Swindled!

From the diary of Lt. John Phelps, serving in Cherokee County, NC during Cherokee removal

Thursday 21st June 1838

On the 12th inst the Regiment with the exception of one company left camp under the command of Col. Fanning, and marched out among the mountains five or six miles to the east. Some of the Indians were already coming in, and being informed that many of them were collecting at a place of worship of theirs, seven companies of us marched thither and bivouacked. By night fall about a hundred had assembled, and when the camp was hushed they held a prayer meeting. They are of the Baptist persuasion.

A mural by artist Elizabeth Janes depicts the arrival of the Cherokee Nation in Oklahoma in the 1830s. Painted from 1938-39, the 8-by-15-foot mural is on display at the Oklahoma Historical Society in Oklahoma City. (Image courtesy Oklahoma Historical Society)

One of them opened his prayer by saying that it was probably the last time that they should ever meet at their wonted place of worship; but he exhorted them and prayed that they might not be led astray in the western wilderness.

The twilight was gleaming faintly upon the old hills about them, where they had strayed when young, and formed their earliest and dearest associations; they had left their homes, their neat gardens and fields, their stock and poultry, as tho’ they were going to church, and even thus were they to set out upon their journey for the land from which they expected nothing but sickness and death.

Some of their people as well as whites had returned from that country, and told them that it was very unhealthy. But they must leave their solubrious hills and go to it, tho’ they had never given their consent; they had been belied by one who professed to teach the religious whose rites they were celebrating. The Occasion was deeply affecting, and Indians tho’ they were, the congregation were all in tears. They sung some appropriate hymns and then retired.

As the ceremonies were conducted in Cherokee I was obliged to rely upon an interpreter for what little information I could get concerning their import. It was with much difficulty that he could express the substance of the prayers, tho’ he said that they made one feel quite smart, by which I was pleased to understand that they were thrilling even to him. The next day several whites came about in order to get claims on their property.

The manner in which they had been cheated was various and the cases were numerous. For instance, a white would purchase their improvements, get a deed signed by creditable witnesses, pay a dollar or two down, and promise to pay the remainder when they started for the west. This would be the last of it.

But in general their property was wrested from them with less ceremony than this. It was in vain that we told them not to trust to the whites, that the government would fairly compensate them for every thing that they abandoned; they preferred to make sure of one tenth even of the value of their property than to rely upon the promises of the government which had cheated them more cruelly than the individuals who were prowling among them.

Timberlake Map of 1762

 [From 6/14/2007]

In the spring of 1761 Lieutenant Henry Timberlake kept notes of his time among the Overhills Cherokee (eastern Tennessee). This is an account of his visit to the village of Settico:

About 100 yards from the town-house we were received by a body of between three and four hundred Indians, ten or twelve of which were entirely naked, except for a piece of cloth about their middle, and painted all over in a hideous manner, six of them with eagles tails in their hands, which they shook and flourished as they advanced, danced in a very uncommon figure, singing in concert with some drums of their own make, and those of the late unfortunate Capt. Demere; with several other instruments, uncouth beyond description. Chuelah, the headman of the town led the procession, painted blood-red, except his face, which was half black, holding an old rusty broad-sword in his right hand, and an eagle’s tail in his left.

We then proceeded to the door, where Chuelah, and one of the beloved men, taking me by each arm, led me in, and seated me in one of the first seats; it was so dark that nothing was perceptible till a fresh supply of canes were brought, which being burnt in the middle of the house answers both purposes of fuel and candle. I then discovered about five hundred faces; and Cheulah addressing me a second time made some professions of friendship, concluding with giving me another string of beads, as a token of it.

He had scarce finished, when four of those who had exhibited at the procession made their second appearance, painted milk-white, their eagle-tails in one hand, and small goards with beads in them in the other, which they rattled in time with the music. During this dance the peace-pipe was prepared; the bowl of it was red stone, curiously cut with a knife, it being very soft, tho' extremely pretty when polished. The stem is about three feet long, finely adorned with porcupine quills, dyed feathers, deers hair, and such like guady trifles.

After I had performed my part with this, I was almost suffocated with the pipes presented me on every hand, which I dared not to decline. They might amount to about 170 or 180; which made me so sick, that I could not stir for several hours.

The Indians entertained me with another dance, at which I was detained till about seven o’clock next morning, when I was conducted to the house of Chucatah, then second in command, to take some refreshment.

Soon after this, Timberlake prepared his famous map of 1762, shown here next to a contemporary Google Earth image.

The left side of the map is north.

At lower right, the Tellico River meets the Little Tennessee.

At upper left, Chilhowee Mountain.

Trading paths from Virginia and from Charleston, SC converged just down-river from Settico, located on the south bank of the Little Tennessee.

(Click on either image to enlarge)

To Learn a Fern (Aarnivalkea)

 [From June 27, 2010]

When I went out walking the other day, I brushed up against four or five different types of ferns within the space of fifty yards.



I was ready to return with my fern book and finally start learning their identities, yet I didn’t realize how little I know about ferns.

Maidenhair Fern, April 23, 2010.

I figured that the distinctive silhouettes of the fern fronds would be enough to arrive at a positive ID, but no. In many cases, you have to turn the fern and study the pattern of bumps, called sori, on the underside of the leaf.

A sorus (pl. sori) is a cluster of sporangia.

In ferns, these form a yellowish or brownish mass on the edge or underside of a fertile frond. In some species, they are protected during development by a scale or film of tissue called the indusium, which forms an umbrella-like cover.

Dicksonia antarctica. Picture taken by DanielCD on 17 May 2005. Picture is of the underside of a fern frond. It shows a fertile frond which is covered with sori (sing. sorus)
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:SoriDicksonia.jpg

Sori occur on the sporophyte generation, the sporangia within producing haploid meiospores. As the sporongia mature, the indusium shrivels so that spore release is unimpeded. The sporangia then burst and release the spores.

The shape, arrangement, and location of the sori are often valuable clues in the identification of fern taxa. Sori may be circular or linear. They may be arranged in rows, either parallel or oblique to the costa, or randomly. Their location may be marginal or set away from the margin on the frond lamina. The presence or absence of indusium is also used to identify fern taxa.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sorus

The best time to identify ferns is when the sori are fully developed. Here’s one more description of what to look for:

Many ferns bear their spore cases (also known as sporangia, sori, or fruit-dots) on the undersides of some of the leaflets—turn over the leaves and look for small dots, often brown. Other species have separate stems devoted to holding spore cases. These structures have fertile leaves that usually look like miniature versions of the larger plant but later turn brown and curly.

Identification of many of the twice-compound species requires examining placement of spore cases; comparison of sizes, shapes, veining patterns, and numbers of leaflets; and other meticulous evaluations, which obsessive botanists usually enjoy.

Read more at Suite101: How to Identify Ferns: Primitive and Beautiful Plants of Woods and Meadows http://botany.suite101.com/article.cfm/how_to_identify_ferns#ixzz0rvFoo332

Sori (containing spores) on the underside of a curling Polypodium fern.
Catskill Mountains, New York, USA
http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Fern_Sori.JPG

I had already been contemplating the fractal* quality of ferns, even before stumbling onto the bit about spore cases with leaves that resemble the larger plant.

[*Fractals being processes or images that exhibit something called self-similarity, something made up of a reduced version of itself.]

Trees and ferns are fractal in nature and can be modeled on a computer by using a recursive algorithm. This recursive nature is obvious in these examples—a branch from a tree or a frond from a fern is a miniature replica of the whole: not identical, but similar in nature.

The connections between fractals and leaves are currently being used to determine how much carbon is contained in trees.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fractal#cite_note-4

Barnsley's fern computed using an iterated function system

I haven’t been back to the ferns, but I’ll find them in due time. I still don’t know much, but more than I did before.

Two lessons, for now.

One, when you look at a fern, you’re looking at mathematics in action.

And two, always look on the underside of the leaf!

The Great Smoky Mountains All Taxa Biodiversity Inventory reports 53 species of ferns representing the Pteridophyta division of plants (within the national park).
http://www.dlia.org/atbi/species/Plantae/Pteridophyta/index.shtml

Finally, as if that’s not enough reason to go out and learn a fern, there’s this:

Finnish tradition holds that one who finds the "seed" of a fern in bloom on Midsummer night will, by possession of it, be guided and be able to travel invisibly to the locations where eternally blazing Will o' the wisps called aarnivalkea mark the spot of hidden treasure. These spots are protected by a spell that prevents anyone but the fern-seed holder from ever knowing their locations.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fern

Peacocks on Pigeon River

[From June 17, 2008]

Two books about Western North Carolina, both published in 1913, are still in print: Horace Kephart’s Our Southern Highlanders, and Margaret Morley’s The Carolina Mountains. I suppose that the arbiters of taste in such matters favor Kephart’s book by a wide margin, and I can understand why it has aged well despite its shortcomings. Morley indulged in flowery prose that was fashionable in its time, but turns off most modern readers. I like it, though. Her chapter on The Forks of the Pigeon River showcased her talent for describing mountain scenery, and you could do much worse than to read it while traveling from Canton to Cold Mountain.

An episode on the Little East Fork of the Pigeon demonstrated how Morley’s high-flown idealism was at odds with the gritty reality of mountain life. Morley was surprised to encounter a gang of peacocks:

When we admired them with a sort of anticipatory pleasure in the time to come, when peacocks will sun themselves on the walls of the charming gardens that charming people will make here, we were brought violently to earth by learning that the real value of the peacock is in its superiority to chicken meat.

As with almost any outsider writing about Appalachia, Morley starts skating on thin ice when she gets into social commentary. Though not as guilty of condescension and caricature as the parade of writers that preceded her to these mountains, Morley adopts a certain tone in discussing “the mountaineer” that some might find objectionable. On the other hand, she was witness to a period of social, environmental and economic change in the mountains not unlike our own. This passage caught my attention because it hints at the complexities of what we call “property rights”:

The mountain people are many of them poor and ignorant, but the ill-clad man, who to the city visitor may look like a vagabond, is not to be treated as such; he knows some things the fine-appearing stranger does not know, and is well aware of the fact. The mountaineer is very old-fashioned, so old-fashioned that he values native shrewdness above what he calls "book-larnin"'; so old-fashioned that he thinks his neighbors as good as himself, and himself as good as his neighbors, irrespective of who has the biggest cornfield; and so old-fashioned that he believes progress to be a menace against his personal freedom, a thing to be combated at every point.

His long-continued, almost communal life in a free wilderness, where every one had a right to do what he pleased, — hunting, fishing, pasturing, even cutting down trees wherever it happened to suit his convenience, — made for him the acceptance of other ideas of property rights peculiarly difficult. He gladly sold his land to the newcomer whose slaughter of the forests he understood, but if the purchaser, instead of destroying, tried to preserve the forest land, prohibiting, burning-over, pasturing, and common use of the territory — then there was trouble. Also the inalienable right to hunt and fish when and where he pleased was a part of the faith of the mountaineer, whose long sojourn in the wilderness had ingrained in him primitive ideas which the gradual filling-up of the country did not change, although his methods were rapidly exterminating both fish and game animals.

Morley came to the mountains from the intellectual circles of New England. She settled into the artists’ colony of Tryon after she had already gained some notoriety in Victorian America for writing sex-education books for children. She must have been an object of curiosity, traveling difficult mountain terrain in the cumbersome clothing of her time, and taking amazing photographs along the way. It’s likely she was an object of scorn for being a part of the invasion that she derided. Even so, I find something timeless and hopeful in the words she left us:

For Nature is long-suffering and very kind, so kind, indeed, that in moments of discouragement one has only to remember that even if the worst were to happen, and these beautiful mountains become devastated by ignorant invaders, when the time came, as come it would, that the profaner depart, nature would begin anew her beneficent task of creating beauty.



East Fork of the Pigeon, oil, 16"x20"

Kep' and Kelly

[From 6/28/2007]

 

Been to any good cemeteries lately? I rank "exploring cemeteries" right up there with "reading the dictionary" on my list of most fun things to do. Way up there. Really.

Just the other day, I took a stroll around the Bryson City Cemetery on Schoolhouse Hill and discovered something quite remarkable about the place. I don’t know of any other cemetery from which you can view, not one, but two mountain peaks named after people buried in the cemetery.

Both individuals so recognized played significant roles in the establishment of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. "The Apostle of the Smokies", Kelly Bennett (1890-1974) was a local pharmacist, a mayor of Bryson City and an enthusiastic booster when the Park was proposed in the 1920s. Looking toward the west from his grave, you’ll see Kelly Bennett Peak.

Just a few feet away lies Horace Kephart (1862-1931), a Saint Louis librarian and writer who came to the mountains more than a century ago. His story of life in the Smokies, Our Southern Highlanders, is a classic of Appalachian literature.

If you look toward the high ridge of distant mountains northeast of town, you can pick out Mount Kephart, named in his honor just a couple of months prior to his death in 1931.

Edison in the Smokies

[From May 15, 2007]

 

101 years ago, Thomas Edison spent a few days in Jackson County (NC) examining cobalt deposits for a storage battery that he was developing. It was not the last trip that Edison would make to the mountains.

His camping trips with Henry Ford, Harvey Firestone, John Burroughs and others notables are legendary. The old photo [above] shows the “vagabonds” camping (and shaving) in the Smokies in 1918. Left to right: Henry Ford, Bishop William F. Anderson, Harvey Firestone (stooping). Thomas A. Edison and President Warren G. Harding

One tale of the campers’ adventures is re-told by Patricia Zacharias of The Detroit News :

En route to a new campsite on a rainy day, the Lincoln touring car carrying Harding, Ford, Edison, Firestone and naturalist Luther Burbank bogged down in deep mud on a back road in West Virginia.

Ford's chauffeur went for help and returned with a farmer driving an ancient Model T. After the Lincoln was yanked from the mire, Ford was the first to shake the farmer's hand.

"I guess you don't know me but I'm Henry Ford. I made the car you're driving."

Firestone chimed in, "I'm the man who made those tires." Then he introduced two of the campers: "Meet the man who invented the electric light -- and the President of the United States."

Luther Burbank was the last to shake hands. "I guess you don't know me either?" he asked.

"No," said the farmer, "but if you're the same kind of liar as these other darn fools, I wouldn't be surprised if you said you was Santa Claus."

The Amazing Spiderwort

 [From June 12, 2009]

It has been great fun to get more acquainted with wildflowers this year. I only regret that I’ve waited so long to give them the attention they deserve. The past couple of weeks had been a fairly slow time for finding new flowers. As the trees leafed out and the forest canopy closed, the early spring flowers deep in the woods have faded.

Now, it’s time to look elsewhere. This week, a flower hunter could do worse than to look alongside the Blue Ridge Parkway from Balsam Gap to Waterrock Knob. Rhododendrons and flame azaleas are hard to miss, even if you’re zipping past at 45 MPH. But anyone who gets out and takes the time to look will find lots and lots of smaller flowers blooming. I’m still culling from a couple of hundred photos I took there this week.

The spiderwort, one of the few flowers I could have identified before this year, is blooming in abundance. I enjoy taking macro shots, and even though a photographer might pass up the spiderwort for more charismatic flowers, it is a splendid subject if you stop and take a closer look. Generally speaking, bright sun is not the ideal condition for taking wildflower pictures. I’ve found, though, that with flowers that lend themselves to close-ups, the bright sun helps in achieving clear, sharp results. Predictably, this is less true for white flowers. For some reasons I don’t quite understand, yellow flowers are even more difficult to photograph well in bright light, at least in my experience. That’s not a problem with the blues and purples of the spiderworts.

I had known that the spiderwort was of particular interest to botanists although I had forgotten why. They have several notable characteristics:

-The plants are easily hybridized.

-Their cell structure makes it relatively easy to observe the flow of cytoplasmic fluid through the plant.

-Due to its large chromosomes, spiderwort is the plant of choice for viewing (under a microscope) cell division in the stamen hairs.

-Old petals don’t fall from the flower, as with most plants, but seem to melt due to certain enzymes.




One of the most curious traits of the spiderwort is its response to ionizing radiation, such as gamma rays. Upon exposure, the stamen hairs which are normally blue will turn purple or pink. So the plant is studied as a natural barometer of air pollution and radiation. Less than two weeks after contamination from low “safe” doses of radiation or hazardous chemicals the stamen hairs will start to mutate and change color. Since the spiderwort can absorb toxins and store them internally, it gives a more useful measure of the cumulative effect of contamination over time, compared to other means of measuring external and temporary levels of toxins.

Reportedly, the Cherokees used the spiderwort for food and medicine. The young leaves were eaten as salad greens. The plant was mashed into a paste and rubbed onto insect bites to relieve itching and pain. The roots were used in a poultice to treat cancer. A tea made from the plant was used as a laxative and for stomachaches.

If I have identified it correctly, the spiderwort I found in such abundance along the Parkway this week was the Mountain Spiderwort, Tradescantia subaspera var. montana. Fortunately, thanks to some prior study of the wildflower guide I had known to be alert for another member of the spiderwort family. Otherwise, I might have ignored the Commelina communis as more of the same. As with the Mountain Spiderwort, this plant has three petals, but it would be easy to assume that it is missing one. While two of the petals are blue (and bluer than the Mountain Spiderworts that I’ve seen) the third petal is smaller, white, and easily overlooked. Some people call this plant Mouse Flower since the two blue petals do resemble a pair of mouse ears. But it is better known as the Common Dayflower, which refers to the blooms lasting only one day before melting away.

Spiderwort

I always see my father's eyes as blue
When spiderwort comes up in spring. I saw
It first when no one in Nebraska knew
What name it had in Gray's old botany.

None but my father. He would leave his team,
Take down the book he'd sold the seed-corn for,
Scan page, and say: "That's spiderwort." In fall,
"Oh, no, not weeds. That's blazing star." I'm glad

Except for what my mother must endure,
He left us hungry, chased some wan, wild goose;
But told me names of shepherd's purse in spring
And tumble-weed and golden-rod in fall.

- Margaret E. Haughawout (1929)

Wild Strawberry Fields Forever

[From May 24, 2008]

Living is easy with eyes closed, misunderstanding all you see.

It's getting hard to be someone but it all works out.

It doesn't matter much to me.

Let me take you down, 'cause I'm going to Strawberry Fields.

Nothing is real and nothing to get hung about.

Strawberry Fields forever.

-The Beatles

Today, I spent a few hours mowing and was richly rewarded when I uncovered a bunch of wild strawberries. I switched off the lawnmower and gathered the tender fruit.

Whenever I taste a wild strawberry, I automatically think back to the time that William Bartram crossed the Cowees at Leatherman Gap and descended into Alarka Valley.

What an incredible coincidence for me to find wild strawberries on May 24, 2008, because it was May 24, 1775 that William Bartram encountered this scene:

…enjoyed a most enchanting view, a vast expanse of green meadows and strawberry fields; a meandering river gliding through, saluting in its various turnings the swelling, green, turfy knolls, embellished with parterres of flowers and fruitful strawberry beds; flocks of turkies strolling about them; herds of deer prancing in the meads or bounding over the hills; companies of young, innocent Cherokee virgins, some busily gathering the rich fragrant fruit, others having already filled their baskets, lay reclined under the shade of floriferous and fragrant native bowers of Magnolia, Azalea, Philadelphus, perfumed Calycanthus, sweet Yellow Jessamine and cerulian Glycine frutescens, disclosing their beauties to the fluttering breeze, and bathing their limbs in the cool fleeting streams; whilst other parties, more gay and libertine, were yet Collecting strawberries or wantonly chasing their companions, tantalising them, staining their lips and cheeks with the rich fruit.

Keep in mind that Bartram was a 36-year-old man who’d endured several weeks of difficult travel, far from the comforts of home:

This sylvan scene of primitive innocence was enchanting, and perhaps too enticing for hearty young men long to continue idle spectators. In fine, nature prevailing over reason, we wished at least to have a more active part in their delicious sports. Thus precipitately resolving, we cautiously made our approaches, yet undiscovered, almost to the joyous scene of action.

Now, although we meant no other than an innocent frolic with this gay assembly of hamadryades, we shall leave it to the person of feeling and sensibility to form an idea to what lengths our passions might have hurried us, thus warmed and excited, had it not been for the vigilance and care of some envious matrons who lay in ambush, and espying us gave the alarm, time enough for the nymphs to rally and assemble together; we however pursued and gained ground on a group of them, who had incautiously strolled to a greater distance from their guardians, and finding their retreat now like to be cut off, took shelter under cover of a little grove, but on perceiving themselves to be discovered by us, kept their station, peeping through the bushes; when observing our approaches, they confidently discovered themselves and decently advanced to meet us, half unveiling their blooming faces, incarnated with the modest maiden blush, and with native innocence and cheerfulness presented their little baskets, merrily telling us their fruit was ripe and sound.

We accepted a basket, sat down and regaled ourselves on the delicious fruit, encircled by the whole assembly of the innocently jocose sylvan nymphs; by this time the several parties under the conduct of the elder matrons, had disposed themselves in companies on the green, turfy banks.

For an itinerant botanist who answered to the name "Puc Puggy", Billy Bartram knew how to have a good time.

On this very day, 233 years ago, he took great delight…

…in wild strawberries.

Heart of the Cowees - From a Distance

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).

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 19^th 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.

Stories from Sand Town

 [In a couple of weeks the NC Trail of Tears Association will hold a ceremony to dedicate an historic Cherokee village site known as Sand Town. Click here for details via the Cherokee One Feather.  The upcoming event brought to mind some notes from September 11, 2017.]

One of my favorite cemeteries is behind a little church, off the beaten path, in the Cartoogechaye section of Macon County, NC. The church itself has an interesting history, and if not for the unforgettable Rufus Morgan, the chapel would have been long gone. Who knows what that might have meant for the cemetery. Stories of Rufus Morgan must wait another day, though.

One monument in the cemetery is the most memorable of all, marking the graves of Chief Chuttasotee (also known as Jim Peckerwood) and his wife, Cunstagih.

I’d known just a little about Chuttasotee and the Sandtown Cherokees for years, but learned a lot more with the discovery of an article that appeared in The Franklin Press in 1934. I’ll post the newspaper article, written by Margaret Siler, in its entirety, after a couple of shorter stories regarding the village and its people.

But there's a story inside a story here, and it gets buried in the details.  So, I need to invert the usual way to tell the tale.  As will be expanded upon later, Sand Town was a small Cherokee settlement in the Catoogechaye section of Macon Co., NC,  during the decades after the Removal.  And we have some vivid accounts of the individuals who lived there, and particularly the settlement's headman and his wife, whose lives are commemorated in the cemetery.

The story inside the story is how the marker got there.

Chuttasotee and Cunstagih died in August of 1879.  Neighbors came from all around attend their church funerals.  Among the many mourners were four little girls who lived near Sand Town.  

Jump forward 53 years, and those same four, grown up and then some, vowed to raise a suitable memorial to the couple that they knew and loved.  In her 1934 newspaper article, Margaret R. Siler explained that the monument replaced some old makeshift markers:

...[from] the marble top of a dresser broken in two and placed at the heads of the graves of the faithful couple in the shadow of their loved mountains. But today a nobler monument rises above the graves of the last chief of the Sandtown Indians and his wife. There were four little girls at the funerals of these devoted old lovers who are living today. Now they are Mrs. Maggie Gillespie Slagle, Mrs. Laura Siler Slagle, Mrs. Maggie Stalcup Cunningham and Mrs. Andy Setser.

In 1932 this group of ladies...revived interest in the love story of Chah-chah and Cun-stay-gee and started a movement for the erection of a permanent marker above their graves. On July 30, 1932, a beautiful monument, hewn from the strong, gray-blue granite of Macon county, was unveiled with appropriate exercises.

And that's how the monument got there!

Lanman Meets Hog-Bite

Charles Lanman met many a hermit on his travels through America in the 19th century. When Lanman visited Macon County in May 1848, he crossed paths with a Sandtown Cherokee named Hog-Bite:

The most interesting character whom I have seen about Franklin is an old Cherokee Indian, His name is Sa-taw-ha, or Hog-Bite, and he is upwards of one hundred years of age. He lives in a small log hut among the mountains, the door of which is so very low that you have to crawl into it upon your hands and knees.

At the time the greater part of his nation were removed to the Far West, the "officers of justice" called to obtain his company. He saw them as they approached, and, taking his loaded rifle in hand, he warned them not to attempt to lay their hands upon him, for he would certainly kill them. He was found to be so resolute and so very old, that it was finally concluded by those in power that the old man should be left alone.

He lives the life of a hermit, and is chiefly supported by the charity of one or two Indian neighbors, though it is said he even now occasionally manages to kill a deer or turkey. His history is entirely unknown, and he says he can remember the time when the Cherokee nation lived upon the shores of a great ocean (the Atlantic) and the color of a white man's face was unknown.

Sandtown Protest

Twenty years after Charles Lanman's encounter with Hog-Bite, James Peckerwood earned a place in the history books that warrants mention. In July 1868 a treaty was ratified between the United States and the Cherokees residing west of the Mississippi River. The Congressional Record for January 1869 includes a “Memorial of Headmen and People of the North Carolina or Eastern Cherokees” protesting against the ratification of that treaty.

Essentially, those Eastern Cherokees objected to the treaty because they would not receive any payments from the government as had the members of the Cherokee Nation (Oklahoma). The signers of that petition were from various communities in Western North Carolina.

While many of them were from “Qualla,” others (like Jim Peckerwood) were from Sand Town. Others communities where small remnants of Cherokees remained in the late 1860s, were identified as Buffalo Town, Hewassee Town, Cheoah Town and Hangdog Town:

JOHN WAYNENA, chief, Buffalo Town

LONG BEAR, Sand Town

ALLEN BUTTER, Sand Town.

TRAMPER, Buffalo Town.

WM. MCLEMORE, Hewassee Town.

JOHN AXE, Hangdog Town.

SOWANOOKAH, Buffalo Town.

JAMES BLYTHE, Buffalo Town.

SKEEGEE, Bufi'alo Town.

JOHN ELIJAH, Qulla Town.

WILLSON AXE, Sand Town.

MINK, Buffalo Town.

KURSKEELESKEE, Qulla Town.

TAHQUAHTEEHEE, of Uheou Town.

LITTLE JOHN, Qulla Town.

ISAAC DAVIS Qulla Town.

JACKSON BLYTHE, Qulla Town.

BEN NEWTOWEE, Qulla Town.

JAMES PECKERWOOD, Sand Town.

OO-SOWEH, Qulla Town.

JOHNSON KATEGUH, Sand Town.

Margaret Siler Recounts Life in Sandtown


CHEROKEE LORE, by Margaret R. Siler, Article III, THE INDIAN LOVE CALL, Franklin Press, March 1, 1934

BETWEEN Muskrat Gap and-the Winding Stair nestles a small valley, protected on the East, North and West by sheltering mountains, and open only to the warm winds from the South. Rushing down from the mountain to the North, Muskrat brook curves around one side of the valley.

On the other side ripple the. clear waters of Cartoogechaye creek. Situated in this ideal spot was a Cherokee settlement, the last in Macon county, known to the white people as Sandtown, because, it is thought, the clay soil in that vicinity contained a portion of sand. This sheltered little valley must have been the home of old Chief Santeetla, whose threats failed to deter those young bloods, Siler and Britton, from settling on the banks of Cartoogechaye creek a few miles East.

The brave pioneer, Jacob Siler, remained to make fast friendship with the Cherokee tribes that peopled the region. Returning later to his home near what is now Asheville, he persuaded his brothers, William, Jesse and John, to come over the mountains with him and settle in this virgin country lavishly endowed by nature with beauty, food and noble trees from which to build homes.

The brothers erected dwellings within a mile or so of each other, William Siler choosing for his site a sheltered nook near the point where Wayah creek joins Cartoogechaye creek. For many, years he was the closest white neighbor of the Sandtown Indians It was here that Albert Siler, my father-in-law, grew up.

The first conversation I had with Albert Siler about his old neighbors made me realize how deeply he was attached to them. He said they were like trustful children and were always loyal to their friends.

The Cherokees, "Father" Siler told me, were easily moved, although they did not always show it. He related how as a young man he would visit Sandtown on Sunday afternoons and read lhe Bible to the Indians. Frequently, he said, when he raised his eyes he saw that the faces of his listeners were streaming with tears, although some of them could not understand a word he was reading to them.

Especially was this true in the cabin of Jim and Sallee Peckerwood, as they were known to their white friends. Their Cherokee names were Cha-cha Chuta-sotee and Cun-stay-gee Chuta-sottee. When the federal government rounded up the Cherokee and was marching them to the far West the Indians were beset with a scourge in Tennessee.

One night Cha-cha and Cun-stay-gee and some of the other Sandtown Indians escaped and fled back to their old homes. From time to time they were joined by others of their tribe, ragged, hungry and footsore after their escape from the caravan being prodded Westward across the Mississippi. William Siler was so moved by the plight of his old neighbors that he deeded back to them some of the land which they had been forced to leave under heart-breaking circumstances, that they might continue to live in the mountains they loved so well. The Indians were deeply grateful.

Chief Chuta-sottee loved William Siler with the devotion of an ardent Indian nature. When the latter died the bereaved Cherokee was his self-appointed chief mourner, following directly behind the hack which carried the body from the home on Cartoogechaye to the cemetery in Franklin. This was; a journey of eight miles and Chuta-sottee plodded through the mud, step by step, with his head solemnly bowed.

I was surprised when "Father" Siler told me there were class distinctions among the Indians. He said Cha-cha Chuta-sottee was an aristocrat and his wife, Sallee, or Cun-stay-gee, was a plebeian. Despite this difference in rank, however, they were a devoted couple. Sallee had strength for the long, weary trek back from Tennessee. Perhaps the hardships of that fearful journey helped to knit their hearts together more strongly. Who knows?

We can but conjecture concerning the courtship of the brave young couple, but their beautiful life was a thing of positive knowledge to many. After the dignified and courageous young Chuta-sottee led his straggling band back home they made him their chief. But although they were now living on their own land, deeded to them by William Siler, the threat of ejectment was not yet over.

In 1843 Major James Robinson (father of the James Robinson who became Lieutenant Governor of North Carolina) was appointed by the authorities in Washington to persuade the Cherokees still remaining East of the Mississippi to join their fellow-tribesmen in the West. On the day appointed Chief Chuta-sottee gathered his band together.

They listened respectfully while Major Robinson painted in glowing colors a picture of the Happy Hunting Grounds to which he wanted to take them. He made a forceful argument for emigration of the Cherokees; but when he had finished speaking Chief Chuta-sottee rose with the dignity of a king and, lifting his right hand majestically, replied with simple but convincing solemnity: "In sight of that mountain I have lived. In sight, of it I expect to die. My talk is ended."

Major Robinson knew well enough that the old Cherokee chief’s decision was absolutely final. No one ever again suggested that this loyal Cherokee leave his native home. His wish was granted that he might die in sight of the sloping, almost level-topped mountain between Muskrat Gap and the Winding Stair. His door, facing the West, caught the last rays of the golden sun as it slipped behind the mountain.

Here he lived his remaining days. “Father” Siler visited Chuta-sottee often during his last sickness and one day after reading him the Bible, the old chief said gently as he watched the last rays of the August sun light his doorway: "Al'ert, Jim going soon. Bury Jim like white man." Mr. Siler at once promised to bury him in the Siler family cemetery in the yard of little St. John's Episcopal chapel; at the foot of the same mountain where the chief lived.

The late Rev. J. A. Deal, who lived in Franklin forty-odd years, was the rector of St. John's and often made pastoral visits to Jim and Sallee Peckerwood. Jim told Mr. Deal of the request he had made of "Al'ert" Siler and Mr. Deal assured him the service would be all he could desire. A few days after this "Father" Siler again called on Jim, late one, afternoon.

As the sun sank behind the mountain the old chief, who was about 80 and who had witnessed so many heart-rending changes wrought by the white man in his paradise, said in a quiet voice: "That the last time Jim see the sun set over his mountain, Al'ert."

Early next morning one of Jim Peckerwood's sons, named Will Siler after my father-in-law's father, came and called "Al'ert" from his bed. Jim Peckerwood had died in the night (about 4 a.m. August 15, 1879.) He was buried the next morning in the little church yard of St. John's chapel with all the care and reverence that could be given the best citizen in the community, for Jim Peckerwood was held in high esteem by both white people and Cherokees for miles around. The little church yard was filled with his friends of both colors.

"Father" Siler said Jim and Sallee had lived together for more than 50 years and he felt so sorry for the Indian woman in her bereavement that he visited her late in the afternoon after the funeral. She was seated in the doorway, her head resting against the side and her face turned to the west. Her sad eyes, "Father" Siler said, seemed to pierce the setting sun and see beyond. He sat down beside her and said all the comforting things he could think of, but she only looked into the sun, seeming not to hear him.

Finally, she came out of her reverie and said gently: "Jim calling Sallee, Al'ert. Sallee go to Jim before another sun set." Very early the next morning Will Siler Peckerwood went to Albert Siler and told him, "Sallee gone to Jim." So, two days after Jim was laid away the same friends laid Sallee beside him and she, too, was buried with the Christian ritual of the white man.

“Father" Siler's daughter, Nettie, had the marble top of a dresser broken in two and placed at the heads of the graves of the faithful couple in the shadow of their loved mountains. But today a nobler monument rises above the graves of the last chief of the Sandtown Indians and his wife. There were four little girls at the funerals of these devoted old lovers who are living today. Now they are Mrs. Maggie Gillespie Slagle, Mrs. Laura Siler Slagle, Mrs. Maggie Stalcup Cunningham and Mrs. Andy Setser.

In 1932 this group of ladies, with the aid of The Franklin Press and Highlands Maconian, revived interest in the love story of Chah-chah and Cun-stay-gee and started a movement for the erection of a permanent marker above their graves. On July 30, 1932, a beautiful monument, hewn from the strong, gray-blue granite of Macon county, was unveiled with appropriate exercises.

Among those taking part in the exercises was Chief Bly from the Cherokee reservation in Swain county. After he had heard other speakers tell of Chief Chuta-sottee, he remarked with typical Indian brevity: "They say all good Indians are dead. This must have been a good Indian.”