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At the opening of the twentieth-century the great expanse of the
mountains of western North Carolina began to be partitioned in a manner
that would increase the fragmentation of space in the mountains in the
coming years. Boundaries were established and signage began to appear on
trees and fence-posts declaring the territory as "private" or "posted: no
hunting" or "no fishing" or, even more mandatory, "No trespassing, under
penalty of law." The giant park that many had called their own to roam,
hunt, and fish, and explore, began to shrink from the acquisitive process
of ownership, and through a more profound change in life-style. Even the
strong individualism suggested by John C. Campbell in his The Southern
Highlander and His Homeland, did not foresee the extreme privacy
issues that began to show themselves at the beginning of the century. As
space became more and more private, the need for some preservation of
public open space became imperative and discussions began that eventually
resulted in the development of a large public park network in the western
North Carolina region. The purchase by the federal government of large
parcels of land and the eventual negotiation for the development of the
Great Smoky Mountains National Park preserved vast mountain tracts that
today provide ample space for recreation, exploration of natural
resources, and uninterrupted vistas of those "wave after wave" of
undulating blue mountains.
During this period of intense focus on the preservation of the natural beauty of the mountains, many authors picked up the threads of environmental writing that were present in much of the earlier writing, but that did not have as it's intent, the preservation of the land. In the forward to Margaret Brown's The Wild East (2000), John David Smith, the series editor, identifies a commonly held trait of southerners, as well as mountain dwellers. He says, "Their identification with place, their deep ties to the land, lay at the core of southerners' identity. 'The Southerner,' W.J. Cash wrote, 'was primarily a direct product of the soil." Underscoring the importance and power of the South's physical world, he noted that it presented "a sort of cosmic conspiracy against reality in favor of romance.'" Brown's book which she describes as a "biography of the Great Smoky Mountains," is one of a genre of writing that expands the literary into the realm of environmental history. Whether it is the early naturalist work of Walter Ashe, or Donald Peattie, or the later environmentalism of Dan Pierce, or Bill Bryson's eco-tourism, or Wendell Berry, whose consummate literary skill is combined with a deeply felt environmentalism, --- mountains in all their facets fill the writer's pages. Peattie's Blue Ridge mountains that form a "wrinkle, like a smile that began to crease the face of the continent ..." held an enormous attraction for the early naturalists. In the nineteenth-century the naturalists came in droves. Peter Kalm, Constantine Samuel Rafinesque-Schmaltz, Andre Michaux, John Lyon, Lars Yungstroem, John Fraser, and many others recorded their journeys to the southern Appalachians, as well as their reflections on mountains, generally. But, this early group of naturalists was a somewhat different breed than those who came in the twentieth century. The early group, like the "exploiters" were highly competitive, and almost aggressive in their exploration. This early group was interested in what the region would give them, either in fame through discovery of new plants and animals, or the monetary reward of the discovery of medicinals or botanical specimen for luxury gardens or national arboretums. The later naturalists make a point of leaving the mountains as they are. Taking plants from national parks, destroying natural habitats, killing endangered species, building without regard to terrain, open-pit mining, excessive logging, and other environmentally unsound practices, became issues of concern to these naturalist writers. The urban-dweller's adventure in the wilds of the mountains is also all too well-known in the literature of this era. In Bill Bryson's A Walk In the Woods: Rediscovering America on the Appalachian Trail (1999), the terror of the mountain forests, and the unpredictable encounter with local mountaineers titillate the reader's every fantasy associated with the high, dark unknown of the Appalachian wilderness. The reverence of place is partially recovered by Bryson uneasy observations at the book's end, as he says, "'...I gained a profound respect for wilderness and nature and the benign dark power of woods. I understand now, in a way I never did before, the colossal scale of the world. ... Best of all, these days when I see a mountain, I look at it slowly and appraisingly, with a narrow, confident gaze and eyes of chipped granite.'" |
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| 1930's Peattie |
DONALD PEATTIE
NATURAL HISTORY OF PEARSON'S FALLS Natural History of Pearson's Falls Today, in the heart of those old mountains, you may find your heritage of beauty and wonder, the finished product of millions of years of life. As in a cathedral nave where one may admire the art of centuries, so one goes reverently up the glen called Pearson's Falls, where scenes from the story of life on earth are painted upon the carven walls and green windows. There, upon the brow of that tiny cavern, where a fine spray forever falls, hangs the weird, unmodern green of algae, first of the plants to enrobe the earth. Here are forests of mosses no higher than your thumb but higher far in evolution than the algae. Here the walking-fern steps daintily across the rocks, root to tip and tip to root, recalling the days of the giant tree-ferns when lizards like elephants sloshed and hissed across the continent, and where now from a flowering dogwood tree a redbird starts with his magical cry. The great hemlocks sigh, the brook rushes garroulously, and then, above all other sounds, you hear the light thunder of the falls. Here, for thousands of years, the white sprite, the fall, has been in being, delicious, setting in motion a perpetual breeze which makes the maidenhair and the foam-flower to tremble ceaselessly upon their stalks, keeping a fleck of brown foam forever swirling about the little pools below." Peattie, Donald Culross. A Natural History of Pearson's Falls and Some of Its Human Associations. Tryon, N.C.: Printed by and for the Garden Club, [193-?] 1898-1964 |
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| Dykeman |
Jerome Dykeman |
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George Masa |
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George Prosser This poem comes from a small collection of poetry written by George Holcomb Prosser, a native of Ohio who moved to Asheville in 1923. Prosser eventually found work at the American Enka Corporation, a rayon processing plant located in Candler, NC. The poems, referred to as "doggerel" by Prosser, tell of his work, his friendships, the family life-style during the Depression, camping, and other recreations enjoyed by the family. The poems are a graphic reflection of the time and the culture in which Prosser and his family lived. Written in a style that is reminiscent of Edgar Guest, they reflect one man's struggle with tough economic times, his diversions in nature, and they portray the rural and urban cultural tug of war familiar to many who have been transitioned into other cultures. This poem describes the local sport of fishing that many men in western North Carolina enjoyed. The "posting" of what used to be "public" streams sometimes created tensions in local communities that tested shifts of culture and one's understanding of the "local" culture -- even by "locals.". George Holcomb Prosser Collection, Special Collections, UNCA |
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| 1930's Posser |
TENNESSEE CREEK
Oh, we had gone to Wolf
Creek
To fish or
look at mountains
Old Bob and Bill and
Shorty too
That guided
us and did it well
I did not go, but stayed behind
To see
about a dog
Crossed each and every log.
A neighbor drove us to the
top
Prom there
we started out on foot
We knew the
stream was posted
But we knew
ways and means to beat
We
traveled single file along
And after
darkness gathered round
With
flashlight dim and a few stars,
Round rocks
thru slasn and over logs
Oh, it was
down hill all the way
When he
stepped on a sloping rock
He wasn't hurt that we
could see
There was a scratch upon
his thigh
We finally
heard the stream below
To camp and
fish upon this jewel
Old Bob got perched upon a rock
To fish out
in the dark Well, Hick, he kept the fire bright To keep from falling in on us We had no blankets nor a place The night was cold, we did not sleep
And wood got hard to find
To see where we had climbed.
There was
a trail the watchman took
And where
the going was too steep
We knew he soon would be along
Upon his
morning stroll
Before he touched our goal.
We stepped into the clear
cold stream
And every
time we flicked the fly
We caught a flour sack full too soon
And we
were loath to quit
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Old Bob
went on and took the fish
To fish two
pools and catch six trout
He shoved it in our face and cried
"Come out
of there you birds In many awful words.
We reeled our lines in, stowed our gear And slowly climbed the wall
The
shot-gun watched us close to see
We walked ahead as prisoners should With two barrels at our back But stopped to argue and explain And to try some other tacks.
We said that we were Enka boys And must have gotten mixed In darkness took wrong trails so as To get in such a fix.
Nick asked him meekly what he'd do If he were in our shoes Submit he said and pay my fine As other folkes do
"That's what we'll do;" the guard relaxed And then set down his gun We talked awhile and moved about And joked as though in fun.
The warden stepped to cut a twig Of blackgum for his snuff Bill eased beside the gun and stood At ready, 'twas no bluff.
"Oh we'll submit. you have
our names We'll send receipts, you will be cleared
I knew
this Justice of the Peace We told him of our mission there
Of how the fish had struck
Of work and other truck.
"Well boys"? said he, "its past noon time
What say
we get it over,
The court please come to order."
He stood before us in the road
His well
worn hat in hand
On old Stikeleather's land.
He told us of the law and said
That it
must be obeyed We knew folks sometimes strayed.
As he talked on his store teeth slipped, He nearly choked then said, "This fine helps pay for our kid's school, One dollar each, Oh Red
Tell Mother, we have guests today And bring my receipt slip Court is dismissed, You go .wash up And I will find a nip."
We visited and filled out our hides With many things to eat, Then smoked and talked awhile of silk That's made at Enka neat.
We thanked
our hosts, and got our gear Our friend said, "Boys take this along It's homemade stuff you know."
"It is a shame," our Shorty said
To
post a mountain stream
"Read that, Stay out I mean.'"
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