dark-lined basins make the surface of the waters perfect mirrors, strong
and clear; so that the handsome man, for fear of the fate of Narcissus,
would better avoid leaning over them. Such pools are the haunts of trout
of largest size. They dwell in them as though protected by title-deeds;
and old fishermen say that every trout clings to his favorite pool with
singular tenacity. Natural death, the delusive hook, or larger fish that
have been ousted from their own domains, are all the causes that can
take the trout from his hereditary haunts. Here, in the still waters
under a bridging log, or in some hole amid the exposed water-sunk roots
of the rhododendron, lie the king trout, during the middle of the day,
on the watch for stray worms, or silly gnats, and millers which flit
above, then drop in the waters, with as much wisdom and facility as they
hover around and burn up in the candle flame.
My presumption, in the following suggestions, is that the angler is
able-bodied, not disinclined to walking, and of the male gender. Leave
the railroad at Black Mountain station. From the station it is six miles
to the foot of the Black mountains. The walking is good along the roads,
if no rain is falling. One board nailed to a post on the bank of the
Swannanoa, will inform you that in the direction you have come is “Black
Mt. deepo 4 mi.” This will convince you that some one in the
neighborhood believes in the phonetic system of spelling. The Swannanoa
presents a few beautiful pictures along the roadside. The farm-houses,
with great chimneys on the outside at both gable ends, will look queer
to the Northerner; and to one who lives in a marshy, sandy, or prairie
section of country, the old fences along some stretches of road, made
wholly of boulders gathered from the fields, will excite interest. Many
of them are overrun with vines, and in sections are as green as the
hedge that lines the side of the rocky road nearest the stream. There
are a number of foot-logs on the route, but it requires no skill to
cross them, even if rude railings are not at their sides. It might be
advisable to state that there is a house in the vicinity where pure
whisky and apple-jack can be bought, for it is a wise thing to have a
little liquor in one’s _pocket_, on a mountain excursion. It is an
antidote for the bite of a rattle-snake; and simply to provide for such
a dread emergency, should it be carried. There is a prevalent idea that
whisky drank during a mountain climb is a help to a man. It is the worst
thing a person can use at such a time. Water only should be drank; and,
if that does not help the exhausted climber, it takes no wise head to
advise an hour’s rest under a forest monarch beside the path.
Now, as there has been a casual mention made of rattle-snakes, a few
words on that subject is suggested. There are few of them in the
mountains, the numbers varying according to the condition of the
country. From most sections they have disappeared, and it is only by
singular mischance that the traveler stumbles across one. During four
summers, in which the writer traversed all of the mountain section, he
saw but one live rattle-snake, and only four dead ones. However, he
heard many snake stories; but he knows of only two men who were bitten
by the venomous reptiles. The mountaineers say that in one of the summer
months the snakes undertake a pilgrimage, crossing the valleys from one
peak to another. This report conflicts with the stories of their
hereditary dens. Perhaps they return after the flight of the summer.
From the same source, we learn that in August the snake is blind, and
strikes without the customary warning whirr of his buttoned tail.
Published natural histories are silent on this subject, and too close
observation from nature is dangerous. Also, at night in summer, the
rattle-snake forsakes the grass and rocks, and pursues its way along the
beaten paths. There is nothing particularly startling in this latter
statement, except to the trafficker in “moon-shine,” and the love-lorn
mountain lad. Still, if one who is at all timid, desires or is required
to take an evening walk, he can avoid all danger by taking to the grass
himself.
There are well-known cures for snake-bite, applied externally, but this
does not detract one particle from the fact of their efficacy. They
consist in binding the opened body of the snake itself to the wound; or,
if a live chicken can be caught, cutting that open in front and applying
it to absorb the poison. All these means will fail, however, if a
leading artery has been directly struck; otherwise, a man with strong
constitution can struggle through.
Before you reach the mountain, engage the services of a guide to the
summit of Mitchell’s Peak, and then down the east side to the Toe. Do
not allow this senseless name to prejudice you against the stream. It is
as beautiful as the name is barbarous. The original name, as given by
the Indians, was Estatoe, pronounced with four syllables. Before you
engage any one’s services determine on the price. If you intend to scale
Mitchell’s Peak only, and then descend again to the valley of the
Swannanoa, as the path is a plain one, you might as well go alone as pay
$2.50 per day to the professional guide. That is their regular charge.
The climb up the Black mountains is arduous, and a half-day is required
to complete it. Along the path is a wealth of timber that will one day
entice into the forest depths something livelier than the perpendicular
saw and its overshot wheel. After a five mile tramp, the second base of
the Black is reached. Here, on an open, grassy tract, once stood the
summer residence of William Patton, of Charleston, South Carolina. All
that remains of it are the loose stones of its foundation, and a few
mouldering timbers. Cattle, grazing in this common pasture, will ring
their bells and low in notice of your arrival. Ravens croak from the
balsams, and sail with wings expanded overhead. Close before the vision,
appalling in its funereal coloring and immensity of height, rises the
front of the Black mountain, the king of the Appalachians, arrayed in
those forests which scorn to spring elsewhere but on the loftiest of
ranges.
For the next five miles the bridle-path leads through woods similar to
those described at length in the sketch on bear hunting. If thin puffs
of cloud are scurrying through the trees and brushing against you, do
not betray your ignorance by asking the guide where the smoke comes
from. They have every appearance of smoke, and it is the most natural
thing in the world for you to ask this question. On Mitchell’s Peak it
is advisable to remain all night, and a shelving rock, a short distance
down from the summit, will furnish excellent quarters after wood is
brought for a great fire before it. Eat your cold snack, drink a cup of
clear, hot coffee, and, rolling up in your blanket dream of trout
fishing in the Toe. Most likely they will be waking dreams; for a high
old fire blazing in your eyes, and a cold rock under you, are not
conducive to slumber. Even in May your back will almost freeze while
your front grows hot enough to crackle.
If no clouds wrap the pinnacle of Mitchell’s Peak, this, the highest
mountain east of the Mississippi, will afford to the enthusiastic angler
the grandest of prospects,
“When heaven’s wide arch
Is glorious with the sun’s returning march.”
No two mornings will present the same panoply of cloud over the eastern
mountainous horizon, the coloring will vary, the mists will cling in
differing silver folds in the hollows of the hills, but changeless in
its outlines will lie the soft purple mountain ocean.
Mitchell’s Peak rises to an elevation of 6,711 feet, and forms one of
the spurs in the short, lofty backbone of a range termed, from the
somber forests covering its upper slopes, the Black mountains. The range
is about twenty miles in length. It is wholly in Yancy county, and
trends due north toward the Iron mountains. A wide gap, filled with low
mountains and the valleys of the Toe, stretches between its northern
terminal point, Bowlen’s Pyramid, and the Smokies. On the summit of
Mitchell’s Peak is the solitary grave of Professor Elisha Mitchell,
piled round with stones, and at present bare of monument.
The descent to the Toe is a difficult journey down the east slope of the
mountain. The exact distance in miles is unknown. You can guess at it as
well as the guide, and most likely there will be no difference between
his and your figures; for his will be stretched by exaggeration, and
your’s by the tediousness of the descent. As soon as you reach the
stream pay and dismiss him, and pursue your way, casting your flies
where the water is most inviting. There is no reason why 100 trout
should not grace the angler’s string by the time he has finished for the
day, and, at some humble cabin far below, is snugly ensconsed for the
night.
[Illustration: A GLIMPSE OF THE TOE.]
There are many spots of rare, sylvan beauty in the region of the upper
Toe; many spots of wild and melancholy magnificence,--dells that seem
the natural haunts for satyrs and fawns, and where a modern Walter Scott
might weave and locate some most fascinating fictions. The mountaineer
is apparently devoid of superstition; and, as far as the writer could
ascertain, no legends, like those of the Catskills, shed their hallowed
light on any portion of the solitude. In lieu of a legend let him tell a
ghost story.
One ghost has no known grave; the other’s lies beside the stream in an
umbrageous dale high up in the mountains. The careless stranger passing
down the mountain would not perceive it. It is a low mound scarcely
rising above the level ground. Covering it are light-green mosses, as
ancient apparently as the lichens which decorate the trunk of the
two-hundred-year-old water birch standing in lieu of a headstone at one
end of it. There are no rocks or stones to be seen, except on the
opposite side of the tree where its roots are exposed. The stream is
noisy; but it could not be otherwise in so rocky a channel, and so is
excusable for disturbing the quiet of the grave. There are other trees
shadowing the circle, but beside the monarch birch they sink into
insignificance. In the grave was once placed the cold form of a
white-haired old man; but half a century has passed since then, and what
was flesh and bone has long ago resolved to natural dust.
This dust was Daniel Smith. He came from Tennessee, up the Nolechucky
and the Toe to this dale. His widowed daughter and her baby boy were
with him when he built a log cabin, and formed a clearing. On the same
side of the creek, fifty steps from the grave, there is a space of
several acres grown with trees of fewer years and lesser height than the
surrounding pristine forest. In the center of this fresh wood, amid the
brambles and briers, the straggler, by pulling them aside, will perceive
a few crumbling stones piled in a heap like the ruin of a chimney. If
there is a single timber concealed under the bushes, the foot will sink
through it without resistance. It is the site of Smith’s cabin. A lofty
locust with wide-spread branches springs, from where once was the
hearth-stone. Where the babe crept on the puncheon floor, tree-sprouts,
with thorns and thistles, are entangled. It is a desolate spot rendered
doubly so by the knowledge, had from sight of the chimney stones, of
what once was there; and by the black balsams which appear along the
steep above it. It seems that Hood had seen it before he wrote the
verse:
“For over all there hung a cloud of fear,
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,
The place is haunted!”
The old man showed no liking for outside associations, and scarcely ever
appeared at the cabins of the settlers far below him. This disposition
became more marked after the death of his daughter when the boy was
about ten years old. He was a bright, blue-eyed, curly-haired, little
fellow, and always went a-fishing with the old man, who was an ardent
angler. Never was father more wrapped up in his child, than this
venerable fisherman in his grandson. He was never seen without the boy;
and the stray hunter coming down the trail, often saw their forms before
him,--the silver-haired man with his fishing rod, and the merry,
laughing boy with his hand clasping his grandsire’s. But Death came.
During a heavy flood the boy was accidentally drowned, and his body was
never recovered.
The old man was now thought to be crazy. He allowed no one to enter his
cabin, and some said he fished from morning till night, in the insane
hope of catching his boy, whom he imagined, was transformed to a trout.
One who had watched him from his concealment in a thicket, said that
every fish the old man caught, he examined carefully, as if searching
for some peculiar mark, and mumbled to himself: “No, no, not Will this
time. Strange where the boy is!”
One day Daniel Smith’s dog, cowed apparently by hunger, appeared at a
Toe river cabin. The fierce nature of the animal was gone; he begged
piteously with his eyes and voice, and then ate ferociously all that
was given him. The settlers, suspecting the worst, went to Smith’s
cabin; forced in the door, and found the occupant dead. They buried him
under the water birch, where the mound marks the place. The same figures
which attracted the attention of the stray hunter fifty years ago, are
seen by the hunter and traveler to-day; but while they interested then,
they frighten now; and no one, familiar with the story, passes through
the dale without turning his head in dread and hurrying on. At night,
when the moon bathes in golden light the dark forests, the straggler
professes often to have seen before him, in plainly visible, but weird,
out-lines, the stooped figure of the old angler and his blithe,
bare-foot companion.
There is good fishing in Cane river, on the west slope of the Black
mountains. If the angler prefers to try the latter stream, instead of
the Toe, he can, at a point a short distance before reaching the summit
of Mitchell’s Peak, turn to the left and follow down a plain trail,
fishing as he descends, to “Big Tom” Wilson’s. From Wilson’s it is
fifteen miles to Burnsville. It is a small, country village, amid
sublime surroundings. From the high knoll, where stands the academy, a
pleasant prospect can be obtained. In the morning, as it opens over the
rolling peaks in the east; or, as the sun descends behind the receding
lines of purple ranges, the scenes presented in their glory of
cloud-coloring, their brilliant effect of light and shade, and the soft,
poetic splendor of the mountains, are of beauty too divine, and of
duration too transient, to be caught by the painter.
Thirty miles west of Asheville, fine sport can be had along the Pigeon.
Leave the railroad at Pigeon River station. No teams can be procured
here; so if you are disinclined to walking ten or twelve miles, continue
your trip to Waynesville, and then drive to the desired point. It is an
inviting walk up the river. The stream flows broad, deep, and clear,
through rich valleys, affording fine farming land. The level fields are
green with oats, corn and wheat; the farm houses are painted white, the
yards neat in appearance, and everything in keeping with the fertility
of the soil. The valley views are extremely picturesque; for you are
amid some of the loftiest mountains of the system. The Balsams lie
toward the south; and if you follow up the right fork, you will be
exalted by the sight of these mountains looming along the horizon. The
fishing is excellent, but the east prong is generally preferred.
Up the east prong, the wild beauty of stream and woods cannot be
surpassed. There is such a richness about the foliage, such a purity in
the waters, such an inspiration of atmosphere, that too long-continued
companionship might be disastrous to your outside, worldly connections.
Cold mountain rises on the west; Pisgah on the east. This latter peak is
a famous height for the sight-seer. It is easily accessible, and from
its summit the view is almost boundless. The broad valleys, watered by
the Hominy and French Broad, stretch toward the eastern limit. The vales
of the Pigeon lie on the west and north. All around, the skirts of the
plateau are pinned by mountains loftier than the one beneath your feet.
To the south and west the Balsams; to the north and northwest the
Smokies; and on the other verges of the horizon, the Blue Ridge, Saluda,
Swannanoa, Craggy, Black, Iron, and Newfound ranges. Your standpoint is
one of the most symmetrical of peaks, and is always marked out by the
observer on the streets of Asheville and Hendersonville.
There are agreeable people living on the Pigeon, and among them you will
fare well, especially if you are an expert angler. Explore the wildest
ramblings of the stream, and whip every pool from the white falls down
to the valley known as the old Lenoir farm, where there is such a
pleasant mingling of wild and rugged mountain scenery, with rich
pastoral landscape, that one can never weary of viewing it.
A famous fishing ground is that section of the great Smokies watered by
the Cataluche. Besides the trout-fishing, there is enough in this region
to allure into it not only the angler, and hunter, but the painter and
poet. It is wildly romantic in every feature. By the well-traveled road
that leads from Waynesville to Knoxville, Tennessee, the tourist can
reach it by a 22 mile drive from the former village. The country along
Jonathan’s creek is as fine as that along the Pigeon. An air of
prosperity pervades; and as one rattles on over the pebbled road, by the
pink and white flowering hedges on one side, and the green fields on the
other, the friendly salutations received by him from every man, woman,
and child, will convince him that he is not in a land of strangers, and
that, if any accident befall him, kind and willing hands will be ready
to render assistance. Besides the farm dwellings and their
out-buildings, noisy mills are situate along the stream; and in cleared
spaces amid the woods, at intervals, can be seen country churches and
log and frame school-houses. Leaving the valley, the road ascends Cove
Creek mountain, whereon can be obtained a wide-sweeping view of nestling
vales and receding mountain ranges. Now follows a long ride around
mountain brows, until at length you draw rein before a small, unpainted,
frame house, hanging between the highway and the abrupt edge of a deep
valley, on whose steep side a road, like a great yellow snake, winds
downward to the river. If it is at the close of a bright afternoon, the
golden streaks of light, gleaming from the gaps and across the
pine-capped tops of Mount Starling and its black, brother peaks of the
Smokies, will set in indescribable splendor the mountains to the east;
and darker will lie the shadows filling the cañon, within whose depths,
1,000 feet below you, glistens the waters of Cataluche.
In spite of the steepness of the cañon’s side, lofty woods cover it, and
are as thickly planted along the descending road that, after leaving the
main highway at the frame dwelling just mentioned, no glimpses can be
had of the lower landscape. If the angler has not brought a jointed rod
with him, before he has traveled far down this winding way, he can
secure from the roadside an excellent pole in the shape of a long, lithe
birch. There is a tumultuous ford of the river to cross just after
reaching the narrow valley, and then the road leads up stream.
Our party of sixteen ladies and gentlemen, which, on a fishing
excursion, visited the Cataluche river in the early part of June, 1879,
put up at Mr. Palmer’s, the first farm house reached after passing the
ford. At that time a high, pine picket fence enclosed the yard
surrounding a roomy house, with large, open hall through its center, and
a long, wide porch in the rear. In spite of our numbers, the farmer and
his wife volunteered to accommodate us all, and did so in a satisfactory
manner.
The river is no more than 100 yards from the house, and soon after our
arrival that day two of us, with our rods, started for its banks. It was
just before dusk, and white millers and gnats were fluttering above and
dropping on the rapid water. The stream seemed perfectly alive with
trout, coming up in sight with a splatter to secure these dainty
morsels. The hour was propitious, and we improved it. Without moving
from a line of smooth, deep-flowing pools, we secured a mess of forty
trout before it became too dark to cast our lines. Even if you have no
fishing tackle with you, it is interesting at evening to sit beside a
stream and watch the trout secure his prey. A miller drops on the water,
the swift current carries it for a few feet; then there is a splash and
the insect has vanished. If you had looked sharp, you would have seen a
wary trout dart through the water, rise to the surface, slap the miller
with his tail to kill it, and almost with the same movement suck it into
his mouth. For the very reason that the live fly floats down stream
this ought to instruct the angler to let his artificial fly drift in the
same manner; and then, as the quick jerk informs him that a trout has
struck, pull the line up the current. You must be as quick in your
movements as the fish is in his, or you will lose him.
After brushing through the weeds and briers and climbing a rambling,
rail fence, we came out on the road beside one of our friends and a
small boy, who appeared to be striking a bargain over a long string of
trout. The boy “counted on” there being a hundred fish in the lot, and
just at our arrival he had accepted seventy-five cents for them, and was
making the transfer. We signified our perfect willingness to keep dark
to the rest of the party on how he had secured them. The young angler
was a bright-looking little fellow, with the clearest of complexions,
ruddy cheeks and dark hair. He was barefooted and wore a straw hat,
homespun pantaloons, jacket, and tattered shirt; and, as we stood with
him in the road, he regaled us as follows:
“Did you catch all those trout yourself?” was asked.
“Yes, sir; an’ all ov ’em sence dinner. I heerd you’uns war comin’, an’
I knowed some o’ you all cud’nt ketch trouts by yourselfs, so I reckoned
on arnin’ a little by fetchin’ in a string.”
“What did you catch them with?”
“This ’ere.”
He exhibited a hair line and a fly made of a crooked pin, wound with a
small piece of red flannel and a black and white feather. “I hid the
pole up yander,” he continued, pointing behind him.
“What, all with a pin hook?” exclaimed the purchaser of the trout.
“Law! yes. Why not? A pin hook’ll do ef you haint got enny other; but
I’d like powerful well to hev one o’ them store hooks you’uns hev.”
We gave him one forthwith, and then asked: “When is the best time to
fish, son?”
“When the signs air in the head; the signs in the awmanac, you know.”
“Oh, yes. When you haven’t fly hooks, what bait is the best?”
“Young hornets.”
“What baits do you use for young hornets?” was next asked, and rightly
deemed a very important question under the circumstances.
“Rob a nest,” he answered, and continued: “Grasshoppers is good, too; so
is stickbaits. I don’t keer much which I hev; they’re all good.”
“Well, you’re an expert, my son. Why, I believe he could catch trout
without hook, line, or bait,” remarked the purchaser, with a laugh.
“In course, I could,” returned the boy in a matter-of-fact voice; “I
don’t need no hooks or bait, I don’t.”
“Come, buddy; no fish stories now.”
“I’d use a snare. They’re fust-rate tricks whar the water is still an’ a
little riley. You see I make a runnin’ noose in a long horse ha’r, or
two or three ov ’em tied together on the end o’ a pole. I watch behind a
log till I see a big trout, an then I drap the noose over his head, an’,
with a quick jerk, snake him out. I’ve caught lots that a way.”
This method of fishing, as described by the boy, is often practiced. It
is an outrage that nets are used in some of the trout streams. Hundreds
of fish are frequently killed in a few hours by this unsportsman-like
practice. In some counties (and it ought to be in all) it is a direct
infringement of the law; and such practices should be exposed on every
occasion, and punished to the full extent of the statute.