“Ferny pastures, beetling rock,
Slopes half-islanded by streams,
Glisten in the amber gleams
Of the sunshine—gleams that mock
Shadowed field and cool gray rock.
“Farther up the sobbing pines
Hold their uncontested sway,
Shutting out the smiling day
With their solemn, serried lines,
—Mournful, melancholy pines!”
The sun is shining brightly, and his golden lances light up the depths
of the forest into which we enter—an enchanted world of far-reaching
greenness, the stillness of which is only broken by the voice of the
streams which come down the gorges of the mountain in leaping cascades.
Few things are more picturesque than the appearance of a cavalcade
like ours following in single file the winding path (not road) that
leads into the marvelous, mysterious wilderness. When the ascent
fairly begins, the path is often like the letter S, and one commands a
view of the entire line—of horsemen in slouched hats and gray coats,
of ladies in a variety of attire, with water-proof cloaks serving as
riding-skirts, and hats garlanded with forest wreaths and grasses.
The guide tramps steadily ahead, leading the pack-horse, and we catch
a glimpse of his face now and then as he turns to answer some of the
numerous questions addressed to him.
“O Mr. Burnet,” cries Sylvia, “shall we see a bear?”
“’Tain’t very likely,” answers Mr. Burnet, glancing round with a smile,
“but you’ll see the tracks of one or two, p’r’aps. That’ll be better
than nothin’, won’t it?”
“Very much better than nothing; but I want desperately to see a bear
itself.”
“I kin show you a bear-trap after a while, without takin’ you very fur
from the road,” says the hunter.
“Do you catch bears in traps?” asks Sylvia. “Tell me all about it.”
It is to be supposed that Mr. Burnet complies with this request—at
least we hear his voice mingling with Sylvia’s blithe tones as the
_cortège_ winds deeper and deeper into the still, beautiful forest.
Sylvia’s mule, as soon as we start, declines on any account to remain
in the rear of the party—or indeed anywhere but in the front rank,
next to the pack-horse. On such an expedition as this people laugh
at things that seem very trivial in repetition, and we make the
echoes ring with our mirth as this small but determined animal pushes
resolutely by everyone else and carries its protesting rider to the van.
“I have heard of the obstinacy of mules,” she says, tugging fruitlessly
at the rein, “but I _never_ realized before what it is! I can make no
impression whatever on this creature. He goes exactly where he likes,
without the slightest regard to my wishes. Sure-footed? Yes—he picks
the best footing, with profound indifference as to whether I am scraped
against trees, or pulled off by branches, or any thing else. Has a
mule’s mouth got no feeling? I’m sure I have pulled on this bit till my
arm aches.”
[Illustration: “‘I have heard of the obstinacy of mules.’”]
“I wish I had a sketch of you, Sylvia!” says Rupert, between his fits
of laughter. “By George! you are a comical sight—you and your mule.”
“You are very ill-bred,” says Sylvia, “and I am going to devote myself
to Mr. Burnet.”
The ascent is very gradual and very slow. We are mounting all the time,
but the zigzag path spares us any thing very much on the perpendicular
order. Now and then we feel inclined to cling to the manes of our
horses as we feel the saddles slipping backward at some steep
ascent—but on the whole, the terrible accounts that we have heard of
the way are by no means verified.
“We wind up the side of the mountain like this for several miles,”
says Eric. “Then we travel along a ridge for some distance, and finally
we ascend the peak formerly called the Black Dome, now Mount Mitchell.
The whole distance is about twelve miles, and most of it is steady
climbing. We shall not reach the Dome until three o’clock at earliest.”
“And shall we have nothing to eat until then?” asks Rupert, dismayed.
“Nothing,” is the disheartening answer.
“What a big mountain this must be!” says Mrs. Cardigan.
“It is about twenty miles long,” answers Eric, “and contains at least
a hundred thousand acres of as dense wilderness as is to be found
out of the tropical belt. When we reach Mount Mitchell we shall be
in the centre of a region of unbroken forest, without house or road
in any direction—except this path and a few trails known only to the
hunters—for a radius of ten or twelve miles.”
“And it was in this wilderness that Professor Mitchell lost his life
sixteen or seventeen years ago, was it not?” I ask.
“Yes. Burnet was one of the men engaged in the search for him. He will
tell you all about it. At least five hundred men were in the party, and
they searched for days before at last the professor was found—drowned
in a mountain torrent.”
Higher and higher we mount—the horses straining steadily upward
with few pauses. The forest around us becomes wilder, greener, more
luxuriant with every step. When we wonder at this, Eric bids us observe
the rich, black loam which composes the soil. Such gigantic trees
as grow here cannot be matched, I am sure, out of California. The
chestnuts especially exceed in girth and height any thing we have ever
seen. Other trees correspond in size, and the dense undergrowth makes a
sea of impenetrable verdure in every direction.
Presently, however, the aspect of our surroundings changes. We leave
this varied forest behind and enter the region of the balsam, from the
dark color of which the mountain takes its name. Above a certain line
of elevation no trees are found save these beautiful yet sombre firs.
They grow to an immense height and stand so thickly together that one
marvels how any animal larger than a cat can thread its way among their
stems. Overhead the boughs interlock in a canopy, making perpetual
shade beneath. No shrubs of any kind are to be found here—only beds
of thick, elastic moss, richer than the richest velvet, and ferns in
plumy profusion. Putting aside every thing else, it is worth ascending
the Black Mountain to see these mosses and ferns. Description can
give no idea of their beauty. As lovely ferns may perhaps be found
elsewhere—though this is doubtful, since the rich soil, the perpetual
moisture, and perpetual shade foster their growth to the highest
possible degree—but one never sees, out of the balsam forests, the
peculiar moss which is their glory. It is almost rank in its richness;
it is more vivid than emerald in its greenness; and there is a delicate
grace about it which no other moss possesses. It is more like a fairy
forest of miniature palm-leaves than any thing else to which one can
liken it.
“What is this?” we ask, as our horses struggle up a steep ascent and
pause on a small plateau, where a double house of balsam logs stands.
All planking—every thing which made the house habitable—is gone, but
the stout logs remain firmly fixed together and look as if they might
defy the hand of Time. “Are we on the summit?”
“On the summit!” Eric laughs. “This is only the Mountain House, the
summer residence, formerly, of Mr. William Patton, who owned the
mountain. You are five thousand four hundred and sixty feet above
sea-level, however, and have a most extensive view.”
We turn—so dense has been the forest through which we ascended that
this is our first glimpse of what we have gained—and see the world
unrolled like a map below us, with mountain ranges in azure billows
spreading to the farthest verge of the infinitely distant horizon.
It is a picture which almost takes away our breath and dwarfs into
insignificance all else that we have seen. What are the hills and rocks
on which we have hitherto stood to this grand mountain height, with the
boundless territory which it overlooks? Eric points out the sweeping
lines of the two great ranges which enclose on each side this Eden of
the sky, as they trend southward to South Carolina and Georgia, and
the innumerable transverse ranges and spurs that cover the face of
the country. Far, misty, ocean-like, the magnificent expanse spreads,
looking like a celestial country instead of a common work-day world.
We could linger here for hours, but are imperatively hurried on. Again
we plunge into the dark shade of the dense balsams. The path is no more
than a trail, which an eye inexperienced in woodcraft could not detect,
and the way grows more and more steep. One moment the horses slip on
the rocks up which they clamber; the next instant they sink above their
fetlocks in black mud; there is barely room for their passage through
the close-growing trees; and every few minutes a cry runs along the
line, “Look out for your heads!” and we bend down on their necks to
escape being scraped off by some leaning tree or low bough. In every
direction stretches the sombre, impenetrable forest, and the only
things which break the monotony of its gloom are masses of rock piled
together in strange, fantastic shapes, and covered with moss and ferns.
Two miles of this steep climbing brings us to the summit of the
undulating ridge along which our way lies for several miles farther.
The funereal branches of the balsam still overshadow us, but now and
then we emerge from this canopy of shade into small, open spaces,
lovely enough for a fairy court. Short, green grass flourishes, one
or two graceful, hardy trees make a pleasant contrast to the sombre
firs, and flat rocks here and there seem provided specially for seats.
We would willingly pause in these charming spots, but our guide
calls no halt. He seems insensible to fatigue as he presses steadily
onward with his long strides, and we are forced to follow, since this
mountain wilderness, abounding in precipices and pitfalls, would be an
unfavorable place in which to indulge a fancy for straggling. Twice he
points out bear-tracks crossing our path, and once he turns aside from
the trail to show Sylvia the promised bear-trap—a stout erection of
large logs.
“When you find a bear in a place like this,” she says, regarding it
gravely from the height of her mule, “what do you do to him?”
“Shoots him, ginerally,” answers Mr. Burnet, with a broad smile.
“And you call that hunting!” she says, scornfully. “Why, I should think
you would feel like a coward to come and shoot a poor trapped animal.”
“Looking at the matter in that light, all hunting is cowardly,” says
Eric. “But if the bear had been stealing your hogs for several months,
you would probably be willing to shoot him when you found him in a
trap.—Lead on, Dan. I am growing—to put it moderately—rather hungry.”
Dan leads on, and presently we emerge on the largest and most beautiful
of the little prairies through which we have passed. This stretch of
open ground lies at the foot of the highest peak, the abrupt sides of
which rise in conical shape before us. It is here, Mr. Burnet tells us,
that the mountaineers who were searching for Professor Mitchell found
the first trace of the way he had taken.
“We had been sarchin’ from Friday to Tuesday,” he says, “and on Tuesday
we was pretty nigh disheartened, when Wilson—an old hunter from over
in Yancey—said he hadn’t no doubt the professor had tried to go down
to Caney Valley by a trail they two had followed thirteen years afore,
and which leads that way”—he points down into the dark wilds below us.
“Well, we looked along the edge of this here prairie till we found a
track. Wilson was right—he _had_ tried to go down to Caney Valley. We
followed his trail for about four miles, and I was one of them what
found him at last.”
“He had lost his way,” says Eric. “I have seen the spot—they call it
Mitchell’s Falls now—where he died. A stream of considerable size
plunges over a precipice of about forty feet into a basin fourteen feet
deep by as many wide. Into this he fell— probably at night.”
“But how was it possible to bring a dead body up these steeps?” Sylvia
asks, addressing Mr. Burnet.
“We brought it in a sheet slung to the top of stout poles,” he answers.
“Then it were carried down to Asheville, and then brought up again and
buried there”—he nods to the peak above us.
“In the warmth of their great friendship and admiration, people thought
that he ought to rest in the midst of the scenes he had explored so
fearlessly and loved so well,” says Eric.
We are all silent. This shadow of death seems to obscure something of
the beauty of the wide prospect. We have paused, attracted not only
by the gentle loveliness of the spot, but by the magnificence of the
far stretching view. Immediately in front of us sweeps westwardly the
great range of Craggy, its spurs shutting off Asheville from our view.
Beyond, Pisgah lifts its crest, with its surrounding mountains, while
behind these, range after range melts into illimitable distance, and
more than half the counties of the western part of the State lie spread
before us. Eric takes his cherished companion—a large field-glass—from
its case and brings it to a proper focus, then hands it to me.
“Look,” he says, “at that cloud-like table-land lying near the South
Carolina line— do you see what I mean? That is the upper valley of the
French Broad in Transylvania, and it is nearly on a level with the
summit of the Blue Ridge.”
The glass passes from hand to hand, for we all alight here, since the
rest of the ascent can best be made on foot. The saddles are taken from
the horses, and they are turned loose to graze until morning.
“Suppose they should run away?” suggests Mr. Lanier, a little aghast at
this proceeding; but our guide only laughs.
“They’ll not run fur,” he says.
“If they did, we should have to walk down the mountain,” says Sylvia.
“That would be capital fun!”
“Fun which I had rather be spared,” says Mrs. Cardigan, taking off her
water-proof, which has served as a riding-skirt, and throwing it over
her arm.
Only the pack-horse is led to the summit of the peak. We follow, glad
to be spared the ascent of the steep and rocky way on horseback. The
climbing is laborious, but fortunately short. Before long we gain the
top, and the first object on which our eyes rest is—the grave.
Here the friends of the dead professor laid him down, to await the
resurrection morning. At his feet the pines sigh their mournful
requiem, and the majestic glory of that Nature to which he was so
devoted lies spread around. With this loftiest peak of the great
Appalachian chain his name is linked effectually. The dome is not
likely to be called by any other name than “Mount Mitchell” so long as
the first sight which greets those who ascend it is Mitchell’s grave.
Beside the grave, the summit is entirely bare. A few yards down its
sides the balsam growth begins; but the firs are stunted, and round the
crest of the knob half at least of them are dead and look like white
spectres of trees. A small cabin stood here a year or two ago, but is
now burned down—only its chimney remaining.
“Where is the cave? I don’t see any cave,” says Mrs. Cardigan, looking
blankly around as we seat ourselves in an exhausted condition on the
scattered rocks that abound.
“The cave is about fifty yards down the side of the peak,” says Eric.
“Burnet has taken the pack-horse there to unload. As soon as you are
rested sufficiently, we had better follow. We can take dinner, and then
return here for the view.”
Does anyone wonder that we rise with alacrity at the sound of that
magic word “dinner?” If so, he or she never made a mountain ascent of
six hours in an atmosphere that sharpens the appetite to that positive
hunger which in ordinary life we so seldom feel.
Down a path on the other side of the peak we go, and, about fifty yards
from the summit, are led to a large rock, one side of which shelves
inward to the depth of ten or twelve feet, forming an excellent shelter.
“This was the royal residence of the king of the bears in the good
old times when there were no men on these mountains,” says Rupert, as
we approach. (He is on his knees, assisting Harrison to unpack the
provisions.) “It serves admirably for bears, but is rather low for
people.”
[Illustration: In the Cave.]
“For giants like yourself, very likely,” says Sylvia. “I can stand
upright in it, quite far back, very comfortably—see!”
“And when one sits down it is admirable,” says Mrs. Cardigan, suiting
the action to the word and sitting down on a shawl which Mr. Lanier has
spread for her.
“Here is a natural cupboard,” I say, examining a ledge of rocks that
juts out on one side.
“I doubt whether we shall leave any thing to go into it,” says Charley.
“I am famished!”
“Spread the table quicker, Harrison!” cries Sylvia. “Eric, carve the
ham while I cut some bread.”
The table is spread—to wit, a miscellaneous collection of eatables are
placed on a piece of black oil-cloth—and dinner begins. For some time
no other remarks are heard than those which are strictly necessary.
Requests are made for bread-and-butter, for another piece of ham or
chicken, for pickles or sardines; beyond this, little is said until we
look at each other and laugh. By this time the feast is drawing to its
close. Canned fruits, cakes, and jelly are on the table; Charley is
opening a bottle of wine.
“Fate cannot harm us, we have dined to-day,” says Sylvia. “Oh, were you
_ever_ so hungry before? I only hope we have left enough for breakfast:
we cannot afford to eat any supper.”
“Can’t we?” says Rupert, looking dismayed. “Why, I think there’s plenty
left. We’ll have some coffee, at any rate. As soon as Burnet comes
back—he has taken the pack-horse down to the others—we are going to
make a fire.”
“If the wind should be in the wrong direction, we shall suffer
dreadfully from the smoke,” says Mr. Lanier, looking at the great pile
of charred logs immediately in front of our rock-house—remnants of the
fire of some other party.
“Better suffer from smoke than from cold,” says Eric. “You’ll be glad
of the fire when night falls; and, in order that you may have it, we
must go to work and cut wood enough to last till morning.”
“Cut wood!” repeats Mr. Lanier, with a rasp. He has plainly not
anticipated any thing like this. “You mean that Harrison and the guide
will cut it?”
“I mean that it will require several axes to cut as much as we
shall need,” answers Eric. “The balsam wood will not burn in small
quantities.”
Mr. Lanier does not volunteer to take one of these axes; he looks, on
the contrary, greatly disgusted.
“And you call this a pleasure-excursion?” he says.
“A pleasure _exertion_ it might better be defined—don’t you think so?”
asks Mrs. Cardigan, laughing.
“I wondered why you were bringing axes along,” says Sylvia, turning to
Charley. “And this is what it was for?”
“This is what it was for,” he answers. “Now—since we are in a gypsy
camp—may I ask leave to light a cigar? ‘When Juno ruffles thee, O
Jupiter, try the weed’—and, according to my experience, Juno is pretty
sure to ruffle one sooner or later; therefore, it is well to be
provided with a weed.”
“After that, you don’t deserve permission to light it,” she says, “but
I suppose we can’t refuse you the privilege which we are willing to
grant the others.”
At this, cigars are lighted, and, when the bottle of wine has been
emptied, we take our way back to the summit.
There the full glory of all that we have come to see bursts upon us.
How can one write of it?—how give the faintest idea of the beauty
which lies below us on this September day?—how describe the sublimated
fairness of the day itself in the rarefied air of this high peak?
“I have never obtained so good a view before!” says Eric. “There are
not a dozen days in the year when one can obtain such a view from this
mountain.”
“What delightful luck that we should have hit one of the dozen!” says
Mrs. Cardigan. “Don’t you feel as if you overlooked the whole world,
and the kingdoms thereof? O Mr. Markham, dear Mr. Markham, tell us what
every thing is!”
Dear Mr. Markham proceeds to comply with this moderate request, while
Sylvia mounts the chimney and stands there—field-glass in hand—sweeping
the horizon, as he indicates one object after another. Charley sits on
the chimney at her feet, swinging his legs meditatively and smoking;
Mrs. Cardigan, in her enthusiasm, takes Mr. Lanier’s arm.
The view is so immense that one is forced to regard it in sections.
Far to the northeast lies Virginia, from which the long waving line
of the Blue Ridge comes, and passes directly under the Black, making
a point of junction, near which it towers into the steep pinnacle and
stately Graybeard—so called from the white beard which it wears when a
frozen cloud has iced its rhododendrons. From our greater eminence we
overlook the Blue Ridge entirely, and see the country below spreading
into azure distance, with white spots which resolve themselves through
the glass into villages, and mountains clearly defined. The Linville
range—through which the Linville River forces its way in a gorge of
wonderful grandeur—is in full view, with a misty cloud lying on the
surface of Table Rock, while the peculiar form of the Hawk’s Bill
stands forth in marked relief. Beyond, blue and limitless as the ocean,
the undulating plain of the more level country extends until it melts
into the sky.
[Illustration: “Sylvia mounts the chimney, and stands there.”]
As the glance leaves this view, and, sweeping back over the Blue Ridge,
follows the main ledge of the Black, one begins to appreciate the
magnitude of this great mountain. For miles along its dark crest appear
a succession of cone-like peaks, and, as it sweeps round westwardly, it
divides into two great branches—one of which terminates in the height
on which we stand, while numerous spurs lead off from its base; the
other stretches southward, forming the splendid chain of Craggy. At
our feet lie the elevated counties of Yancey and Mitchell, with their
surface so uniformly mountainous that one wonders how men could have
been daring enough to think of making their homes amid such wild scenes.
“The richest lands in the mountains are to be found in those counties,”
says Eric, when we remark something like this:
“Look at the farms—they scarcely seem more than gardens from our point
of view—dotted all over the valleys and rolling table-lands, and even
on the mountain-sides. Yet Burnsville, the county-seat, is six hundred
feet higher than Asheville.”
Beyond these counties stretches the chain of the Unaka, running along
the line of Tennessee, with the Roan Mountain—famous for its extensive
view over seven States—immediately in our front. Through the passes and
rugged chasms of this range, we look across the entire valley of East
Tennessee to where the blue outlines of the Cumberland Mountains trend
toward Kentucky, and we see distinctly a marked depression which Eric
says is Cumberland Gap. Turning our gaze due westward, the view is,
if possible, still more grand. There the colossal masses of the Great
Smoky stand, draped in a mantle of clouds, while through Haywood and
Transylvania, to the borders of South Carolina, rise the peaks of the
Balsam Mountains, behind which are the Cullowhee and the Nantahala,
with the Blue Ridge making a majestic curve toward the point where
Georgia touches the Carolinas.
“To understand how much you see,” says Eric—for such a view is
bewildering in its magnitude—“you must remember that this elevated
country called Western North Carolina is two hundred and fifty miles
long, with a breadth varying from thirty to sixty miles, and that you
overlook all this—with much more besides.”
“With very much more besides,” says Charley, “especially in the matter
of width. Cumberland Gap is fully a hundred miles away, and the view on
the other side of the Blue Ridge is even more extensive.”
“You are right—it is bewildering,” says Sylvia, dropping the glass,
“and it is folly to think of seeing such a view in one day or two days.
We should remain here for a week at least.”
“In that case we’d have to send for more provisions,” says Rupert’s
voice from the rear.
Then Eric rouses with a start to the consciousness that, while the
sun is sloping westward, and the shadows are lengthening over all the
marvelous scene, a supply of wood for the night has not been cut. The
axes of the guide and Harrison are ringing down among the balsam trees,
but he is too experienced a mountaineer to trust entirely to their
efforts.
“Come, Rupert,” he says, “a little exercise will do you no
harm.—Charley, if we need recruits, I’ll call you.”
“Very good,” says Charley, with resignation.
Deserted thus by our instructor, we cease to ask the names of the
mountain ranges or towering peaks. It is enough to sit and watch the
inexpressible beauty of the vast prospect as afternoon slowly wanes
into evening. There is a sense of isolation, of solemnity and majesty,
in the scene which none of us are likely to forget. So high are we
elevated above the world, that the pure vault of ether over our heads
seems nearer to us than the blue rolling earth, with its wooded hills
and smiling valleys below. No sound comes up to us, no voice of water
or note of bird breaks the stillness. We are in the region of that
eternal silence which wraps the summits of the “everlasting hills.” A
repose that is full of awe broods over this lofty peak, which still
retains the last rays of the sinking sun, while over the lower world
twilight has fallen.