The Chimney Rock Files - Lanman's 1848 Visit

Chimney Rock and Lake Lure had been on my mind, even prior to Helene. Now, with so much gone, I'm contemplating how it used to be. But that's a given anytime and anywhere I take a jaunt through these mountains. I've observed a few of the big changes myself and gathered eyewitness accounts for many more. Revisiting my files this week, I’m reminded of the fabulous narratives from the vicinity of Hickory Nut Gap Bat Cave, Chimney Rock Village and other locations along the Rocky Broad River. So I will be sharing those in the days ahead.

Let’s open with a passage from one of my favorite books, “Letters from the Alleghany Mountains.” The author and artist Charles Lanman visited the area in May 1848. While en route from the Oconaluftee River and Cherokee, Lanman stopped off in Asheville, where he crossed paths with a disgruntled horse trader and watched a duel narrowly averted:

The distance from Qualla Town to this place is sixty miles. The first half of the route is exceedingly mountainous and almost entirely uncultivated, but the valley of Pigeon river, down which you have to travel for a considerable distance, is very fertile and well cultivated. A pastoral charm seems to rest upon the scenery, and in this particular forcibly reminded me of the upper valley of the Mohawk.

I occupied the most of two days in performing this trip, and the only incident that I met with which was at all unique, was upon this wise. I had stopped at a farm-house to take my dinner. It so happened that my host was about to erect a new barn, and some twenty of his neighbors were assembled for the purpose of raising the framework to its proper position.

An abundance of whiskey had already been imbibed by a few of this rustic company, and among these was one individual who had recently been grossly cheated in purchasing a horse from a Tennessee horse-dealer. He had given a mule and twenty dollars for the stranger’s gelding, and, though the animal was quite respectable in appearance, it had turned out to be old, unsound, and almost without a redeeming quality. The individual in question was noted for making a fool of himself when intoxicated, and on this occasion he was determined to prove true to himself.

At this time his horse speculation seemed to weigh heavily upon his mind, and in his vehement remarks he took particular pains to curse the entire State of Tennessee, including President Polk. The poor man finally became so completely excited that he swore he would whip the first man he met on the road who happened to be from Tennessee; and so the matter rested.

In about thirty minutes thereafter, as fortune would have it, a man made his appearance on the road, apparently from the West; and in jeering their noisy companion, the farmers remarked that “now he would have a chance to revenge himself.” The excitement of the horse-bitten speculator was consequently greatly increased, and when the stranger reached the hilltop he was accosted as follows:

“May I ask you, sir, if you come from Tennessee?”

“I do. What will you have?” replied the stranger.

The Carolinian then related his trading story, which he concluded by carefully reiterating the determination he had made. The stranger laughed at the idea, and was about to resume his journey, when the reins of his horse were seized, and he found that it was indeed necessary for him to fight his way out of the queer scrape.

All remonstrance on his part was in vain; but at the very moment the fight was to commence, another horseman rode up, who was also interrogated as to his native State. His presence had a tendency to suspend hostilities; but when it was ascertained that he was only a Kentuckian, the Carolinian insisted upon going on with his business. The feelings of the Kentuckian were now enlisted, and he declared his intention of regulating the fight; whereupon he made a large ring, and taking out of his pocket a couple of pistols, he told the combatants “to go ahead,” and at the same time warned the bystanders that he would shoot the first man that interfered. The conclusion of the whole matter was, that the intoxicated man received a cruel thrashing for his ridiculous conduct, and the two gentlemen from the West quietly resumed their several journeys.

On my way to this place, I stopped for a few hours at Deaver’s Sulphur Springs, which are about four miles from the French Broad river, on the road to Clarksville, Georgia. This is one of the most popular watering-places in the South, not only on account of the medicinal qualities of the water, but on account of the surrounding scenery, which is remarkably interesting, and also for the additional reason that the style in which people are entertained is well worthy of even such places as Saratoga.

The several buildings connected with the establishment usually accommodate about two hundred families during the summer months, and they are chiefly from the cities of Charleston and Savannah. The people of Eastern North Carolina do not seem to know that they have such a delightful retreat within their borders which, to a man of genuine taste, is as far ahead of Saratoga as a mountain stream is ahead of a canal.

With regard to Ashville, I can only say that it is a very busy and pleasant village, filled with intelligent and hospitable inhabitants, and is the centre of a mountain land, where Nature has been extremely liberal and tasteful in piling up her mighty bulwarks for the admiration of man. Indeed, from the summit of a hill immediately in the vicinity of the village, I had a southwestern view which struck me as eminently superb. It was near the sunset hour, and the sky was flooded with a golden glow, which gave a living beauty to at least a hundred mountain peaks, from the centre of which loomed high towards the zenith Mount Pisgah and the Cold Mountain, richly clothed in purple, which are from twenty to thirty miles distant, and not far from six thousand feet in height.

The middle distance, though in reality composed of wood-crowned hills, presented the appearance of a level plain or valley, where columns of blue smoke were gracefully floating into the upper air, and whence came the occasional tinkle of a bell, as the cattle wended their way homeward, after roaming among the unfenced hills. Directly at my feet lay the little town of Ashville, like an oddly-shaped figure on a green carpet; and over the whole scene dwelt a spirit of repose, which seemed to quiet even the common throbbings of the heart.

My first expedition on arriving here was to a gorge in the Blue Ridge called the Hickory Nut Gap. How it came by that name I cannot imagine, since the forests in this particular region, so far as I could ascertain, are almost entirely destitute of the hickory tree. It is true that for a distance of four miles the gorge is watered by a brook called after the hickory nut, but I take it that this name is a borrowed one.

The entire length of the gap is about nine miles, and the last five miles are watered by the Rocky Broad River. The upper part of this stream runs between the Blue Ridge proper and a spur of the Blue Ridge, and at the point where it forces a channel through the spur its bed is exceedingly rocky, and on either hand, until it reaches the middle country of the State, it is protected by a series of mountain bluffs. That portion of the gorge which might be called the gateway is at the eastern extremity. From any point of view this particular spot is remarkably imposing, the gap being not more than half a mile wide, though appearing to narrow down to a few hundred yards.

The highest bluff is on the south side, and, though rising to the height of full twenty-five hundred feet, it is nearly perpendicular, and midway up its front stands an isolated rock, looming against the sky, which is of a circular form, and resembles the principal turret of a stupendous castle. The entire mountain is composed of granite, and a large proportion of the bluff in question positively hangs over the abyss beneath, and is as smooth as it could possibly be made by the rains of uncounted centuries. Over one portion of this superb cliff, falling far down into some undiscovered and apparently unattainable pool, is a stream of water, which seems to be the offspring of the clouds; and in a neighboring brook near the base of this precipice are three shooting waterfalls, at the foot of which, formed out of the solid stone, are three holes, which are about ten feet in diameter and measure from forty to fifty feet in depth. But, leaving these remarkable features entirely out of the question, the mountain scenery in this vicinity is as beautiful and fantastic as any I have yet witnessed among the Alleghanies.

At a farm-house near the gap, where I spent a night, I had the pleasure of meeting an English gentleman and tourist, and he informed me that, though he had crossed the Alps in a number of places, yet he had never seen any mountain scenery which he thought as beautiful as that of the Hickory Nut Gap. My best view of the gorge was from the eastward, and just as the sun, with a magnificent retinue of clouds, was sinking directly in the hollow of the hills, and as I gazed upon the prospect, it seemed to me, as was in reality the case, that I stood at the very threshold of an almost boundless wilderness of mountains….

[ Note: An earlier story regarding Hickory Nut Gorge included a continuation of this report from Lanman: https://heartofthecowees.blogspot.com/2024/03/little-people-guarded-hickory-nut-gorge.html ]

Fire on the Mountain

 [From April 4, 2008]

Rumbling Bald Mountain, ca. 1940, Hans Curt Pfalzgraf Collection, D.H. Ramsey Library, Special Collections, University of North Carolina at Asheville 28804

Had you picked up the edition of the New York Times published on this date in 1874, you could have read of a "third-rate hoax" in Western North Carolina, the Bald Mountain Volcano. 

Starting in February 1874, stories spread concerning earthquakes in the Hickory Nut Gorge near Chimney Rock. By calling it a hoax, the Times was contradicting a story it had reported just a couple of weeks earlier:

RALEIGH, NC, March 17 – Passengers from the west on this morning’s train confirm the reports of the rumbling noises and the general upheaving of the Bald Mountain in Western Carolina. People living on and near the mountain are moving out, and a volcanic eruption is momentarily expected.

Despite the eyewitness accounts, the subsequent New York Times story that appeared on April 4, 1874 dismissed it as an old legend:

From Our Own Correspondent.
RICHMOND, VA., Friday, March 27, 1874.

The Bald Mountain Volcano, of North Carolina, has been regarded as a third-rate hoax here from the publication of the first sensational rumors in regard to it. The truth is, doubtless, that this new sensation is but the revival of an old tradition, derived from the Indians, that Bald Mountain was once, in very remote times, a volcano, and hence that absence of vegetation which has given it its name.

The Indian legend is to the effect that a certain tribe living at the foot of Bald Mountain was annually afflicted by the visit of a huge bird of prey, that made his eyrie on the summit of the mountain, and that on every visit seized and carried away with him a child of the tribe. The annual affliction had been undergone for a long series of years, when a great chief and medicine-man arose, and, just before the time for the next annual visit of the bird, began to preach a crusade against the common enemy. He adjured the warriors, as they were brave men and loving fathers, no longer to submit to the depredations of the bird, but to march against him and destroy him or be destroyed.

Thus aroused, the men of the tribe swore to follow the chief in the desperate venture, and, placing their squaws and children in a place of safety, they encircled the base of the mountain and began the ascent, resolved to kill the bird at all hazards and at every cost. The mountain was then clothed in rank vegetation – mighty forest-trees thickly undergrown by a tangled wilderness, that made the progress upward very painful and difficult. But the determined tribe persevered until, nearing the top of the mountain, what was their horror to perceive that it was not merely one tremendous bird they had to encounter and destroy, but a countless number of the fierce creatures, clustering in ferocious masses all over the higher portions of the mountain.

At this despair overcame them, for they at once recognized how impossible it would be for them to overcome and exterminate so many of the winged monsters, and they threw themselves down upon their faces, expecting the birds to rush down upon them and destroy them. At this moment their leader raised high his voice to the Great Spirit for their deliverance, and in answer to his prayer vivid lightnings sprang from every quarter of the cloudless sky, without a sound of thunder, slaying the birds to the last one, riving the forest-trees, and wrapping the whole mountain-top in flames, that soon swept from it every trace of vegetation. Thus were the monstrous birds of prey destroyed, the mountain made bald, and the tribe delivered. The anniversary of the deliverance was perpetually celebrated by the tribe, and the tradition I have just related handed down from one generation to another.

In this tradition lurks the true story, doubtless, of either the original formation of the ridge known as the Bald Mountains, or of an eruption which occurred many years ago.

So concludes the New York Times report from this date in 1874. But that does not conclude the mystery of the Bald Mountain Volcano. In May 1874, the Honorable Thomas Lanier Clingman weighed in before the Washington Philosophical Society to discuss Rumbling Bald Mountain and other seismic phenomena of Western North Carolina.

But that’s another story for another day...

'Little People' Guarded Hickory Nut Gorge

 [Here's one of the stories I wrote for Smoky Mountain Living.  The article appeared in the April 2018 edition of the magazine.]

Hickory Nut Gap was one of the few passes to the east for the Cherokee, a gateway they believed was guarded by magical little people.

Geology and hydrology go a long way toward explaining the rugged landscape of the Hickory Nut Gorge, southeast of Asheville. But science can only go so far toward helping us understand the mystique of that area.

When the writer and artist Charles Lanman traveled the Southern Appalachians in 1848, he spent time among the Cherokee.  From them, he learned how the ancients brought back tobacco through the Hickory Nut Gorge. Said Lanman, “I heard it from the lips of a chief who glories in the two names of All Bones and Flying Squirrel, and occupied no less than two hours in telling the story.”

Long, long ago, a wandering stranger from the east introduced tobacco to the Cherokee. They grew quite fond of smoking the sacred herb from their large stone pipes. When the supply dwindled, they were anxious to obtain more tobacco. This herb of the distant past was not the common tobacco of commerce in later times, Nicotiana tabacum, but a wild form, Nicotiana rustica. The Cherokee used the plant for many ritual and medicinal purposes, as a sacred incense, as a guarantee of any solemn oath, and as a means of seeking omens or driving away witches and evil spirits.

Traveling from the mountains to the flatlands where tobacco grew in abundance was no easy task. Hickory Nut Gap was one of the few passes to the east, gateway to the most direct route for finding the plant.

Unfortunately, the gap and the gorge were constantly guarded by a multitude of Little People and other spirit beings. Whatever Chief Flying Squirrel might have said about the Little People, Lanman omitted from his retelling. Ethnographer James Mooney, in the course of his work among the Cherokee decades later, collected many accounts of the Little People. These creatures, known as Yunwi Tsunsdi in the Cherokee language, lived in rock caves on the sides of mountains. Small of stature, they barely reached up to a man’s knee, they were well-proportioned and they had hair so long it almost touched the ground. With a strong affection for music, they spent half their time drumming and dancing.

Ordinarily, they were helpful and generous, and had been known to lead lost children back to their parents. But the Little People did not like to be disturbed at home and would cast spells over strangers who discovered their habitations. The hapless intruders, bewitched and bewildered, were doomed to wander about in a daze forever after.

Hickory Nut Gorge was one of the places the Little People considered their own, and they wielded many magical powers to expel trespassers. For the Cherokee, a journey through the gorge was essential for bringing back the tobacco they craved. The wise men of the nation held council to discuss the challenge, knowing that extreme peril faced anyone bringing even a knapsack full of tobacco through the gorge.

One young man, determined to prove himself, stepped forward to volunteer for the mission. Full of confidence, the young warrior departed, never to return.

With their stores of tobacco almost exhausted, the elders reconvened. This time a clever magician rose to offer his services, promising that he would find a way to bring back the tobacco and satisfy the demand for the weed.

The magician turned himself into a mole, a ploy which almost succeeded, until the guardian spirits detected his tunneling and chased him back home without any spoil.

Changing form again, the magician turned himself into a hummingbird, threading his way through the gorge. As a mere hummingbird, though, he could only carry a tiny amount of treasure.

His friends back home were at the point of death for want of tobacco. The magician filled a pipe with the small portion he had smuggled through, he blew the smoke into their nostrils, and they were all revived and happy.

The magician was quite certain he could do better. He vowed to avenge the loss of the young warrior and to gain sole possession of the tobacco growing beyond the gorge. This time he turned himself into a whirlwind. Spinning violently through Hickory Nut Gorge, the whirlwind stripped the trees and shrubs from the mountainsides, scattered huge boulders up and down the rivers and streams, and exposed the rock cliffs still visible from Hickory Nut Gap to Chimney Rock and Lake Lure.

The storm was so intense that all the Little People fled. Free from the interference of the spirit guards, the magician searched and searched until he found the bones of the young warrior in the river bed and brought him back to life. The two of them returned home to the mountains heavily laden with tobacco. Ever since that time, tobacco has been plentiful throughout the land of the Cherokee, and Hickory Nut Gorge has never been the same.

[Addendum – Immediately after re-posting this article, I came across additional information which warrants mention.]

The observation of “little people’ was not unique to the Cherokee, but was spoken of by native people and European settlers in many parts of North America.  To cite one example, the Crow Indians spoke of little people in Montana’s Pryor Mountains.  These were fierce beings who guarded the mountain passes and had a strong craving for tobacco. 

While in South Dakota in August of 1804, the Lewis and Clark expeditioners were cautioned to avoid the little people who inhabited that area.  William Clark wrote:  

In my absence the Boat Passed a Small river Called by the Indians White Stone River [Vermillion River].  This river is about 30 yards wide and runs thro: a Plain & Prarie in its whole Course    In a northerley direction from the mouth of this Creek in an imence Plain a high Hill is Situated, and appears of a Conic form and by the different nations of Indians in this quarter is Suppose to be the residence of Deavels.    

That they are in human form with remarkable large heads and about 18 Inches high, that they are Very watchfull, and are arm'd with Sharp arrows with which they Can Kill at a great distance; they are Said to Kill all persons who are So hardy as to attempt to approach the hill; they State that tradition informs them that many Indians have Suffered by those little people and among others three Mahar men fell a Sacrefise to their murceyless fury not many years Since—    So much do the Maha, Souis, Ottoes and other neighbouring nations believe this fable that no Consideration is Suffecient to induce them to approach the hill.

A paper on the folklore of Canada’s Metis people  includes this note:

Albert Lightning says: “I have heard stories and read about the May-may-quay-so-wuk, known to the Cree as little people who live far under the ground, among rocky places, and under the water in marshy areas… Some say it was the task of the little people to record history and that their writings can be seen on rocks in the wilderness, yet no one can read them anymore.” In Diane Meili, Those Who Know: Profiles of Alberta’s Native Elders. Edmonton: NeWest Press, 1991: 80-81