Wednesday, May 17, 2023
Heart of the Cowees - A Wildflower Walk in May
Monday, May 15, 2023
The Locusts Are Blooming
![]() |
Black locust - Robinia pseudoacacia |
The black locust trees are blooming, a pretty sight. That fact is noted by connoisseurs of the light and delicate locust honey. Meanwhile, hopeful gardeners might cast an anxious glance at the trees if they put any stock in the old mountain saying – “a good locust bloom means a poor crop year.” The vigorous legume is nothing if not contradictory. Friend, foe, or both? A source of tough, durable wood, the tree can be a stubborn, aggressive and thorny pest. The genus, Robinia, is named for Jean Robin (1550-1629), herbalist to Henry IV of France and his son, Vespasian Robin (1579-1662), who first cultivated the locust tree in Europe. The black locust (Robinia pseudoacacia) was known as False Acacia and was naturalized in many countries for its ornamental qualities. After
struggling against locust for decades (and enduring the scratches to
prove it) I have to chuckle at the mental picture of Vespasian Robin
eagerly planting the locust trees brought back from the New
World. Of
course, a jar of locust honey, a pile of locust stakes, and the
beauty of their blooms are all worthy of admiration.
This
story of our current locust bloom was going to be short and sweet until I opened Stalking
the Wild Asparagus by
Euell Gibbons. On page 93, he shares a recipe for locust
blossom fritters,
and that set me to thinking about the word “fritter.” Euell Gibbons (1911-1975) Remember when a wild plant forager could become a national celebrity? Today's language lesson complete, let's return to Euell Gibbons' instructions for cooking up the flowers of Black Locust, or Wisteria or Elderberry Blow. “All
make delicious fritters,”
asserts
Mr. Gibbons.
Remove
the coarse stems and dip the clusters in a batter made of 1 cup of
flour, 1 tablespoon of sugar, I teaspoon of baking powder, 2 eggs and
½ cup of milk. Fry the dipped clusters in deep fat, heated to about
375 degrees for approximately 4 minutes, or until they are a golden
brown. Place them on a paper towel, squeeze a little orange juice
over them, then roll in granulated sugar, serve while they are piping
hot and watch them disappear.
|
Sunday, May 14, 2023
Mothers Day - Carnations and Cornbread
Mama always sent me to cut roses for “me and her” to wear to church on Mother’s Day.
“You wear a pink or red rose if your mother is living and a white rose if she has died,” Mama explained.
-Jaine Treadwell, writing in the The Troy Messenger
Growing up in a small Southern mill town I was indoctrinated in 1001 customs, traditions and niceties.
Not enough of it took.
I like to say that those social graces are essential to preserving our humanity and our civilization, both of which are in big trouble these days. But in practice, I have been negligent and inconsistent, with one exception. I have remained faithful to one of those life lessons from long, long ago: I have always remembered that the only place for cornbread batter is a sizzling hot cast-iron skillet.
On this day, with white flowers blooming all around, my memory turns to the same old tradition that Jaine Treadwell wrote about.

My mom, Mary Rose Eury, and me in 1960
Treadwell's story is my story. Sixty years ago, I heard the same explanation when my mother pinned a red rose to my lapel while we got ready for church on Mothers Day.
I’m curious if anyone still observes this little tradition. I wonder if it was just a southern thing. In any event, I hope it still happens somewhere, quaint practice though it may be.
For those whose roses are red, as for those whose carnations are white. Mothers Day is a good day for cornbread...as long as it's cooked up in a sizzling hot cast-iron skillet.
Don't forget!
Saturday, May 13, 2023
Heart of the Cowees - A Geographic Overview
Mountain scene in the Cowees
Close perusal of a topo map is a good way to launch this quest for the heart of the Cowees, in Jackson, Macon and Swain Counties, North Carolina. The Cowee Mountain range divides the watersheds of the Little Tennessee and Tuckasegee Rivers. Until the 1940s, those rivers converged at a point several miles west of Bryson City, North Carolina, but upon completion of the Fontana Dam, the point of their confluence is deep beneath the waters of the Fontana Lake.If we call this the “lower” end of the Cowee Range, then it would take a crow’s flight of about 35 miles to the southeast to reach the “upper” end of the range: Highway 64 between Cashiers and Highlands, NC passes through Cowee Gap. Specifically, the gap is where the boundary between Jackson and Macon Counties intersects with the Eastern Continental Divide (ECD).
On one side of the ECD, waters flow to the Atlantic, and on the other, waters flow to the Mississippi River and, ultimately, the Gulf of Mexico. Facing south from Cowee Gap, you can view the impressive Whiteside Mountain and the headwaters of the Chattooga River, in the Savannah River watershed.
Look northward from the ECD, and you’ll see upper reaches of the Tennessee Valley watershed. The headwaters of the Little Tennessee are to the west of the Cowee ridge, and the headwaters of the Tuckasegee are to the east.
The crest of the Cowee range is easy to follow on a map. Why? When Jackson County was carved out of Macon County in 1851, the new boundary followed the divide between the Little Tennessee and the Tuckasegee. I enjoy tracing this county border on a good topo map and reading the names along the dotted line that runs from peak to peak.
If only, I tell myself, if only a hiking trail followed this line. What a great adventure it would be to hike the full extent of the Cowee Crest, from Cowee Gap to Fontana Lake! The Nantahala National Forest includes vast swaths of the Cowees, but intervening tracts of private land would render the construction of a continuous ridegetop trail all but impossible. Still, it is fun to imagine how such a trail would have changed perceptions of the Cowee Mountains, and an “identity” for the range as a whole might have entered the public consciousness.
Fortunately, one well-maintained trail does wind along several miles of the Cowee ridge, leading to the highest point on the range at Yellow Mountain (5127’ elevation). This is arguably the best hike in the Cowee Mountains and is in the top tier of the most outstanding hikes in the entire Southern Appalachians.
There’s no better place than the historic fire lookout tower atop Yellow Mountain to contemplate the question, “Just what makes the Cowee Mountains the Cowee Mountains?” In subsequent installments, I’ll be proposing some possible answers to that question.
Wednesday, May 10, 2023
An 1879 Visit to Cherokee

Illustration from Heart of the Alleghanies
Writer Wilbur Gleason Zeigler (1857-1923) traveled west of the Balsams on May 10, 1879 and observed the area near Cherokee:
A great part of this hilly land away from the river is now under cultivation. Dismal young forests of field pine show that it had once been cleared, worked until worn out, and then left for nature to again train into its primitive wilderness. It reminded me of the dreary pine woods of the State next south of this. Nothing could look more lonesome than, surrounded by these pine fields, old, empty farm houses, one or two of which we passed, with dingy, weather-beaten sides, moss grown roofs, crumbling chimneys, gaping, sashless windows and doorless entrances. Not a domestic creature could be seen around them, and even the birds seemed to sing mournfully in the still flourishing orchards.
Zeigler later wrote about the conditions he had seen:
The question naturally comes up: why are these so many of these ugly blots, marked by scrubby pines, upon the face of an otherwise fair landscape? The answer is, indifferent farming, resulting, in a great many cases, from the ownership of too much land. There was no object in saving manures and ploughing deep, when the next tract lay in virgin soil, awaiting the axe, plough, and hoe.
Zeigler’s entry for May 10 also included this:
We were in Swain county. Fine farms of rich black soil lay on either side between the river and the environing mountains, which grew higher, steeper, wilder and closer together as we advanced. The farm houses were large, looked old fashioned in their simple style of architecture, ancient with the gray, unpainted exteriors, but homelike and cheerful, surrounded by their large, blossoming apple orchards.
(W. G. Zeigler, "On Foot Across the Mountains," May 10, 1879, Asheville Citizen, May 22, 1879)
Note - Zeigler, an Ohio lawyer, explored the mountains with fellow lawyer Ben S. Grosscup and they authored a splendid book, The Heart of the Alleghanies; or, Western North Carolina, published in 1883.
Tuesday, May 9, 2023
Life and Death Among the Weeds and Wildflowers
-Henry David Thoreau
Find the cost of freedom
Buried in the ground.
Mother Earth will swallow you.
Lay your body down.
-Stephen Stills

On December 17, 2008 I almost bought the farm. I was shooting pictures alongside Kephart Prong in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. While peering through the viewfinder, I heard a tremendous crash. Leaping back from the camera, I saw the enormous tree limb that had just fallen. Had I been standing 18 inches farther north at that moment, this would have been the last picture I ever took:

Oh well.
Not a bad one to go out on, actually. Unfortunately, if it had turned out that way, I’m certain that some clod would have resorted to the execrable cliché, "Waaallll, at least he died doing what he looooved."
Puh-leeze. Can we retire that comforting observation from our box of tools for making sense of life and death?
I was mulling this over the other evening while feeling particularly blissful. I had just tracked down a patch of pink lady slippers and was being serenaded by thousands of frogs while the moon was glowing golden overhead. I was on a bridge overlooking what might be my favorite river on the planet.
This spring, I have delved into learning the wildflowers. With each foray into the woods, I’ve been kicking myself for waiting so long to get acquainted with the botanical diversity that graces these mountains. But as "civilization" becomes less appealing by the year, the natural world is increasingly attractive and hospitable. Flowers are a mighty fine portal to that realm.
I had intended to keep these thoughts to myself, but something odd happened this morning. I was thinking about Thoreau and wondering if he had made any pithy remarks about wildflowers. While researching it, I learned that Thoreau was buried on May 9, 1862. His coffin was covered with wildflowers as it was lowered into the ground of Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, Concord, Massachusetts.
Beyond the coincidence of the May 9 date, I discovered another coincidence. A well-known passage from Ralph Waldo Emerson’s eulogy to Thoreau includes a reference to the lady slipper (Cypripedium):
It was a pleasure and a privilege to walk with him. He knew the country like a fox or a bird, and passed through it as freely by paths of his own. He knew every track in the snow or on the ground, and what creature had taken this path before him. One must submit abjectly to such a guide, and the reward was great. Under his arm he carried an old music-book to press plants; in his pocket, his diary and pencil, a spy-glass for birds, microscope, jack-knife and twine. He wore a straw hat, stout shoes, strong gray trousers, to brave scrub-oaks and smilax, and to climb a tree for a hawk's or a squirrel's nest. He waded into the pool for the water-plants, and his strong legs were no insignificant part of his armor. On the day I speak of he looked for the Menyanthes, detected it across the wide pool, and, on examination of the florets, decided that it had been in flower five days. He drew out of his breast-pocket his diary, and read the names of all the plants that should bloom on this day, whereof he kept account as a banker when his notes fall due. The Cypripedium not due till to-morrow. He thought that, if waked up from a trance, in this swamp, he could tell by the plants what time of the year it was within two days.
On that latter point about Thoreau, Emerson probably got it right. Neither one of them, however, could have anticipated a complicating factor announced by researchers in 2008:
As reported in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences (PNAS, November 4, 2008, vol. 105, pgs., 17029–17033), was that, on average, around Walden Pond plants are indeed flowering about a week earlier than they were during Thoreau’s time, coincident with local warming of about 4.3°F over the past 100 years. But hidden in that "average" are exactly which plants are doing well and which ones are not. A disproportionately large number of weedy, non-native species are the ones blooming earlier; these plants seem to have the genetic and behavioral flexibility to take advantage of those earlier warmer temperatures and blast out their flowers, getting an early start on reproduction. But the charismatic wildflowers—things like buttercups, anemones and asters, dogwoods, lilies, orchids, St. John’s worts, violets, and others are losing out. For whatever reason, they seem not to have the ability to move their flowering clock forward to get a jump on spring.

In the eulogy, Emerson did reveal a bit about Thoreau’s take on weeds:
"See these weeds," he said, "which have been hoed at by a million farmers all spring and summer, and yet have prevailed, and just now come out triumphant over all lanes, pastures, fields and gardens, such is their vigor. We have insulted them with low names, too,—as Pigweed, Wormwood, Chickweed, Shad-blossom." He says, "They have brave names, too,—Ambrosia, Stellaria, Amelanchier, Amaranth, etc."
Re-reading Emerson, I realize how little I have to say, when Emerson has already said so much in his inimitable manner. So, here are a few more excerpts from his tribute to Thoreau, who was buried 147 years ago today.
His interest in the flower or the bird lay very deep in his mind, was connected with Nature,—and the meaning of Nature was never attempted to be defined by him. He would not offer a memoir of his observations to the Natural History Society. "Why should I? To detach the description from its connections in my mind would make it no longer true or valuable to me: and they do not wish what belongs to it." His power of observation seemed to indicate additional senses. He saw as with a microscope, heard as with ear-trumpet, and his memory was a photographic register of all he saw and heard. And yet none knew better than he that it is not the fact that imports, but the impression or effect of the fact on your mind. Every fact lay in glory in his mind, a type of the order and beauty of the whole.
His determination on Natural History was organic. He confessed that he sometimes felt like a hound or a panther, and, if born among Indians, would have been a fell hunter. But, restrained by his Massachusetts culture, he played out the game in this mild form of botany and ichthyology. His intimacy with animals suggested what Thomas Fuller records of Butler the apiologist, that "either he had told the bees things or the bees had told him." Snakes coiled round his legs; the fishes swam into his hand, and he took them out of the water; he pulled the woodchuck out of its hole by the tail, and took the foxes under his protection from the hunters. Our naturalist had perfect magnanimity; he had no secrets: he would carry you to the heron's haunt, or even to his most prized botanical swamp,—possibly knowing that you could never find it again, yet willing to take his risks.
He was equally interested in every natural fact. The depth of his perception found likeness of law throughout Nature, and I know not any genius who so swiftly inferred universal law from the single fact. He was not pedant of a department. His eye was open to beauty, and his ear to music. He found these, not in rare conditions, but wheresoever he went. He thought the best of music was in single strains; and he found poetic suggestion in the humming of the telegraph-wire.
He had many elegancies of his own, whilst he scoffed at conventional elegance. Thus, he could not bear to hear the sound of his own steps, the grit of gravel; and therefore never willingly walked in the road, but in the grass, on mountains and in woods. His senses were acute, and he remarked that by night every dwelling-house gives out bad air, like a slaughter-house. He liked the pure fragrance of meliot. He honored certain plants with special regard, and, over all, the pond-lily,—then, the gentian, and the Mikania scandens, and "life-everlasting," and a bass-tree which he visited every year when it bloomed, in the middle of July. He thought the scent a more oracular inquisition than the sight,—more oracular and trustworthy. The scent, of course, reveals what is concealed from the other senses. By it he detected earthiness. He delighted in echoes, and said they were almost the only kind of kindred voices that he heard. He loved Nature so well, was so happy in her solitude, that he became very jealous of cities and the sad work which their refinements and artifices made with man and his dwelling. The axe was always destroying his forest. "Thank God," he said, "they cannot cut down the clouds!" "All kinds of figures are drawn on the blue ground with this fibrous white paint."
There is a flower known to botanists, one of the same genus with our summer plant called "Life-Everlasting," a Gnaphalium like that, which grows on the most inaccessible cliffs of the Tyrolese mountains, where the chamois dare hardly venture, and which the hunter, tempted by its beauty, and by his love (for it is immensely valued by the Swiss maidens), climbs the cliffs to gather, and is sometimes found dead at the foot, with the flower in his hand. It is called by botanists the Gnaphalium leontopodium, but by the Swiss Edelweiss, which signifies Noble Purity. Thoreau seemed to me living in the hope to gather this plant, which belonged to him of right. The scale on which his studies proceeded was so large as to require longevity, and we were the less prepared for his sudden disappearance. The country knows not yet, or in the least part, how great a son it has lost. It seems an injury that he should leave in the midst of his broken task which none else can finish, a kind of indignity to so noble a soul that he should depart out of Nature before yet he has been really shown to his peers for what he is. But he, at least, is content. His soul was made for the noblest society; he had in a short life exhausted the capabilities of this world; wherever there is knowledge, wherever there is virtue, wherever there is beauty, he will find a home.
It was getting late. I was ready to head back home and check out the pictures I'd taken. I got into the car, stepped on the gas, grabbed a random cassette and popped it in the player.
Traveling music.
Hmmm....
Disco.
Thumpp-uhh -Thumpp-uhh-Thumpp-uhh-Thumpp-uhh
Well now, I get low and I get high,
And if I can't get either, I really try.
Got the wings of heaven on my shoes.
I'm a dancin' man and I just can't lose.
You know it's all right. It's ok.
I'll live to see another day.
We can try to understand
The New York Times effect on man.
Whether you're a brother or whether you're a mother,
You're stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Feel the city breakin' and everybody shakin',
And we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive.
Saturday, May 6, 2023
How to Grow Prize-winning Corn
Joseph Cathey was a well-read merchant, miller and farmer at the Forks of the Pigeon in Haywood County. May 6, 1853, he planted “a 16 rowed yellow corn that grows with small and low stock and ripens early, has a small cob but rather a deep grain, and shells out well from the ear.”
He had soaked the seed in “drippings of stable manure, with copperas and salt petre dissolved in it.” Cathey believed that the result of the soaking was “to prevent the moles from eating it, as they run in the ground considerably, but they never interrupted the corn as I could see.”
Cathey was competing in the Indian Corn Sweepstakes of the North Carolina Agricultural Society, to see who could grow the most bushels on one acre of reclaimed land. Cathey would take second place, with 101 bushels. The winner, from Buncombe County, was Nicholas Woodfin, who harvested 149 bushels and three quarts with the ears averaging seven and one-half inches long. Woodfin spared no expense to prepare the soil on his Buncombe County farm, applying plaster, ashes, and hundreds of wagon loads of muck and manure to enrich the ground.
Woodfin and Cathey achieved remarkable yields in spite of the drought in 1853. As Cathey noted, “the corn came up and grew well, until the 8th or 10th of July, when the drought, which had lasted then for about six weeks, began to affect it very much, and the drought continued for 2 weeks longer.” He went on to say, “The soil was a light poor sandy quality, and I believe that this dry year, without manure, it would not have made more than 8 or 10 bushels of corn.”
In earlier years, Cathey’s neighbors encouraged him to seek political office. After his 1842-44 service as State Senator, Cathey chose to step out of the political spotlight in favor of his entrepreneurial, community, and family life in the Upper Pigeon Valley of Haywood County.
Later, by 1860, Colonel Cathey was a Unionist who felt that newly elected Abraham Lincoln should be given a chance to carry out his promises not to abolish slavery and to promote compromise within the Union. Cathey was finally forced to declare for secession when President Lincoln asked the states to provide troops to “coerce” South Carolina back into the Union after they fired on Fort Sumter. Cathey knew, too that if North Carolina remained in the Union, it would be surrounded by states that had seceded.
Although there were no schools in Haywood County during his childhood, he was taught to read and do mathematical calculations. That Cathey was a learned man was evident from the multiple correspondences he carried on throughout his life. He was tutored in penmanship since he wrote in an elegant Spencerian style of handwriting.
Cathey’s meticulous daybooks and ledgers record transactions made at both his mill and his store and indicate an educated and organized mind. The oldest ledger available, dated 1849-1853, is a detailed book containing the names of his patrons, dates of transactions, lists of the exact items purchased, quantity, price, and balances on any accounts.
Cathey endured difficulties during and after the Civil War. He lost two sons, two sons-in-law, and a number of friends to the Civil War, and then on the night of August 14, 1869, Cathey’s mill burned down. The miller, George Bryson and his wife perished in the fire. They were buried in the slave cemetery across from the home Dred Blalock started building in 1860 for Colonel Joe Cathey’s son, Joseph Turner Cathey. It was rumored that the friends or family of a Confederate widow, who suspected Cathey of keeping money her husband had sent her, burned down the mill.
The restored Francis Grist Mill, just a few miles up the road from the site of Cathey’s mill.
Thursday, May 4, 2023
Letter from Webster
[A serious longitudinal study of letters to the editor would reveal a great deal about changes in American culture. When reading LTEs these days, the term “more heat than light” comes to mind, in contrast to this example from the past.]
May 4, 1889
Nearly all the farmers have taken their cattle to the mountain range, have sheared their sheep and ‘turned them to the woods,’ and now have little feeding to do, excepting their work horses and mules. We are all about done planting corn, and I think the land for that crop has been better prepared for planting than it usually is. Our oats, sown on clay land are doing no good, on account of dry cool weather. Some farmers are talking about plowing them up and planting in corn. Wheat is looking very promising and will be a good crop if nothing occurs in the future to injure it.
I think the freeze last night ruined our prospects for peaches, apples and grapes. The clover fields are looking fine, especially where land plaster has been sown on the clover. I am glad to see the farmers sowing more clover, and using plaster to nourish it. I am satisfied that this is one of our best means for renovating the upland fields; and I am further satisfied that we have a soil in this community, well adapted to the production of clover, if we will but study and practice the proper mode for its culture and management.
– A. J. Long, Sr., Near Webster, N. C. (letter to the editor of the Tuckasegee Democrat newspaper)
Later that month, Mr. Long realized that the fruit crops were not as severely damaged as he had feared, and he also mentioned the thermal belt, a concept brought to prominence by Macon County’s Silas McDowell:
“Mr. Editor: Two weeks ago I gave it as my opinion that all the fruit about Webster was killed by the frost, but observations since have convinced me of my mistake. I find now, that in all the orchards (unforeseen contingencies excepted) there will be some peaches and out on the high lands, near the thermal belt, there will be abundance of both peaches and apples. I notice that the peach and damson trees in Webster are full of fruit; and I can see that the people in town are flattering themselves, that they will yet, have a peach pie this summer. … A. J. Long, Sr. Near Webster, May 20th, 1889″