North Cove, North Carolina, June, 1848.
I now write from a log cabin situated on the Catawba river, and in
one of the most beautiful of valleys. My ride from Ashville to
Burnsville, a distance of over forty miles, was unattended by a
single interesting incident, and afforded only one mountain prospect
that caused me to rein in my horse. But the prospect alluded to
embraced the entire outline of Bald Mountain, which, being one of
the loftiest in this section of country, and particularly barren,
presented a magnificent appearance. On the extreme summit of this
mountain is a very large and an intensely cold spring of water, and
in its immediate vicinity a small cave and the ruins of a log cabin,
which are associated with a singular being named David Greer, who
once made this upper world his home. He first appeared in this
country about fifty years ago; his native land, the story of his
birth, and his early history, were alike unknown. Soon after his
arrival among the mountains, he fell desperately in love with the
daughter of a farmer, but his suit was rejected by the maiden, and
strenuously opposed by all her friends. Soon after this
disappointment the lover suddenly disappeared, and was subsequently
found residing on Bald Mountain in the cave already mentioned. Here
he lived the life of a literary recluse, and is said to have written
a singular work upon religion, and another which purported to be a
treatise on human government. In the latter production he proclaimed
himself the sole proprietor of Bald Mountain, and made it known to
the world that all who should ever become his neighbors must submit
to the laws he had himself enacted. The prominent actions of his
life were “few and far between,” but particularly infamous. The
first that brought him into notice was as follows: A few years after
it was ascertained that he had taken possession of this mountain,
the authorities of the county sent a messenger to Greer, and
demanded a poll-tax of seventy-five cents. The hermit said he would
attend to it on the next court-day, and his word was accepted. On
the day in question Greer punctually made his appearance, but,
instead of paying over the money, he pelted the windows of the
court-house with stones, and drove the judges, lawyers, and clients
all out of the village, and then, with rifle in hand, returned to
his mountain dwelling. For some months after this event he amused
himself by mutilating all the cattle which he happened to discover
on what he called his domain, and it is said was in the habit of
trying the power of his rifle by shooting down upon the plantations
of his neighbors. The crowning event of David Greer’s life, however,
consisted in his shooting to the ground in cold blood, and in the
broad daylight, a man named Higgins. The only excuse that he offered
for committing this murder was that the deceased had been found
hunting for deer on that portion of land which he claimed as his
own. For this offence Greer was brought to trial and acquitted on
the ground of insanity. When this decision was made known, the
criminal was greatly enraged, and, when released, started for his
cabin, muttering loud and deep curses against the _injustice_ of the
laws. In process of time a number of attempts were made to take his
life, and it was a common occurrence with him to be awakened at
midnight by a ball passing through the door of his cabin. After
living upon the mountain for a period of twenty years, he finally
concluded to abandon his solitary life, and took up his abode in one
of the settlements on the Tennessee side of Bald Mountain. Here, for
a year or two, he worked regularly in an iron forge, but having had
a dispute with a fellow-workman, swore that he would shoot him
within five hours, and started after his rifle. The offending party
was named Tompkins, and after consulting with his friends as to what
course he ought to pursue, in view of the uttered threat, he was
advised to take the law in his own hands. He took this advice, and,
as David Greer was discovered walking along the road with rifle in
hand, Tompkins shot him through the heart, and the burial-place of
the hermit is now unknown. Public opinion was on the side of
Tompkins, and he was never summoned to account for the defensive
murder he had committed.
In coming from Burnsville to this place, I enjoyed two mountain
landscapes, which were supremely beautiful and imposing. The first
was a northern view of Black Mountain from the margin of the South
Toe river, and all its cliffs, defiles, ravines, and peaks seemed as
light, dream-like, and airy as the clear blue world in which they
floated. The stupendous pile appeared to have risen from the earth
with all its glories in their prime, as if to join the newly-risen
sun in his passage across the heavens. The middle distance of the
landscape was composed of two wood-crowned hills which stood before
me like a pair of loving brothers, and then came a luxuriant meadow,
where a noble horse was quietly cropping his food; while the
immediate foreground of the picture consisted of a marvellously
beautiful stream, which glided swiftly by, over a bed of golden and
scarlet pebbles. The only sounds that fell upon my ear, as I gazed
upon this scene, were the murmurings of a distant water-fall, and
the hum of insect wings.
The other prospect that I witnessed was from the summit of the Blue
Ridge, looking in the direction of the Catawba. It was a wilderness
of mountains, whose foundations could not be fathomed by the eye,
while in the distance, towering above all the peaks, rose the
singular and fantastic form of _the Table Mountain_. Not a sign of
the breathing human world could be seen in any direction, and the
only living creature which appeared to my view was a solitary eagle,
wheeling to and fro far up towards the zenith of the sky.
From the top of the Blue Ridge I descended a winding ravine four
miles in length, where the road, even at midday, is in deep shadow,
and then I emerged into the North Cove. This charming valley is
twelve miles long, from a half to a whole mile in width, completely
surrounded with mountains, highly cultivated, watered by the
Catawba, and inhabited by intelligent and worthy farmers. At a
certain house where I tarried to dine on my way up the valley, I was
treated in a manner that would have put to the blush people of far
greater pretensions; and, what made a deep impression on my mind,
was the fact that I was waited upon by two sisters, about ten years
of age, who were remarkably beautiful and sprightly. One of them had
flaxen hair and blue eyes, and the other deep black hair and eyes.
Familiar as I had been for weeks past with the puny and ungainly
inhabitants of the mountain tops, these two human flowers filled my
heart with a delightful sensation. May the lives of those two
darlings be as peaceful and beautiful as the stream upon which they
live! The prominent pictorial feature of the North Cove is of a
mountain called _the Hawk’s Bill_, on account of its resemblance to
the beak of a mammoth bird, the length of the bill being about
fifteen hundred feet. It is visible from nearly every part of the
valley, and to my fancy is a more _picturesque_ object than the
Table Mountain, which is too regular at the sides and top to satisfy
the eye. The table part of this mountain, however, is twenty-five
hundred feet high, and therefore worthy of its fame.
The cabin where I am stopping at the present time is located at the
extreme upper end of the North Cove. It is the residence of the best
guide in the country, and the most convenient lodging place for
those who would visit the Hawk’s Bill and Table Mountains, already
mentioned, as well as the Lindville Pinnacle, the Catawba Cave, the
Cake Mountain, the Lindville Falls, and the Roan Mountain.
The _Lindville Pinnacle_ is a mountain peak, surmounted by a pile of
rocks, upon which you may recline at your ease, and look down upon a
complete series of rare and gorgeous scenes. On one side is a
precipice which seems to descend to the very bowels of the earth; in
another direction you have a full view of _Short-off Mountain_, only
about a mile off, which is a perpendicular precipice several
thousand feet high, and the abrupt termination of a long range of
mountains; in another direction still the eye falls upon a
brotherhood of mountain peaks which are particularly ragged and
fantastic in their formation—now shooting forward, as if to look
down into the valleys, and now looming to the sky, as if to pierce
it with their pointed summits; and in another direction you look
across what seems to be a valley from eighty to a hundred miles
wide, which is bounded by a range of mountains that seem to sweep
across the world as with triumphal march.
The _Catawba Cave_, situated on the Catawba river, is entered by a
fissure near the base of a mountain, and is reputed to be one mile
in length. It has a great variety of chambers, which vary in height
from six to twenty feet; its walls are chiefly composed of a porous
limestone, through which the water is continually dripping; and
along the entire length flows a cold and clear stream, which varies
from five to fifteen inches in depth. This cave is indeed a curious
affair, though the trouble and fatigue attending a thorough
exploration far outweigh the satisfaction which it affords. But
there is one arm of the cave which has never been explored, and an
admirable opportunity is therefore offered for the adventurous to
make themselves famous by revealing some of the hidden wonders of
nature.
The _Ginger Cake Mountain_ derives its very poetical name from a
singular pile of rocks occupying its extreme summit. The pile is
composed of two masses of rock of different materials and form,
which are so arranged as to stand on a remarkably small base. The
lower section is composed of a rough slate stone, and its form is
that of an inverted pyramid; but the upper section of the pile
consists of an oblong slab of solid granite, which surmounts the
lower section in a horizontal position, presenting the appearance of
a work of art. The lower section is thirty feet in altitude, while
the upper one is thirty-two feet in length, eighteen in breadth, and
nearly two feet in thickness. The appearance of this rocky wonder is
exceedingly tottleish, and though we may be assured that it has
stood upon that eminence perhaps for a thousand years, yet it is
impossible to tarry within its shadow without a feeling of
insecurity. The individual who gave the Ginger Cake Mountain its
outlandish name was a hermit named Watson, who resided at the foot
of the mountain about fifty years ago, but who died in 1816. He
lived in a small cabin, and entirely alone. His history was a
mystery to every one but himself, and, though remarkably eccentric,
he was noted for his amiability. He had given up the world, like his
brother hermit of the Bald Mountain, on account of a disappointment
in love, and the utter contempt which he ever afterwards manifested
for the gentler sex, was one of his most singular traits of
character. Whenever a party of ladies paid him a visit, which was
frequently the case, he invariably treated them politely, but would
never _speak_ to them; he even went so far in expressing his dislike
as to consume for firewood, after the ladies were gone, the topmost
rail of his yard-fence, over which they had been compelled to pass,
on their way into his cabin. That old Watson “fared sumptuously
every day” could not be denied, but whence came the money that
supported him no one could divine. He seldom molested the wild
animals of the mountain where he lived, and his chief employments
seemed to be _the raising of peacocks_, and the making of garments
for his own use, which were all elegantly trimmed off with the
feathers of his favorite bird. The feathery suit in which he kept
himself constantly arrayed he designated as his _culgee_; the
meaning of which word could never be ascertained; and long after the
deluded being had passed away from among the living he was spoken of
as Culgee Watson, and is so remembered to this day.
I come now to speak of _the Lindville Falls_, which are situated on
the Lindville river, a tributary of the beautiful Catawba. They are
literally embosomed among mountains, and long before seeing them do
you hear their musical roar. The scenery about them is as wild as it
was a hundred years ago—not even a pathway has yet been made to
guide the tourist into the stupendous gorge where they reign
supreme. At the point in question the Lindville is about one hundred
and fifty feet broad, and though its waters have come down their
parent mountains at a most furious speed, they here make a more
desperate plunge than they ever dared to attempt before, when they
find themselves in a deep pool and suddenly hemmed in by a barrier
of gray granite, which crosses the entire bed of the river. In their
desperation, however, they finally work a passage through the solid
rock, and after filling another hollow with foam, they make a
desperate leap of at least one hundred feet, and find a resting
place in an immense pool, which one might easily imagine to be
bottomless. And then, as if attracted by the astonishing feats
performed by the waters, a number of lofty and exceedingly fantastic
cliffs have gathered themselves together in the immediate
neighborhood, and are ever peering over each other’s shoulders into
the depths below. But as the eye wanders from the surrounding
cliffs, it falls upon an isolated column several hundred feet high,
around which are clustered in the greatest profusion the most
beautiful of vines and flowers. This column occupies a conspicuous
position a short distance below the Falls, and it were an easy
matter to imagine it a monument erected by Nature to celebrate her
own creative power.
With a liberal hand, indeed, has she planted her forest trees in
every imaginable place; but with a view of even surpassing herself,
she has filled the gorge with a variety of caverns, which astonish
the beholder, and almost cause him to dread an attack from a
brotherhood of spirits. But how futile is my effort to give an
adequate idea of the Lindville Falls and their surrounding
attractions! When I attempted to sketch them I threw away my pencil
in despair; and I now feel that I should be doing my pen a kindness,
if I were to consume what I have written. I will give this paragraph
to the world, however, trusting that those who may hereafter visit
the Lindville Falls, will award to me a little credit for my _will_
if not for my _deed_.
To be in keeping with my wayward wanderings in this Alpine
wilderness, it now becomes my duty to speak of the _Roan Mountain_
and the _Grand Father_. By actual measurement the former is only
seventy feet lower than the Black Mountain, and consequently
measures well nigh to seven thousand feet. It derives its name from
the circumstance that it is often covered with snow, and at such
times is of a roan color. It lies in the States of North Carolina
and Tennessee, and has three prominent peaks, which are all entirely
destitute of trees. The highest of them has a clearing containing
several thousand acres, and the cattle and horses of the surrounding
farmers resort to it in immense numbers, for the purpose of feeding
upon the fine and luxuriant grass which grows there in great
abundance. The ascent to the top of this peak is gradual from all
directions except one, but on the north it is quite perpendicular,
and to one standing near the brow of the mighty cliff the scene is
exceedingly imposing and fearful. That it commands an uninterrupted
view of what appears to be the entire world, may be readily
imagined. When I was there I observed no less than three thunder
storms performing their uproarious feats in three several valleys,
while the remaining portions of the lower world were enjoying a deep
blue atmosphere. In visiting Roan Mountain you have to travel on
horseback, and, by starting at the break of day, you may spend two
hours on the highest peak, and be home again on the same evening
about the sunset hour.
In accounting for the baldness which characterizes the Roan
Mountain, the Catawba Indians relate the following tradition: There
was once a time when all the nations of the earth were at war with
the Catawbas, and had proclaimed their determination to conquer and
possess their country. On hearing this intelligence the Catawbas
became greatly enraged, and sent a challenge to all their enemies,
and dared them to a fight on the summit of the Roan. The challenge
was accepted, and no less than three famous battles were fought—the
streams of the entire land were red with blood, a number of tribes
became extinct, and the Catawbas carried the day. Whereupon it was
that the Great Spirit caused the forests to wither from the three
peaks of the Roan Mountain where the battles were fought; and
wherefore it is that the flowers which grow upon this mountain are
chiefly of a crimson hue, for they are nourished by the blood of the
slain.
One of the finest views from the Roan Mountain is that of the Grand
Father, which is said to be altogether the wildest and most
fantastic mountain in the whole Alleghany range. It is reputed to be
5,600 feet high, and particularly famous for its black bears and
other large game. Its principal human inhabitants, par excellence,
for the last twenty years, have been a man named _Jim Riddle_, and
his loving spouse, whose cabin was near its summit. A more
successful hunter than Jim never scaled a precipice; and the stories
related of him would fill a volume. One of the funniest that I now
remember, is briefly as follows:—
He was out upon a hunting expedition, and having come to one of his
bear traps, (made of logs, weighing about a thousand pounds, and set
with a kind of figure four,) the bait of which happened to be
misplaced, he thoughtlessly laid down his gun, and went under the
trap to arrange the bait. In doing this, he handled the bait hook a
little too roughly, and was consequently caught in the place of a
bear. He chanced to have a small hatchet in his belt, with which,
under every disadvantage, he succeeded in cutting his way out. He
was one day and one night in doing this, however, and his narrow
escape caused him to abandon the habit of swearing, and become a
religious man.
To the comprehension of Jim Riddle, the Grand Father was the highest
mountain in the world. He used to say that he had read of the Andes,
but did not believe that they were half as high as the mountain on
which he lived. His reason for this opinion was, that when a man
stood on the top of the Grand Father, it was perfectly obvious that
“_all the other mountains in the world lay rolling from it, even to
the sky_.”
Jim Riddle is said to have been a remarkably certain marksman; and
one of his favorite pastimes, in the winter, was to shoot at
snow-balls. On these occasions, his loving wife, Betsey, was always
by his side, to laugh at him when he missed his mark, and to applaud
when successful. And it is reported of them, that they were
sometimes in the habit of spending entire days in this _elevated_
recreation. But enough; Jim Riddle is now an altered man. His cabin
has long since been abandoned, and he has become a travelling
preacher, and is universally respected for his amiability, and
matter-of-fact intelligence.