"Ferny pastures, beetling rock,
Slopes half-islanded by streams,
Glisten in the amber gleams
Of the sunshine—gleams that mock
Shadowed field and cool gray rock.
"Farther up the sobbing pines
Hold their uncontested sway,
Shutting out the smiling day
With their solemn, serried lines,
—Mournful, melancholy pines!"
The sun is shining brightly, and his golden lances light up the depths of the forest into which we enter—an enchanted world of far-reaching greenness, the stillness of which is only broken by the voice of the streams which come down the gorges of the mountain in leaping cascades. Few things are more picturesque than the appearance of a cavalcade like ours following in single file the winding path (not r that leads into the marvelous, mysterious wilderness. When the ascent fairly begins, the path is often like the letter S, and one commands a view of the entire line—of horsemen in slouched hats and gray coats, of ladies in a variety of attire, with water-proof cloaks serving as riding-skirts, and hats garlanded with forest wreaths and grasses. The guide tramps steadily ahead, leading the pack-horse, and we catch a glimpse of his face now and then as he turns to answer some of the numerous questions addressed to him.
"O Mr. Burnet," cries Sylvia, "shall we see a bear?"
"'Tain't very likely," answers Mr. Burnet, glancing round with a smile, "but you'll see the tracks of one or two, p'r'aps. That'll be better than nothin', won't it?"
"Very much better than nothing; but I want desperately to see a bear itself."
"I kin show you a bear-trap after a while, without takin' you very fur from the r" says the hunter.
"Do you catch bears in traps?" asks Sylvia. "Tell me all about it."
It is to be supposed that Mr. Burnet complies with this request—at least we hear his voice mingling with Sylvia's blithe tones as the cortège winds deeper and deeper into the still, beautiful forest. Sylvia's mule, as soon as we start, declines on any account to remain in the rear of the party—or indeed anywhere but in the front rank, next to the pack-horse. On such an expedition as this 78people laugh at things that seem very trivial in repetition, and we make the echoes ring with our mirth as this small but determined animal pushes resolutely by everyone else and carries its protesting rider to the van.
"I have heard of the obstinacy of mules," she says, tugging fruitlessly at the rein, "but I never realized before what it is! I can make no impression whatever on this creature. He goes exactly where he likes, without the slightest regard to my wishes. Sure-footed? Yes—he picks the best footing, with profound indifference as to whether I am scraped against trees, or pulled off by branches, or any thing else. Has a mule's mouth got no feeling? I'm sure I have pulled on this bit till my arm aches."
"'I have heard of the obstinacy of mules.'"
"I wish I had a sketch of you, Sylvia!" says Rupert, between his fits of laughter. "By George! you are a comical sight—you and your mule."
"You are very ill-bred," says Sylvia, "and I am going to devote myself to Mr. Burnet."
The ascent is very gradual and very slow. We are mounting all the time, but the zigzag path spares us any thing very much on the perpendicular order. Now and then we feel inclined to cling to the manes of our horses as we feel the saddles slipping backward at some steep ascent—but on the whole, the terrible accounts that we have heard of the way are by no means verified.
"We wind up the side of the mountain 79like this for several miles," says Eric. "Then we travel along a ridge for some distance, and finally we ascend the peak formerly called the Black Dome, now Mount Mitchell. The whole distance is about twelve miles, and most of it is steady climbing. We shall not reach the Dome until three o'clock at earliest."
"And shall we have nothing to eat until then?" asks Rupert, dismayed.
"Nothing," is the disheartening answer.
"What a big mountain this must be!" says Mrs. Cardigan.
"It is about twenty miles long," answers Eric, "and contains at least a hundred thousand acres of as dense wilderness as is to be found out of the tropical belt. When we reach Mount Mitchell we shall be in the centre of a region of unbroken forest, without house or rin any direction—except this path and a few trails known only to the hunters—for a radius of ten or twelve miles."
"And it was in this wilderness that Professor Mitchell lost his life sixteen or seventeen years ago, was it not?" I ask.
"Yes. Burnet was one of the men engaged in the search for him. He will tell you all about it. At least five hundred men were in the party, and they searched for days before at last the professor was found—drowned in a mountain torrent."
Higher and higher we mount—the horses straining steadily upward with few pauses. The forest around us becomes wilder, greener, more luxuriant with every step. When we wonder at this, Eric bids us observe the rich, black loam which composes the soil. Such gigantic trees as grow here cannot be matched, I am sure, out of California. The chestnuts especially exceed in girth and height any thing we have ever seen. Other trees correspond in size, and the dense undergrowth makes a sea of impenetrable verdure in every direction.
Presently, however, the aspect of our surroundings changes. We leave this varied forest behind and enter the region of the balsam, from the dark color of which the mountain takes its name. Above a certain line of elevation no trees are found save these beautiful yet sombre firs. They grow to an immense height and stand so thickly together that one marvels how any animal larger than a cat can thread its way among their stems. Overhead the boughs interlock in a canopy, making perpetual shade beneath. No shrubs of any kind are to be found here—only beds of thick, elastic moss, richer than the richest velvet, and ferns in plumy profusion. Putting aside every thing else, it is worth ascending the Black Mountain to see these mosses and ferns. Description can give no idea of their beauty. As lovely ferns may perhaps be found elsewhere—though this is doubtful, since the rich soil, the perpetual moisture, and perpetual shade foster their growth to the highest possible degree—but one never sees, out of the balsam forests, the peculiar moss which is their glory. It is almost rank in its richness; it is more vivid than emerald in its greenness; and there is a delicate grace about it which no other moss possesses. It is more like a fairy forest of miniature palm-leaves than any thing else to which one can liken it.
"What is this?" we ask, as our horses struggle up a steep ascent and pause on a small plateau, where a double house of balsam logs stands. All planking—every thing which made the house habitable—is gone, but the stout logs remain firmly fixed together and look as if they might defy the hand of Time. "Are we on the summit?"
"On the summit!" Eric laughs. "This is only the Mountain House, the summer residence, formerly, of Mr. William Patton, who owned the mountain. You are five thousand four hundred and sixty feet above sea-level, however, and have a most extensive view."
We turn—so dense has been the forest through which we ascended that this is our first glimpse of what we have gained—and see the world unrolled like a map below us, with mountain ranges in azure billows spreading to the farthest verge of the infinitely distant horizon. It is a picture which almost takes away our breath and dwarfs into insignificance all else that we have seen. What are the hills and rocks on which we have hitherto stood to this grand mountain height, with the boundless territory which it overlooks? Eric points out the sweeping lines of the two great ranges which enclose on each side this Eden of the sky, as they trend southward to South Carolina and Georgia, and the innumerable transverse ranges and spurs that cover the face of the country. Far, misty, ocean-like, the magnificent expanse spreads, 80looking like a celestial country instead of a common work-day world.
We could linger here for hours, but are imperatively hurried on. Again we plunge into the dark shade of the dense balsams. The path is no more than a trail, which an eye inexperienced in woodcraft could not detect, and the way grows more and more steep. One moment the horses slip on the rocks up which they clamber; the next instant they sink above their fetlocks in black mud; there is barely room for their passage through the close-growing trees; and every few minutes a cry runs along the line, "Look out for your heads!" and we bend down on their necks to escape being scraped off by some leaning tree or low bough. In every direction stretches the sombre, impenetrable forest, and the only things which break the monotony of its gloom are masses of rock piled together in strange, fantastic shapes, and covered with moss and ferns.
Two miles of this steep climbing brings us to the summit of the undulating ridge along which our way lies for several miles farther. The funereal branches of the balsam still overshadow us, but now and then we emerge from this canopy of shade into small, open spaces, lovely enough for a fairy court. Short, green grass flourishes, one or two graceful, hardy trees make a pleasant contrast to the sombre firs, and flat rocks here and there seem provided specially for seats. We would willingly pause in these charming spots, but our guide calls no halt. He seems insensible to fatigue as he presses steadily onward with his long strides, and we are forced to follow, since this mountain wilderness, abounding in precipices and pitfalls, would be an unfavorable place in which to indulge a fancy for straggling. Twice he points out bear-tracks crossing our path, and once he turns aside from the trail to show Sylvia the promised bear-trap—a stout erection of large logs.
"When you find a bear in a place like this," she says, regarding it gravely from the height of her mule, "what do you do to him?"
"Shoots him, ginerally," answers Mr. Burnet, with a brsmile.
"And you call that hunting!" she says, scornfully. "Why, I should think you would feel like a coward to come and shoot a poor trapped animal."
"Looking at the matter in that light, all hunting is cowardly," says Eric. "But if the bear had been stealing your hogs for several months, you would probably be willing to shoot him when you found him in a trap.—Lead on, Dan. I am growing—to put it moderately—rather hungry."
Dan leads on, and presently we emerge on the largest and most beautiful of the little prairies through which we have passed. This stretch of open ground lies at the foot of the highest peak, the abrupt sides of which rise in conical shape before us. It is here, Mr. Burnet tells us, that the mountaineers who were searching for Professor Mitchell found the first trace of the way he had taken.
"We had been sarchin' from Friday to Tuesday," he says, "and on Tuesday we was pretty nigh disheartened, when Wilson—an old hunter from over in Yancey—said he hadn't no doubt the professor had tried to go down to Caney Valley by a trail they two had followed thirteen years afore, and which leads that way"—he points down into the dark wilds below us. "Well, we looked along the edge of this here prairie till we found a track. Wilson was right—he had tried to go down to Caney Valley. We followed his trail for about four miles, and I was one of them what found him at last."
"He had lost his way," says Eric. "I have seen the spot—they call it Mitchell's Falls now—where he died. A stream of considerable size plunges over a precipice of about forty feet into a basin fourteen feet deep by as many wide. Into this he fell— probably at night."
"But how was it possible to bring a dead body up these steeps?" Sylvia asks, addressing Mr. Burnet.
"We brought it in a sheet slung to the top of stout poles," he answers. "Then it were carried down to Asheville, and then brought up again and buried there"—he nods to the peak above us.
"In the warmth of their great friendship and admiration, people thought that he ought to rest in the midst of the scenes he had explored so fearlessly and loved so well," says Eric.
We are all silent. This shadow of death seems to obscure something of the beauty of the wide prospect. We have paused, attracted not only by the gentle loveliness of the spot, but by the magnificence of the far 81stretching view. Immediately in front of us sweeps westwardly the great range of Craggy, its spurs shutting off Asheville from our view. Beyond, Pisgah lifts its crest, with its surrounding mountains, while behind these, range after range melts into illimitable distance, and more than half the counties of the western part of the State lie spread before us. Eric takes his cherished companion—a large field-glass—from its case and brings it to a proper focus, then hands it to me.
"Look," he says, "at that cloud-like table-land lying near the South Carolina line— do you see what I mean? That is the upper valley of the French Brin Transylvania, and it is nearly on a level with the summit of the Blue Ridge."
The glass passes from hand to hand, for we all alight here, since the rest of the ascent can best be made on foot. The saddles are taken from the horses, and they are turned loose to graze until morning.
"Suppose they should run away?" suggests Mr. Lanier, a little aghast at this proceeding; but our guide only laughs.
"They'll not run fur," he says.
"If they did, we should have to walk down the mountain," says Sylvia. "That would be capital fun!"
"Fun which I had rather be spared," says Mrs. Cardigan, taking off her water-proof, which has served as a riding-skirt, and throwing it over her arm.
Only the pack-horse is led to the summit of the peak. We follow, glad to be spared the ascent of the steep and rocky way on horseback. The climbing is laborious, but fortunately short. Before long we gain the top, and the first object on which our eyes rest is—the grave.
Here the friends of the dead professor laid him down, to await the resurrection morning. At his feet the pines sigh their mournful requiem, and the majestic glory of that Nature to which he was so devoted lies spread around. With this loftiest peak of the great Appalachian chain his name is linked effectually. The dome is not likely to be called by any other name than "Mount Mitchell" so long as the first sight which greets those who ascend it is Mitchell's grave.
Beside the grave, the summit is entirely bare. A few yards down its sides the balsam growth begins; but the firs are stunted, and round the crest of the knob half at least of them are dead and look like white spectres of trees. A small cabin stood here a year or two ago, but is now burned down—only its chimney remaining.
"Where is the cave? I don't see any cave," says Mrs. Cardigan, looking blankly around as we seat ourselves in an exhausted condition on the scattered rocks that abound.
"The cave is about fifty yards down the side of the peak," says Eric. "Burnet has taken the pack-horse there to unl As soon as you are rested sufficiently, we had better follow. We can take dinner, and then return here for the view."
Does anyone wonder that we rise with alacrity at the sound of that magic word "dinner?" If so, he or she never made a mountain ascent of six hours in an atmosphere that sharpens the appetite to that positive hunger which in ordinary life we so seldom feel.
Down a path on the other side of the peak we go, and, about fifty yards from the summit, are led to a large rock, one side of which shelves inward to the depth of ten or twelve feet, forming an excellent shelter.
"This was the royal residence of the king of the bears in the good old times when there were no men on these mountains," says Rupert, as we approach. (He is on his knees, assisting Harrison to unpack the provisions.) "It serves admirably for bears, but is rather low for people."
In the Cave.
"For giants like yourself, very likely," 82says Sylvia. "I can stand upright in it, quite far back, very comfortably—see!"
"And when one sits down it is admirable," says Mrs. Cardigan, suiting the action to the word and sitting down on a shawl which Mr. Lanier has spread for her.
"Here is a natural cupboard," I say, examining a ledge of rocks that juts out on one side.
"I doubt whether we shall leave any thing to go into it," says Charley. "I am famished!"
"Spread the table quicker, Harrison!" cries Sylvia. "Eric, carve the ham while I cut some bread."
The table is spread—to wit, a miscellaneous collection of eatables are placed on a piece of black oil-cloth—and dinner begins. For some time no other remarks are heard than those which are strictly necessary. Requests are made for bread-and-butter, for another piece of ham or chicken, for pickles or sardines; beyond this, little is said until we look at each other and laugh. By this time the feast is drawing to its close. Canned fruits, cakes, and jelly are on the table; Charley is opening a bottle of wine.
"Fate cannot harm us, we have dined to-day," says Sylvia. "Oh, were you ever so hungry before? I only hope we have left enough for breakfast: we cannot afford to eat any supper."
"Can't we?" says Rupert, looking dismayed. "Why, I think there's plenty left. We'll have some coffee, at any rate. As soon as Burnet comes back—he has taken the pack-horse down to the others—we are going to make a fire."
"If the wind should be in the wrong direction, we shall suffer dreadfully from the smoke," says Mr. Lanier, looking at the great pile of charred logs immediately in front of our rock-house—remnants of the fire of some other party.
"Better suffer from smoke than from cold," says Eric. "You'll be glad of the fire when night falls; and, in order that you may have it, we must go to work and cut wood enough to last till morning."
"Cut wood!" repeats Mr. Lanier, with a rasp. He has plainly not anticipated any thing like this. "You mean that Harrison and the guide will cut it?"
"I mean that it will require several axes to cut as much as we shall need," answers Eric. "The balsam wood will not burn in small quantities."
Mr. Lanier does not volunteer to take one of these axes; he looks, on the contrary, greatly disgusted.
"And you call this a pleasure-excursion?" he says.
"A pleasure exertion it might better be defined—don't you think so?" asks Mrs. Cardigan, laughing.
"I wondered why you were bringing axes along," says Sylvia, turning to Charley. "And this is what it was for?"
"This is what it was for," he answers. "Now—since we are in a gypsy camp—may I ask leave to light a cigar? 'When Juno ruffles thee, O Jupiter, try the weed'—and, according to my experience, Juno is pretty sure to ruffle one sooner or later; therefore, it is well to be provided with a weed."
"After that, you don't deserve permission to light it," she says, "but I suppose we can't refuse you the privilege which we are willing to grant the others."
At this, cigars are lighted, and, when the bottle of wine has been emptied, we take our way back to the summit.
There the full glory of all that we have come to see bursts upon us. How can one write of it?—how give the faintest idea of the beauty which lies below us on this September day?—how describe the sublimated fairness of the day itself in the rarefied air of this high peak?
"I have never obtained so good a view before!" says Eric. "There are not a dozen days in the year when one can obtain such a view from this mountain."
"What delightful luck that we should have hit one of the dozen!" says Mrs. Cardigan. "Don't you feel as if you overlooked the whole world, and the kingdoms thereof? O Mr. Markham, dear Mr. Markham, tell us what every thing is!"
Dear Mr. Markham proceeds to comply with this moderate request, while Sylvia mounts the chimney and stands there—field-glass in hand—sweeping the horizon, as he indicates one object after another. Charley sits on the chimney at her feet, swinging his legs meditatively and smoking; Mrs. Cardigan, in her enthusiasm, takes Mr. Lanier's arm.
The view is so immense that one is forced to regard it in sections. Far to the northeast 83lies Virginia, from which the long waving line of the Blue Ridge comes, and passes directly under the Black, making a point of junction, near which it towers into the steep pinnacle and stately Graybeard—so called from the white beard which it wears when a frozen cloud has iced its rhododendrons. From our greater eminence we overlook the Blue Ridge entirely, and see the country below spreading into azure distance, with white spots which resolve themselves through the glass into villages, and mountains clearly defined. The Linville range—through which the Linville River forces its way in a gorge of wonderful grandeur—is in full view, with a misty cloud lying on the surface of Table Rock, while the peculiar form of the Hawk's Bill stands forth in marked relief. Beyond, blue and limitless as the ocean, the undulating plain of the more level country extends until it melts into the sky.
"Sylvia mounts the chimney, and stands there."
As the glance leaves this view, and, sweeping back over the Blue Ridge, follows the main ledge of the Black, one begins to appreciate the magnitude of this great mountain. For miles along its dark crest appear a succession of cone-like peaks, and, as it sweeps round westwardly, it divides into two great branches—one of which terminates in the height on which we stand, while numerous spurs lead off from its base; the other stretches southward, forming the splendid chain of Craggy. At our feet lie the elevated counties of Yancey and Mitchell, with their surface so uniformly mountainous that one wonders how men could have been daring enough to think of making their homes amid such wild scenes.
"The richest lands in the mountains are to be found in those counties," says Eric, when we remark something like this:
"Look at the farms—they scarcely seem more than gardens from our point of view—dotted all over the valleys and rolling table-lands, and even on the mountain-sides. Yet Burnsville, the county-seat, is six hundred feet higher than Asheville."
Beyond these counties stretches the chain of the Unaka, running along the line of Tennessee, with the Roan Mountain—famous for its extensive view over seven States—immediately in our front. Through the passes and rugged chasms of this range, we look across the entire valley of East Tennessee to where the blue outlines of the Cumberland Mountains trend toward Kentucky, and we see distinctly a marked depression which Eric says is Cumberland Gap. Turning our gaze due westward, the view is, if possible, still more grand. There the colossal masses of the Great Smoky stand, draped in a mantle of clouds, while through Haywood and Transylvania, to the borders of South Carolina, rise the peaks of the Balsam Mountains, behind which are the Cullowhee and the Nantahala, with the Blue Ridge making a majestic curve toward the point where Georgia touches the Carolinas.
"To understand how much you see," says 84Eric—for such a view is bewildering in its magnitude—"you must remember that this elevated country called Western North Carolina is two hundred and fifty miles long, with a breadth varying from thirty to sixty miles, and that you overlook all this—with much more besides."
"With very much more besides," says Charley, "especially in the matter of width. Cumberland Gap is fully a hundred miles away, and the view on the other side of the Blue Ridge is even more extensive."
"You are right—it is bewildering," says Sylvia, dropping the glass, "and it is folly to think of seeing such a view in one day or two days. We should remain here for a week at least."
"In that case we'd have to send for more provisions," says Rupert's voice from the rear.
Then Eric rouses with a start to the consciousness that, while the sun is sloping westward, and the shadows are lengthening over all the marvelous scene, a supply of wood for the night has not been cut. The axes of the guide and Harrison are ringing down among the balsam trees, but he is too experienced a mountaineer to trust entirely to their efforts.
"Come, Rupert," he says, "a little exercise will do you no harm.—Charley, if we need recruits, I'll call you."
"Very good," says Charley, with resignation.
Deserted thus by our instructor, we cease to ask the names of the mountain ranges or towering peaks. It is enough to sit and watch the inexpressible beauty of the vast prospect as afternoon slowly wanes into evening. There is a sense of isolation, of solemnity and majesty, in the scene which none of us are likely to forget. So high are we elevated above the world, that the pure vault of ether over our heads seems nearer to us than the blue rolling earth, with its wooded hills and smiling valleys below. No sound comes up to us, no voice of water or note of bird breaks the stillness. We are in the region of that eternal silence which wraps the summits of the "everlasting hills." A repose that is full of awe broods over this lofty peak, which still retains the last rays of the sinking sun, while over the lower world twilight has fallen.
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