The province of Appalachia extends somewhat beyond the 

 limits of the Appalachian Mountains and coincides more closely 

 with what geologists term the Appalachian Fold. It is all 

 mountainous or at least hilly: it spans 1300 miles from New 

 Brunswick in a southwesterly direction to the northwest tip of 

 Georgia, and is on an average some 200 miles in width. 

 It has a short coast line of about 400 miles length between the 

 Bay of Fundy and the mouth of the Hudson. 



Its northwestern boundary is fairly tvell defined, being the 

 foot of the mountains — in some places actually an escarpment — 

 bordering on the lowlands of the Heartland or Great Lakes 



district, though the junction between it and the western 

 piedmont is in many places not an abrupt line. On the 

 southeast — that is, from the neighborhood of the Hudson River 

 to the border between North and South Carolina — its boundary 

 is the "fall line" (see Chapter 8), and this then cuts inland 

 and west to northern Alabama. In the northeast this province 

 merges with the Gulf of St. Lawrence in that, from a 

 phytogeographical point of view, it is really a southward 

 extension — resulting from its altitude — of the Transition Belt 

 that runs through that region. 



Just as the mountain ranges of the Far West overlie the 

 major vegetational belts, sp also to a certain extent does 

 Appalachia, but in other respects it produces quite contrary side 

 effects. This is because it lies alongside a "trough," or major 

 swing to the south, of the belts rather than athwart a "peak" or 

 acute swing to the north, as do the Rockies. Thus, while the 

 Rockies carry boreal forest right down into the Desert Belt at 

 higher altitudes — as in the upper slopes of the Sacramento 

 Mountains in New Mexico — the Appalachians merely push the 

 Transition (mixed coniferous-deciduous growth) and the 

 Deciduous Woodlands somewhat south into the Parkland, in 

 the form of a tongue of uplands. 



The vegetation clothing this province is confluent with and 

 fundamentally similar to that of the St. Lawrence valley and the 

 northern part of the Heartland or Great Lakes district. 

 Throughout this whole area the typical conifer is the Eastern 

 White Pine (Pinus strobus). 7/5 presence clearly marks the limits 

 of the province, especially in the south and east, where it abuts 

 onto the Coastal Fringe Province and on the Great Southern 

 Pine Belt (which are actually parklands) where the Longleaf 

 (P. palustris) and the Loblolly pines (P. taeda) hold sway. 



Appalachia consists of a series of mountain ranges located 

 in echelon in the north and more or less parallel in the south. 



J 



tainous countries — subdued vistas of great magnificence. There 

 are still forests everywhere, ranging from the veritable "rain 

 forests" of Maine, with their soft flooring of ferns and fungi, to 

 the dry, brittle valley sides of Pennsylvania and the considerable 

 upland forests of Tennessee and North Carolina. There are also 

 endless lakes in the north and lush natural valley bottoms 

 everywhere, many of which have not even now been obliterated 

 by clearing for agriculture and man's settled community life. 

 There are a few places — though fewer than many suppose — 

 where the land appears really to be still as it was when the only 

 men around were as much a part of nature as the raccoon or 

 the deer. These are very lovely, and when you stumble into one 

 of them you immediately know, unless you are a quite insensitive 

 person, that you are in something of the olden times. Let me 

 describe one that is typical of the central block of this land. 



A PRE-COLUMBIAN VISTA 



This place is tiny. It is held at an elevation of only some 

 seven hundred feet above sea level in the embrace of a circle 

 of cultivated fields, cattle pastures, and apple orchards. It is only 

 about four square miles in area and, most surprising of all, it 

 is just seventy miles from Manhattan Island. As you travel the 

 dirt roads that envelope it, on an average of only about five 

 miles from its secluded center, you would never suspect that it 



existed just over the hills. There is not even a footpath leading 

 into it, and you must trudge across the fields to get to it; and 

 from there it looks like a most nondescript wood ahead. I first 

 found this place when a visiting friend's dog took fright at an 

 accidental gunshot and ran away. Following her large tracks, we 

 entered this almost holy place, referred to, we later learned from 

 its laconic owner, as "that worthless swamp." Swamp it may be; 

 yet it is covered by a real forest where some of the poison-ivy 

 stems are as thick as one's leg. 



Happily, my companion that day was an Amerindian and 

 knew every plant and animal in this, his land; he had the 

 proverbial eyes of a hawk, and much knowledge of the now no 

 longer extant medicine men of his tribe. Following the dog 

 tracks we descended a gentle grass slope, climbed a deteriorated 

 stone wall, and entered a pure stand of alder bushes. Immedi- 

 ately the air was permeated with a mingled aroma reminiscent 

 of the loading platform of a perfume factory. The sun shone 

 brightly, and hoverflies — those black-and-yellow-banded insects 

 that helicopter in filtered sun shafts — were all about us. We 

 trudged into waist-high sedges that crunched and gave off most 

 delectable aromas; pristine black-and-white flycatchers eyed us 

 brightly from the bare-fingered tops of the bushes; and some- 

 what surprisingly, a crested kingfisher let out a screech and 

 whirled away ahead. Then we struck a small winding path that 

 had no discoverable beginning. Suddenly it was just there, 

 clearly defined and rapidly clearing, and its muddy center was 



