, a supper that left its memory. We were lodged in a detached house, which we
had to ourselves, where a roaring wood fire made amends for other things
lacking. It was necessary to close the
doors to keep out the wandering cows and pigs, and I am bound to say that,
notwithstanding the voices of the night, we slept there the sleep of peace.
In the morning
a genuine surprise awaited us; it seemed impossible, but the breakfast was many
degrees worse than the supper; and when we paid our bill, large for the region,
we were consoled by the thought that we paid for the high connection as well as
for the accommodations. This is a
regular place of entertainment, and one is at liberty to praise it without
violation of delicacy. . . .
The ride down
the Swannanoa to Asheville was pleasant, through a cultivated region, over a
good road. The Swannanoa is, however, a
turbid stream. In order to obtain the
most impressive view of Asheville we approached it by the way of Beaucatcher
Hill, a sharp elevation a mile west of the town. I suppose the name is a corruption of some descriptive French
word, but it has long been a favorite resort of the frequenters of Asheville,
and it may be traditional that it is a good place to catch beaux. The summit is occupied by a handsome private
residence, and from this ridge the view, which has the merit of
"bursting" upon the traveler as he comes over the hill, is
captivating in its extent and variety.
The pretty town of Asheville is seen to cover a number of elevations
gently rising out of the valley, and the valley, a rich agricultural region,
well watered and fruitful, is completely inclosed by picturesque hills, some of
them rising to the dignity of mountains.
The most conspicuous of these is Mount Pisgah, eighteen miles distant to
the southwest, a pyramid of the Balsam range, 5757 feet high. Mount Pisgah, from its shape, is the most
attractive mountain in this region.
The sunset
light was falling upon the splendid panorama and softening it. The windows of the town gleamed as if on
fire. From the steep slope below came
the mingled sounds of children shouting, cattle driven home, and all that hum
of life that marks a thickly peopled region preparing for the night. It was the leisure hour of an August
afternoon, and Asheville was in all its watering-place gayety, as we reined up
at the Swannanoa hotel. A band was playing
on the balcony. We had reached ice-water, barbers, waiters, civilization.
October
Ashville,
delightful for situation, on small hills that rise above the French Broad below
its confluence with the Swannanoa, is a sort of fourteenth cousin to Saratoga. It has no springs, but lying 2250 feet above
the sea and in a lovely valley, mountain girt, it has pure atmosphere and an
equable climate; and being both a summer and winter resort, it has acquired a
watering-place air. There are
Southerners who declare that it is too hot in summer, and that the complete
circuit of mountains shuts out any lively movement of air. But the scenery is so charming and noble,
the drives are so varied, the roads so unusually passable for a Southern
country, and the facilities for excursions so good, that Asheville is a
favorite resort.
Architecturally
the place is not remarkable, but its surface is so irregular, there are so many
acclivities and deep valleys that improvements can never obliterate, that it is
perforce picturesque. It is interesting also, if not pleasing, in its
contrasts--the enterprise of taste and money-making struggling with the laissez
faire of the South. The negro, I
suppose, must be regarded as a conservative element; he has not much
inclination to change his clothes or his cabin, and his swarming presence gives
a ragged aspect to the new civilization.
And to say the truth, the new element of Southern smartness lacks the
trim thrift the North is familiar with; though the visitor who needs relaxation
is not disposed to quarrel with the easy-going terms on which life is taken.
Asheville, it
is needless to say, appeared very gay and stimulating to the riders from the
wilderness. The Professor, who does not
even pretend to patronize Nature, had his revenge as we strolled about the
streets (there is but one of much consideration), immensely entertained by the
picturesque contrasts. There was more
life and amusement here in five minutes, he declared, than in five days of what
people called scenery--the present rage for scenery, anyway, being only a
fashion and a modern invention. The
Friend suspected from this penchant for the city that the Professor must have
been brought up in the country.
There was a
kind of predetermined and willful gayety about Asheville however, that is apt
to be present in a watering-place, and gave to it the melancholy tone that is
always present in gay places. We
fancied that the lively movement in the streets had an air of unreality. A band of musicians on the balcony of the
Swannanoa were scraping and tooting and twanging with a hired air, and on the
opposite balcony of the Eagle a rival band echoed and redoubled the perfunctory
joyousness. The gayety was contagious:
the horses felt it; those that carried light burdens of beauty minced and
pranced, the pony in the dog-cart was inclined to dash, the few passing
equipages had an air of pleasure; and the people of color, the comely waitress
and the slouching corner-loafer, responded to the animation of the festive
strains. In the late afternoon the
streets were full of people, wagons, carriages, horsemen, all with a holiday
air, dashed with African color and humor--the irresponsibility of the most
insouciant and humorous race in the world, perhaps more comical than humorous;
a mixture of recent civilization and rudeness, peculiar and amusing; a happy
coming together, it seemed, of Southern abandon and Northern wealth, though the
North was little represented at this season. . . .
Riding down
the French Broad was one of the original objects of our journey. Travelers with the same intention may be
warned that the route on horseback is impracticable. The distance to the Warm Springs is thirty-seven miles; to
Marshall, more than halfway, the road is clear, as it runs on the opposite side
of the river from the railway, and the valley is something more than river and
rails. But below Marshall the valley
contracts, and the rails are laid a good portion of the way in the old stage
road. One can walk the track, but to
ride a horse over its sleepers and culverts and occasional bridges, and dodge
the trains, is neither safe nor agreeable.
We sent our horses round--the messenger taking the risk of leading them,
between trains, over the last six or eight miles,--and took the train. The railway, after crossing a mile or two of
meadows, hugs the river all the way.
The scenery is the reverse of bold.
The hills are low, monotonous in form, and the stream winds through
them, with many a pretty turn and "reach," with scarcely a ribbon of
room to spare on either side. The river
is shallow, rapid, stony, muddy, full of rocks, with an occasional little
island covered with low bushes. The
rock seems to be a clay formation, rotten and colored. As we approach Warm Springs the scenery
becomes a little bolder, and we emerge into the open space about the Springs
through a narrower defile, guarded by rocks that are really picturesque in
color and splintered decay, one of them being known, of course, as the
"Lover's Leap," a name common in every part of the modern or ancient
world where there is a settlement near a precipice, with always the same legend
attached to it.
There is a
little village at Warm Springs, but the hotel--since burned and rebuilt--(which
may be briefly described as a palatial shanty) stands by itself close to the
river, which is here a deep, rapid, turbid stream. A bridge once connected it with the road on the opposite bank,
but it was carried away three or four years ago, and its ragged butments stand
as a monument of procrastination, while the stream is crossed by means of a
flatboat and a cable. In front of the
hotel, on the slight slope to the river, is a meager grove of locusts. The famous spring, close to-the stream, is
marked only by a rough box of wood and an iron pipe, and the water, which has a
temperature of about one hundred degrees, runs to a shabby bath-house below, in
which is a pool for bathing. The bath
is very agreeable, the tepid water being singularly soft and pleasant. It has a slightly sulphurous taste. Its good effects are much certified. The grounds, which might be very pretty with
care, are ill-kept and slatternly, strewn with debris, as if everything was
left to the easy-going nature of the servants.
The main house is of brick, with verandas and galleries all round, and a
colonnade of thirteen huge brick and stucco columns, in honor of the thirteen
States,--a relic of post-Revolutionary times, when the house was the resort of
Southern fashion and romance. These
columns have stood through one fire, and perhaps the recent one, which swept
away the rest of the structure. The
house is extended in a long wooden edifice, with galleries and outside stairs,
the whole front being nearly seven hundred feet long. In a rear building is a vast, barrack-like dining-room, with a
noble ball-room above, for dancing is the important occupation of visitors. . .
.
It was
impossible to get much information about our route into Tennessee, except that
we should go by Paint Rock, and cross Paint Mountain. Late one morning,--a late start is inevitable here,-- accompanied
by a cavalcade, we crossed the river by the rope ferry, and trotted down the
pretty road, elevated above the stream and tree- shaded, offering always
charming glimpses of swift water and overhanging foliage (the railway
obligingly taking the other side of the river), to Paint Rock,--six miles. This Paint Rock is a naked precipice by the
roadside, perhaps sixty feet high, which has a large local reputation. It is said that its face shows painting done
by the Indians, and hieroglyphics which nobody can read. On this bold, crumbling cliff, innumerable
visitors have written their names. We
stared at it a good while to discover the paint and hieroglyphics, but could
see nothing except iron stains. Round
the corner is a farmhouse and place of call for visitors, a neat cottage, with
a display of shells and minerals and flower-pots; and here we turned north
crossed the little stream called Paint River, the only clear water we had seen
in a month, passed into the State of Tennessee, and by a gentle ascent climbed
Paint Mountain. The open forest road,
with the murmur of the stream below, was delightfully exhilarating, and as we
rose the prospect opened,--the lovely valley below, Bald Mountains behind us,
and the Butt Mountains rising as we came over the ridge.
Nobody on the
way, none of the frowzy women or unintelligent men, knew anything of the route,
or could give us any information of the country beyond. But as we descended in Tennessee the country
and the farms decidedly improved,--apple-trees and a grapevine now and then.