Part 9

A great deal has been written on how to catch trout, but these kindly suggestions are of about as much value as rules on how to swim without practice in the water. It requires a knack to catch trout; it is really an art; and no one can ever succeed in bringing into camp a long string of the speckled beauties, until after a novitiate of several days actual fishing,--or unless he meets and strikes a bargain with a small boy who has had a successful morning sport.

May is the paragon of months for the angler. Take it in the middle of the month, and if the tourist following and whipping some well-known trout stream, fails to catch fish, let him neither condemn the stream or the season, but with reason draw the conclusion that he is a bungler in the art of trout-fishing. The genial breezes and soft skies should draw every genuine lover of nature to the mountains. The deciduous forests of the valleys are again beautiful with their fresh foliage, destroying the contrast of the winter between their dun outlines and the green fronts of the higher pine groves, or the bodies of the giant hemlocks scattered in their midst. Winter’s traces, however, are not fully concealed; for there is still a line of bare woods between the green line slowly creeping up the slopes and the lower edges of the lofty, black balsam wildernesses. But every day, new sprouts of leaves appear, and soon the entire body of the wood-lands will have donned its summer mantle. The grass is of a bright green on the hill-sides; in the orchards, the apple trees are in full bloom; while the blossoms of the cherry are being scattered on the wings of breezes from the aromatic balsams. The valleys, on either side the narrow woods lining the banks of the streams, are dark green with sprouting fields of wheat and rye, or of lighter shade where the tender blades of the corn are springing.

In the forests which belt the streams, the bell-wood is white with blossoms, and every dog-wood white with flowers. “When the dog-wood is in bloom, then is the time to catch trout,” is a true, though trite, observation. At the same time the sassafras is yellow with buds, and the red maple, purple. A straggler along the wood-land path, between hedges of the budding kalmia, or ivy as the mountaineers term it, will be regaled with the delicious fragrance of the wild-plum and crab-apple whose white and pink blossomed trees are often entirely hidden by the clumps of alder or the close sides of the hedges. The wild grape also sheds an unequalled perfume. The path occasionally issues from the shrubbery, and pursues its way under the open trees, with the hurrying stream on one hand, and pleasing glades on the other. The woodland is vocal with the robin, red-bird and oriole, and the liquid murmur of the stream. The early violet still graces the sides of the path, and the crimson-tipped daisy is to be found in sunny spaces.

Let the evening come. At its approach, the keen-piped “bob-white” of the male quail grows less and less frequent in the fields, and after its call has entirely ceased, and the mountains grow gray, then finally resolve to black, formless masses, the cry of the whip-poor-will rings wild and peculiar out of the darkness above the meadows. If the night is free from rain, the forests and clearings will be ablaze with fire-flies. Millions of these insects spring into life with the dusk. Every yard of air is peopled with them; and for one who has never ventured into the country at night, their bright bodies flashing above the road, and under and amid the branches of the trees, would certainly fill him with profound astonishment.

As has been described in the geographical sketch, in this volume, Western North Carolina is a mountainous expanse, measuring about 200 miles in length by an average breadth of mountain plateau of 30 miles, yet in all this area there is not one lake. This seems a singular fact when contrasted with what is known of the waters of other mountain regions. There is no lack of water, however, in the Carolina mountains. It gushes up from thousands of springs in every valley, on every mountain slope and summit; but nowhere does it find a deep, wide basin in which to rest itself before hurrying to the sea. There are a few ponds in some of the valleys, but they are small, and are all artificial. Many are stocked with trout, from which the owners’ tables are easily supplied. One of these ponds is at Estes’ place near Blowing Rock. Trout are, at intervals, bagged in the brooks near by, and then freed in its waters. The tourist can be paddled in a boat over the clear surface, under which the standing trunks of the flooded trees are visible, and may be fortunate enough to pull out a few fish; but the fascination of killing the game in the mountain torrents is wholly lost.

Colonel Hampton, of Cashier’s valley, has a well stocked trout pond formed by the dammed up waters of Cashier creek. A screen fastened into the dam allows the escape of nothing but the water. The spawn is deposited high up the channels of the limpid streams, which empty into this pond. A fortune could be made in fish culture in the Carolina mountains. The valley of Jamestown, six miles east of Cashier’s valley, is admirably suited for an enterprise of this kind. A lake of six square miles could be formed here by damming, at a narrow gorge, a fork of Toxaway.

The headwaters of all the rivers may be whipped with success for trout. An exception to this general statement must be made of the slow-flowing Little Tennessee; the headwaters of its tributaries, however, teem with speckled habitants. Those streams most widely known as trout streams, while they, in fact, afford fine sport, are not to be compared with many loud-roaring little creeks, almost wholly unknown, even by the denizens of the vales into which they descend. Let the angler go to the loneliest solitudes, strike a stream as it issues from the balsams; and, following it to its mouth through miles of laurel tangle, he will cover himself with glory. It will be a well filled basket which he carries; therefore his wet clothes, his bruised body, tired legs, and depleted box of lines and flies left behind him on the branches of the trees, ought not to discourage him from trying it again.

For the angler of adventurous spirit and fond of the picturesque, that prong of the Toe river which flows between the Black mountains and the Blue Ridge, would be the stream for him to explore. With its North fork, this fork unites to form a wide and beautiful river, which flows along the line between Yancy and Mitchell counties, and empties into the Nolechucky. Its course is due north. Along its upper reaches, for mile after mile, not a clearing is to be seen; not a column of smoke curls upward through the trees, unless it be from the open fire before the temporary shelter of a benighted cattle-herder, or a party of bear-hunters; not an echo from the cliffs of dog or man; only the sombre, mossy woods, the rocks, crags and the stream beside the primitive path; the loud roar of rapids and cascades, or the low murmur of impetuous waters, sweeping under the rich drapery of the vines. One is not only outside the pale of civilized life, but is widely separated from visible connections with humanity. Let him shout with all the strength of his lungs, no one will hear him or the deep, sepulchral echo that comes up from the black-wooded defiles. A jay from out a wild cherry may answer him, or an eagle, circling high over-head, scream back as if in defiance to the intruder.

Here are the trout. Every few yards there are deep, clear pools, whose 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.

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.