Rich mountain, distant about eight miles. It was a picturesque body of
men, that in single file waded in the snow under the burdened balsams,
and crawled over the white-topped logs. The head youth from Caney Fork
had his hat pulled down so far over his ears, to protect them from the
cold, that half of his head, flaunting yellow locks, was exposed above
the tattered felt, and only the lower portion of his pale, weak face
appeared below the rim. His blue, homespun coat hardly reached the top
of his pantaloons; and his great, horny hands, and arms half way to the
elbows protruded from torn sleeves. There was no necessity for him to
roll up his pantaloons; for so short were they that his stork-like legs
were not covered by fifteen inches from the heels. Next behind him came
Wid, with his face as red as ever, and his long hair the color of the
snow. Then followed Allen, a thick-set, sturdy youth from the Richland.
He gloried in his health and vigor, and to show it, wore nothing over
his back but a thin muslin shirt. He whistled as he walked, and laughed
and halloed till the forests responded, whenever a balsam branch
dislodged its snow upon his head and shoulders. Noah Harrison, another
valley farmer, who likes hunting better than farming, came next. He was
a matter-of-fact fellow, and showed his disrelish to the snow by
picking, with his keen eyes, his steps in the foot-prints of those
ahead. Jonas Medford, a stout, mustached son of the old hunter, followed
behind the three young fellows who wore store clothes and carried
breech-loading shot-guns, instead of the rifles borne by the natives.
When half-way round the ridge, we caught faint echoes from the hounds
below. The sound was as stirring in tone as the reveille of the camp. A
minute after, our party was broken into sections, every one being left
to pick his way as best he could to the scene of the fight between the
dogs and bear. Naturally, the three young fellows in store clothes
stayed together. A balsam slope is the roughest ever trodden by the foot
of man. The rhododendrons and kalmias are perfect net-works. In them a
man is in as much danger of becoming irrecoverably entangled unto death
as a fly in a spider’s web; but, in the excitement caused by that faint
chiming of the hounds, no one seemed to think of the danger of being
lost in the labyrinths.
Luckily, before we three had proceeded 100 yards down a steep declivity,
we struck the channel of a tiny brook. Hedges of rhododendron grow
rankly along it, on both sides, and almost meet over the clear, rushing
water. It would be impossible for a man to penetrate these hedges for
any great distance, unless time was of no object whatever. The path of
the torrent affords the path for the hunter. We had on rubber boots, and
so waded in, following it down a devious course. It was an arduous walk.
At times slippery rocks sent us floundering; boulders intercepted us,
and the surface of deep pools rose higher than our boot-tops. For two
miles we pushed on, our ardor being kept aflame by the increasing noise
of the pack, and a few minutes later, we reached the scene of the
struggle.
The fight between two dogs on a village street affords great interest to
the mixed crowd that gathers around it; cocks pitted against each other
collect the rabble, and the bull fight of Spain furnishes a national
amusement; but of all fights that between a pack of ravenous dogs and a
frenzied bear is the most exciting. But few persons are ever accorded a
sight of this nature. It can never be forgotten by them. This is what we
saw on issuing from the laurel: A white wintry expanse, free from
undergrowth, on which the trees were set a little further apart than
usual; back of us the stream; while across the open expanse, at the
distance of twenty yards, a leaning cliff with the wild vines on its
front sprinkled with snow, and its top hidden from view by the giant
hemlocks before it. Close at the base of one of these hemlocks, reared
on his haunches, sat a shaggy black bear. He was licking his chops; and,
holding his fore paws up in approved pugilistic style, was coolly eyeing
ten hounds, which, forming a semi-circle, distant about ten feet before
him, were baying and barking with uplifted heads and savage teeth
exposed. One poor hound, with skull cracked by Bruin’s paw, lay within
the circle. At the foot of a hemlock near us sat two bleeding curs, and
one with a broken leg began dragging himself toward us.
By exposing ourselves we lost our chances for a shot; for, as soon as we
came in view, the hounds, encouraged by the sight
[Illustration: THE FINAL STRUGGLE.]
of men, sprang at their antagonist with redoubled fury and increased
yelping. It would have been impossible for us to have made a shot with
our shotguns without having killed or disabled several of the hounds; so
with triggers cocked we bided our time and with interest watched the
combat. Judging by his methods of defense, Bruin was an adept in that
line. He had had time for experience, for he was a great, shaggy fellow
with gray tufts of hair on his head. He showed his teeth and growled as
the dogs kept jumping at him. A twelve hour fight, in which several of
the pack had been rendered incapable of attack, had given caution to the
remainder, and they were extremely wary about taking their nips at him.
During the melee that for the next minute ensued, one savage hound was
caught in the clutches of the bear and hugged and bitten to death;
while, taking advantage of the momentary exposure of his sides, the
others of the pack fell upon old Bruin until he was completely hidden
under the struggling mass. He had just shaken them off again and
recovered his balance, when a rifle shot sounded, and a puff of white
smoke arose from under a spruce at the edge of the laurel thicket. The
noise of the fight had prevented us hearing the approach of Wid, the old
hunter. I looked from him at the group. Bruin had fallen forward on his
face. Every dog was on his body, now writhing in its death throes.
“Too bad ye didn’t git a chance to kiver him,” said the old man, “but
hit wouldn’t done to kill the dogs no way.”
If I had had any idea of the game being thus easily taken from me, I
would have availed myself of the minute before Wid’s appearance by
killing the bear, and several dogs with him if necessary to that end. My
companions were of the same mind. One by one the hunters straggled in.
The animal was skinned where he lay; and then, packed with hide, meat,
blankets and our guns, we descended the middle prong of the Pigeon to
the road through the picturesque valley.
It was fortunate for us that the bear stopped to rest on the middle
prong. Had he continued on a sharp trot he would have escaped us; for,
when closely hounded, Bruin travels directly toward Sam’s Knob, a peak
lying between the Rich and Cold mountains. It is the most inaccessible
mountain of the range, and few persons have ever scaled its summit. The
wildest woods and laurel, interlocked with thorns and briers, spring
from its precipitous sides; while the voices of cascades and cataracts
arise from its shadowy ravines. It is the safe retreat of Bruin. But
what cannot be accomplished on this mountain by rifle and hound is
attempted by traps. The true hunter is not prone to pursuing any other
than open warfare against the black bear. While the sale of their hides
and meat nets him a respectable sum each year, his chief incentive for
slaying them is his passionate love for the chase.
Two kinds of traps are used. The common steel trap is familiar to nearly
every one. Its great springs seem strong enough to splinter a man’s leg.
They are carefully set on bear trails in the densest labyrinths, and
covered with leaves and grasses to conceal them from the luckless
“varmint” that walks that way. No bait is required. On some of the peaks
there is far more danger to be apprehended by the mountain straggler
from these steel traps than from rattlesnakes. One must be careful how
he ventures into close paths through the lofty mountain thickets.
However, the neighboring mountaineers are aware where these traps are
set.
The wooden trap is used in some localities. It consists of a wide half
log, about twelve feet in length, with level face up. With this log for
a bottom, a long box is formed by using for the sides two similar half
logs, fastened with flat sides facing each other along the edges of the
bottom log. Into one end of this box is pinned a heavy timber inclined
at an angle over the bed of the box, and supported by sticks constructed
like a figure four, baited with bread and honey, or meat. Rocks are
fastened to its elevated end to increase its weight. The bear, attracted
by the sweet smell of the honey, ventures in, pulls the figure four to
pieces, and is crushed down by the fallen cover. If not killed he is
effectually pinned until the merciless trapper unintentionally shows
some mercy by ending his struggles.
As the white-haired Wid said: “Traps is good fer ’em ez hunts rabbits,
an’ rabbit huntin’ is good fer boys; but fer me gim me my ole flint-lock
shootin’-iron, an’ let a keen pack o’ lean hounds be hoppin’ on ahead;
an’ of all sports, the master sport is follerin’ their music over the
mountings, an’ windin’ up, with bullet or sticker, a varminous ole
bar!”
THE VALLEY OF THE NOON-DAY SUN.
It is one of those numerous _chef-d’œuvre_ of creation which God
has scattered over the earth, but which He conceals so frequently
on the summit of naked rocks, in the depth of inaccessible ravines,
on the unapproachable shores of the ocean, like jewels which He
unveils rarely, and that only to simple beings, to children, to
shepherds, or fishermen, or the devout worshippers of
nature.--_Lamartine._
[Illustration: I]n Macon county, North Carolina, is a section of country
so seldom visited by strangers, that few persons living beyond its
limits are aware of its existence, except as they find it located on the
map. In pomp of forest, purity of water, beauty of sky, wildness of
mountains, combining in a wonderful wealth of sublime scenery, the
valley of the Nantihala river is not surpassed by any region of the
Alleghanies. While a great portion of Macon and of other counties have
had attention occasionally called to them by magazine articles, and by a
few novels with plots laid in the familiar picturesque sections, the
Nantihala and the mountains mirrored on its surface, have to this day
remained an unrolled scroll. This is not strange, from the fact of the
wild and rugged nature of the mountains, its few inhabitants, its
remoteness from railroads, and the roughness of the highways and trails
by which it is traversed. Even the ambitious tourist who enters Western
North Carolina with the purpose of seeing all the points of picturesque
interest, finds his summer vacation at a close before he has completed a
tour of those scenic sections lying within a radius of fifty miles from
Asheville.
The musical name of Nantihala, as applied to the river, is a slight
change from the Cherokee pronunciation of it--Nanteyaleh. Judging from
the fact of different interpreters giving different meanings for the
name, its signification is involved in obscurity. By some it is said to
mean Noon-day Sun, from the fact of the mountains hugging it so closely
that the sunlight strikes it only during the middle of the day. The
other meaning is Maiden’s Bosom.
The river is wholly in Macon county. Rising near the Georgia boundary,
amid the wilds of the Standing Indian and Chunky Gal mountains--peaks of
its bordering eastern and western ranges--it flows in a northerly and
then north-easterly direction, and after a swift course of fifty miles,
empties its waters into the Little Tennessee. The ragged, straggling
range, sloping abruptly up from its eastern bank, takes the name of the
river. This range breaks from the Blue Ridge, in Georgia, and trends
north, with the Little Tennessee receiving its waters on one side, and
the Nantihala, those on the other. The Valley River mountains, forming
the Macon county western boundary, run parallel with the Nantihala
range. It is in the narrow cradle between these two chains that the
river is forever rocked.
Through most of the distance from its sources to where it crosses the
State road, the river flows at the feet of piny crags, under vast
forests, and down apparently inaccessible slopes. Its upper waters teem
with trout, and its lower, with the gamiest fish of the pure streams of
level lands. The red deer brouses along its banks, and amid the laurel
and brier thickets which shade its fountain-heads, the black bear
challenges the pursuit of hounds and hunters. Near the State road are
gems of woodland scenery, where all the natural character of the
stream--its wildness--is absent; and under the soft sunlight and cool
shadows of quiet woods, beside a swift, noiseless stretch of water, on
which every leaf of the red-maple and birch is mirrored, and along which
the gnarled roots of the whitened sycamore offer inviting seats, the
stroller is vividly reminded of some lowland river, familiar, perhaps,
to his boyhood. At these places, the basin is just such a one as you
would like to plunge headlong into. The grass is green and lush along
the banks, and the interlacing hedges, and brilliant vines drooping from
the over-arching trees, would render concealment perfect. If you are not
afraid of ice-cold water, a swim here would be most enjoyable, but even
at noon in July or August, the temperature of the stream is near the
freezing point.
From the leaning beech, one can look down into the trout’s glassy pool,
and see him lying motionless in the depths, or catch a glimpse of his
dark shape as he shoots over the waving ferny-mossed rocks, and
disappears under the cover of the bank. The king-fisher is not an
unfamiliar object. His sharp scream as he flies low over the waters will
attract the attention of the observer. Ungainly herons may be startled
from their dreaming along the stream; and flocks of plover, seemingly
out of their latitude, at times go wheeling and whistling high above the
woods.
Monday’s has a place on the map. Why? It is a cheerful, home-like
country tavern. Extensive cleared lands stretch back to the green forest
lines. A board fence fronts the neatly-kept lawn, on whose elevated
center rises a two-story weather-beaten frame house. The steep, mossy
roof is guarded at either end by a grim, stone chimney. Large windows
look out upon a crooked road, and a long porch with trellised railing is
just the place to tip back in a hard-bottomed chair, elevate your feet,
and enjoy a quiet evening smoke. The river is out of sight below the
hill, but at times the music of its rapids can be distinctly heard. The
ranges of the Nantihala and Valley River rise on either side the valley.
The only wagon-ways to this point are across these ranges, from Franklin
on the east and Murphy on the west.
[Illustration: THE WARRIOR BALD.]
Franklin, the county seat of Macon, is situated in the heart of one of
the most fertile sections of the mountains--the valley of the Little
Tennessee. Its site is on a great hill on the west bank of the river. As
the traveler, approaching from the east, winds through the lands lying
along the banks of the slow-flowing stream, he will be attracted by the
broad, level farms, and, if in summer or early fall, by the wealth of
the harvest. One of the most charming views of the village and the
magnificent valley is on the road coming from Highlands. You will halt
your horse. Let it be on a summer evening, just as the shadows have
crept across the landscape. The green and yellow fields will lie in the
foreground pervaded with a dreamy quiet. Below, you see the covered
bridge, and the red road, at first hidden behind the corn, at some
distance beyond, climbing the hill and disappearing amid dwellings,
buildings, and churches whose spires rise above the cluster. Far in the
background looms the dark, bulky form of the Warrior Bald, of the
Nantihalas, and further to the south, the long, level-topped
continuation of the range. If old Sol is far down, the bright green
glow that marks the last moment of the day will crown the summit of his
sentinel peak. A moment later the stars are seen, and as you ride on and
ascend the hill, the faint mists of the river will be visible, gathering
as if to veil the scene.
You are on the village streets. A few shop lights gleam across the way,
but there is no bustle before any of them, and you will imagine that the
villagers, careful of their health, retire at sundown. Some of them
certainly do, but it is no unusual thing to hear laughter on the hotel
porch even as late as midnight, and no deaths or arrests chronicled the
next morning. The hotel keeper, Cunningham, is a queer character. He is
a good-natured landlord, an excellent story-teller, and a shrewd horse
trader. The first two accomplishments are appreciated by travelers. The
curiosity about the hotel porch is the chairs. They are too high for a
short man to get into without climbing, and so large that he will feel
lost in them. At sight of these great chairs ranged about the hotel
door, the traveler will imagine that he has dropped into a colony of
giants.
Franklin is a growing town. This is due to the fact of its being in the
center of a farming and mining country. It is a market for grain, and in
past years for the mica taken from several paying mines in the vicinity.
It is 71 miles distant in a southwest course from Asheville, and about
30 miles from Clayton, the seat of Rabun county, Georgia. A fine brick
court-house has lately been built in the village center.
From Franklin the State road toward the Nantihalas leads across hills
and through valleys to the Savannah, whose meanderings it follows under
heavy foliaged forests. The road from the eastern base of this range
across the summit to the opposite base, winds through a lonely
wilderness. It is the grandest highway of the mountains. At the
commencement of the ascent stands a primitive toll-gate, one of the
many obnoxious guardians to state roads. A quarter will be demanded
before passage is permitted. The house of the toll-gate keeper is on one
side. There is moss on its roof and green vines on its front. The
skeleton of a venerable saw-mill, whose straight, perpendicular saw is
allowed to rust through a great part of the time, stands on the opposite
side below a beaver-like dam. The sound of crashing waters continually
breaks the silence of the great woods.
The distance over the mountain is 12 miles, and but one house, a log
cabin, empty and forlorn, almost hidden in a dark cove, is to be seen.
The woods are as dense as those of the lowlands, and so well trimmed by
nature, so fresh and green are they, so invigorating the air that
circles through them, that one, if he ever felt like retiring to some
vast wilderness, might well wish his lodge to be located here. All the
mountains of the Nantihala range are exceedingly steep. To ascend this
one, the road winds back and forth in zigzag trails, so that in reaching
one point near the summit, you can clearly see three parallel roads
below you. The view from the top of the pass is one never to be
forgotten. Higher spurs of the Nantihalas shoot up in rugged
magnificence across the gorge that falls away from the brow of the peak
on which the highway winds. In spite of the rocky and perpendicular
character of the slopes of these neighboring peaks, black wild forests
cover them from bases to summits. Dazzling white spots on the front of
the nearest mountain show where some enterprising miner had worked for
mica. In one direction there is a valley view. It is toward the east.
Its great depth renders one dizzy at the prospect. White specks on
yellow clearings in the green basin mark the few farm houses. A streak
of silver winds through it, vanishing before the eye strikes the bases
of the Cowee mountains, which wall the background.
All along the lofty pass, the road is crossed by little sparkling
streams pouring over the mossed rocks, under the birches and pines. By
one of these roadside rivulets is an enchanting spot for a noonday
lunch.
“Here twilight is and coolness: here is moss,
A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade.
Drink, Pilgrim, here; Here rest! and if thy heart
Be innocent, here, too, shalt thou refresh
Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound,
Or passing gale, or hum of murmuring bees!”
The western slope is less precipitous than the eastern, and after a
descent through an unbroken forest, the traveler arrives at Monday’s.
The most direct course to Charlestown, Swain county, is down the river;
but for the next ten or twelve miles the mountains so crowd the stream
that no road is laid. A bridle-path winds through the forbidding
fastnesses, occasionally in sight of the stream. From Brier Town, a
scattered settlement, the falls of the river can be reached by a walk of
four miles. These falls, on account of their inaccessibility, are seldom
visited, except by the cattle herder and hunter. They pour over the lip
of a ragged cliff in a wild gorge, hidden by lofty and precipitous
mountains.
The State road crosses the river on a bridge just below the fork of the
road to Hayesville, the county seat of Clay. A mill and several houses
are clustered near the bridge; but a moment after passing them you
ascend the Valley River mountains. It is a well graded road, through
chestnut and oak woods, for five miles to the lowest dip in the
mountains. There is no view to be had, except of one wild valley that
presents no striking features, but in the utter loneliness brooding over
it. Down the slope you go through one of the densest and most luxuriant
forests of the mountain region. It is a tremendous labyrinth of monarch
hemlocks and balsams, so heavily burdened with foliage that their
greenness approaches blackness, and renders the air so cold that the
traveler riding through them, even in the middle of the morning, shivers
in his saddle. The laurel grows to twice its customary height, affording
safe coverts for the bear and wolf. The ground is black. A stream flows
along by and in the road, the only noisy occupant of the solitude
visible and audible at all times.
Wild scenes appear as the base of the mountain is neared. As you advance
under the shadows, around the foot of a steep ridge, bounded by a stream
making mad music over the boulders, suddenly before you will tower a
vine-mantled wall with top ragged with pines, cleaving the blue sky.
Then, after lingering along the foot of this wall, as though loath to
leave the cool greenness of its mossed rocks and woods, the road issues
into a small circle of cleared land, where the ranges, drawing apart for
a short distance, have allowed man to secure a foothold. In most of
these confined dells it is, however, a feeble foothold; due,
principally, to the indolence of the occupant. These homes are pictures
of desolation;--a miserable log cabin with outside chimney crumbled to
one-half its original height, and the end of the house blackened and
charred from the flames and smoke poured upward along it; the roof
heaped with stones to keep it in place; the door off its wooden hinges;
the barn an unroofed ruin, and the clearing cultivated to the extent of
one small patch of weed-strangled corn. The family who live in such a
place will be alive, however, and outside as you go by. The man on the
bench before the door will shout “howdy,” and continue smoking his pipe
with as much complacency as if he had a hundred acres of golden wheat
within his sight, a well filled granery, and cows weighing 1,200 instead
of 500 pounds. From four to ten children, all about the same size,
clustered along the fence, will excite wonder as to how they have lived
so long.