Conduct an internet search for “Cowee Mountains” and you’ll get a long list of references to the Cowee Mountains Overlook, at mile 430.7 on the Blue Ridge Parkway. A few of those sites will give you the impression that the overlook is located in the Cowee Mountains, but that is definitely not the case. In fact, Cowee Mountains Overlook (elevation 5950) is in the spectacular Plott Balsams where it affords a long-range view of the Cowees on the western horizon.
Many Parkway visitors regard Cowee Mountains Overlook as their favorite overlook on the entire scenic road, and that is easy to understand. With a panoramic view facing west, it is a perfect place to photograph sunsets over the mountains. One of the last times I was there, late in the day, a dozen photographers had their tripods set up, cameras ready to record the colorful show of land and sky.
Long before the construction of the Blue Ridge Parkway, people have lingered at this place in the Plotts, awestruck by the scenery. One account of such a moment appeared in The Mountain-Region of North Carolina, in an 1877 issue of Appleton’s Journal. The writer, Frances Tiernan, wrote under the pen name “Christian Reid.” [See the endnote below for more about her.] She applied the term “Cullowhee Mountains” to the Cowee Mountains. And she mentioned the Devil’s Old Field, which like today’s Cowee Mountains Overlook, is on the western slope of Richland Balsam (elevation 6410).
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| The view from Cowee Mountains Overlook - NPS photo |
The grass bald known as Devil’s Old Field was integral to the Cherokee legend of a monstrous giant named Judaculla. At some point in the future, I will share a compilation of several accounts of the Judaculla tale. But for now, here’s a description of the sweeping view from Cowee Mountains Overlook, as it appeared almost 150 years ago:
It was the good fortune of the writer to be one of a party who made this ascent during the past summer, and it is little to say that all difficulties and perils were forgotten when we stood at last on the summit of the highest peaks, and felt that we were in the centre of the great system of diverging heights spread around us, far as the gaze could reach, to the uttermost bounds of land and sky. There is an intense exhilaration of mind and body consequent upon attaining such an elevation, and we were exceedingly fortunate in having two days of perfect weather days of the radiant softness which only September gives.
The spot where we found ourselves was a treeless tract of several hundred acres on top of the Balsam range. The Cherokees believe that these open spaces are the footprints of the devil, made as he stepped from mountain to mountain, and this mediumst prairie they regard with peculiar awe as his favorite sleeping-place-probably selected because he likes now and then a complete change of climate. On maps of the State this point is marked "The Devil's Old Field," and, apart from the association with his satanic majesty, the title is not altogether inapposite.
So peculiar is the appearance of these openings, where grass and bushes of all kinds flourish luxuriantly, that one is almost forced to believe that at some remote period man had his habitation here. Like the Black, the Balsam takes its name from the fir which grows upon it, but, unlike the Black, these trees, instead of covering the whole upper part of the mountain, are found only on the north side. On the southern slopes the deciduous forest grows to the summit, and there-as if a line of exact division had been drawn-the latter growth ends, and the sombre realm of the balsam begins.
Having been bold enough to pitch our camp in the midst of the Devil's Old Field, we were probably punished by finding ourselves next morning wrapped in mist at the time that we should have been witnessing the sun rise beyond a thousand peaks. By eight o'clock, however, the clouds lifted, the mist dissolved away, and seated on the rocky crest of a high knob, with air so lucid and fresh that it seemed rather of heaven than earth fanning our brows, we were truly "girdled with the gleaming world."
On one side spread the scenes over which we had journeyed-every height south of the Black clearly visible, and distinctly to be identified—while on the other the country on which we had come to gaze stretched westward, until its great ridges, like giant billows, blended their sapphire outlines with the sky. Overlooking this immense territory, one felt overwhelmed by its magnitude, and the imagination vainly strove to picture the innumerable scenes of loveliness that lay below, among what seemed a very chaos of peaks, gorges, cliffs, and vales.
That the face of this part of the country should appear especially covered with mountains, is not strange when one considers that five great ranges traverse and surround it. Looking west from the Balsam, we saw on our left the Blue Ridge, on our right the Smoky, and in front the Cullowhee, with the Nantahala lying cloud-like in the far distance. Countless intervening chains spread over the vast scene, with graceful lines blending, and dominant points ascending, forming a whole of wondrous harmony.
Near at hand the heights of the Balsam, clad in a rich plumage of forest, surrounded us in serried ranks-a succession of magnificent peaks, infinitely diversified in shape, and nearly approaching the same standard of elevation. What exquisite veils of color they drew around them, as they receded away, wrapping their mighty forms in tenderest purple and blue! The infinite majesty of the great expanse, the unutterable repose which seemed to wrap the towering summits in their eternal calm, filled the mind with delight and awe. No words seemed fitting save the exultant ones of the canticle : "O ye mountains and hills, bless ye the Lord, praise him and magnify him forever!"
On the summit of the height where we sat, the counties of Haywood, Jackson, and Transylvania, meet. Of these Jackson is the most westwardly, and is rich in scenery of the noblest description, being bounded by the Balsam, the Blue Ridge, the Cullowhee, and Great Smoky - the innumerable spurs of which cover it in all directions. Yet here, as elsewhere, the pastoral joins hands with the rugged. These mountains are nearly all fine 'ranges," where thousands of cattle are annually reared with little trouble and less expense to their owners; and through the midst of the county the wildly-beautiful Tuckaseege flows. Rising in the Blue Ridge, this river forces its way through the Cullowhee Mountains in a cataract and gorge of overwhelming grandeur, and, augmented at every step by innumerable mountain-torrents, thunders, foams, and dashes over its rocky bed, until united to the Tennessee-which comes with headlong haste down from the Balsam-and, losing its name in the latter, it cuts a cañon of inexpressible majesty through the Smoky, and pours its current into the valley of East Tennessee. In Jackson, on the southern side of the Blue Ridge, the head-waters of the Savannah River also rise. The Chatooga, which washes the base of the great Whiteside Mountain, flows into Georgia, and, with the Tallulah, forms the Tugaloo, which is the main head of the Savannah.
Such florid verbosity is no longer fashionable, but in defense of the 19th century writers I would point out that color photographs were not available in 1880. Nowadays, you can log on to the internet and, in seconds, access hundreds of photos of the view from Cowee Mountains Overlook. Way back when, it took a little more work to share the scene with those who could not be there in person.
End note: “Christian Reid” was the pen name of Frances Christine Fisher Tiernan (1846-1920). Born in Salisbury, North Carolina her travels in Western North Carolina inspired her early works, and she published more than 50 novels.
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