34 



HARDWOOD RECORD 



THE HALL CABIN 



He was accompanied by his slight, sad-faced "woman," who bore 

 in her arms a year-old baby. The hick had evidently done busi- 

 ness with the bootleggers, as he was scarcely able to navigate, 

 carrying a tiny pasteboard grip which contained the family's 

 small belongings. He insisted that we' have a drink with him out 

 of his half depleted quart bottle of "shine," in which he was 

 accommodated. An exchange of courtesy consisted in tucking a 

 glass of Armour's bacon into his half empty grip. The encounter 

 was a pathetic commentary on the life habits of the average 

 lumber jack of the mountain region. 



From Cold spring we made the long hike at right angles with 

 the Miry ridge trail, across the intervening ten miles to Briar 

 ridge, and up that formidable rock bristling backbone of the 

 mountain to Thunderheail, another' point on the state line between 

 Tennessee and North Carolina, v/hich lies in sheer grandeur at a 

 height of 6,000 feet above sea level. 



Confession is good for the soul, therefore it may be stated that 

 the fog shut down on us before six o'clock that evening, and in 

 spite of Bud's woodcraft and knowing-wherehe-is-at every min- 

 ute, we got lost for fair. Two hours before we had passed the 

 Hall cabin, a famous landmark on the state line, but exactly where 

 we were at the moment in question we had but a very indefinite 

 idea, save to know that we were somewhere on the mountain tops 

 on the state line between Tennessee and North Carolina, and 

 probably either in Sevier or Swain count}'. There was a drizzling 

 rain; the wind was blowing chillily; there was no available shelter 

 in sight nor no material from which to make one. After finally 

 locating a tiny spring-fed brook, we hustled to get some hot 

 supper into us, and to make shift of any sort for a night's camp. 



We were on a mountain side at an angle of twenty-five degrees, 

 with no level space within reach big enough to set a hen to say 

 nothing about room enough for four men to lie down in comfort. 

 However, Bud was equal to the occasion, and after felling an 

 eight-inch beech, he staked a log from it onto the side hill. 

 Laying some beech brush back of it, we built a camp fire below 

 it. After darkness shut down on us, we managed to cook the 

 supper. We lay down in a row, wrapped in our blankets, with 

 our knees over the log, and our feet to the fire, under the shelter 

 of a sizable tree. 



It was not a remarkably happy night, because lying on one's 

 back in the brush with the hollow of his knees over a log to 

 keep from slipping off into the depths of the unknown, with the 

 chill of fog settled down over him and striking his marrow, does 

 not contribute to any particular comfort, especially if he 

 knows that he is lost good and plenty. The faithful mules had to 

 stand up on the side hill all night, but got their water and oats 

 all right, and made no particular kick about the situation. Along 

 about midnight I punched Bud in the ribs, explaining to him it 

 was devilish cold and getting colder, and suggested that he had 

 better mend the camp fire, or we might be frozen stiff before 

 morning. Nothing ever disconcerts Bud, and with cheerful 

 alacrity, he dug out of his blanket and attempted to add fuel to 

 the camp fire. In stirring the blaze he loosened the back log, 



THE FIRST NIGHT S CAMP AT SILERS MEADOW 



QUILL HOSES CABIN ON EAGLE CREEK 



and we all sat up in amazement to see the blazing tree trunk play 

 hop-scotch for a thousand feet or more down the mountain side 

 before it landed in the creek bottom. In the darkness we had 

 camped on the very verge of an abyss. However, Bud got the- 

 fire going again, and we had a fitful sleep until four o'clock, when 

 we were fully ready to crawl out and partake of hot coffee and 

 of the various plunder that we had in the way of food. 



Loading up the mules again we struck back for the top, and 

 within thirty minutes landed on the very summit of Thunderhead, 

 which we easih' recognized. The fog was still with us — it was 

 shut down tight — and we couldn't see four rods in any direction. 

 Around us we could see and hear scores of cattle, horses and mules, 

 feeding on the rich grass, so we simply waited for the fog to rise, 

 so that we could locate ourselves. 



At nine-thirty the wind started up, and in ten minutes the 

 glories from the mountain top — the wooded ridges and valleys for 

 miles in all directions — were revealed to us like a gigantic pano- 

 rama of half the world. Bud picked up the trail promptly and we 

 started for the head of Eagle creek valley. In the course of an 

 hour we had our second encounter with humankind during the 

 hike in the form of a cattle herder, who lives in a shack near the 

 Hall cabin, another famous landmark shown on the government 

 maps as being on the state line. Ho very accommodatingly guided 

 us to the Eagle creek trail, and we struck down that splendid! 



