The Cherokee, and probably other people, had a ritual called "Going To Water." It was a ritual of purification, observed before any major ceremonies, important decisions, pivotal life events, or other times of stress or strife when cleansing and purification was needed. It involved submerging one's self in a flowing mountain stream, and purified the participant, both physically and spiritually.
I am not a Cherokee, but over a half century of life lived outdoors in these same mountains they inhabited has given me similar thoughts about the land surrounding me. They were here for at least a thousand years. They know the place like no other folks have before or since. They noticed minute details of this ecosystem and the physical and spiritual aspects of living in harmony with these ancient mountains. They were right. The older I get, the more I believe that.
It's been awhile. Several weeks. I have not been back in the woods, nor waded into cold mountain water since mid-August. That won't do. Sunday morning. Many folks head to church. I am much the same, except I head back into the mountains.
I wanted to go out and fish awhile today. I didn't really even care whether I caught a fish or not. I just wanted to be there. Away from here. Away from people, problems, bills, and life. I want to be there. Back in that place where time melts and nothing exists but you, the flowing water, the fish, and the breathing woods around you. Hollers so dark that a few katydids sing even at mid-day. No other people, no problems, no worries. Just the water and the fish. And me. With me being the smallest part of the equation. My body and soul were hurting. I needed to Go To Water.
I didn't even have to think about the place. A nearby valley in the Smokies draws me like the needle of a compass. It's where my ancestors eked out a living from the mountain soil and water for a hundred years before the park service ran them out in the 1930s. Their bones still nourish the thin mountain soil here. It's the place I first learned to fly fish, from those who were Going To Water long before I was born; even if they didn't completely understand what drew them to the cold, dark currents that spill and drip from the ridges, brooding cliffs, and dark hollers. Or maybe they completely did, and just kept a tight lip about it, because thoughts like that didn't mesh with the fundamentalist culture of the influential folks in mid-1900s southern Appalachia. It's the place where I learned about how I fit into these mountains. It's my home water. When I am in this valley, I feel like I do nowhere else on this planet. It is a place of renewal. A place of purification. The influx of tourists the last few years can't change that. The place still speaks to those who belong here and open their spirit to hear its voice. Everything else is just superficial chatter.
Successful fishing and spiritual cleansing rely on proper nutrition. I recommend two gas station sausage biscuits. Just be careful where you eat them, the Tall One likes them too:
It has been unseasonably hot and dry for the last month. When I pulled up at the trailhead, the main creek was low and gin-clear. And crowded. Sundays here used to be peaceful. Now they are riots of folks in Subarus, Priuses, and various SUVs, came to See The Elk. They line the fields like a drive-in movie. They come and stay, but they don't see. They never really feel the primordial energy here. They are drawn here without understanding why. They can't let go of their artificial lives and join the world that they so desperately want and need to. Their priorities are skewed. They are static. I wanted to avoid static.
So, I hiked about three miles up one of my favorite small tributary streams. Past the trailside creek waders, the photographers, the Tenkara hippies who feel the primordial energy but don't understand it. If you weren't born here, with your ancestors' bones building the soil you walk upon, you never will, unless you are very lucky.
It is good to belong to a place and understand it. and to understand how you fit into it.
On the hike in, the creek beckoned, but I resisted the urge. I wanted solitude.
This late in the season, not much is blooming along the trail. Some blue wood asters:
And white snakeroot:
The white snakeroot holds a mysterious and fascinating story. Long ago, in late summer, a disease called milk-sick would strike mountain settlers. It was characterized by fevers, trembling, severe intestinal pain, vomiting, and partial or complete loss of muscular coordination. It was often fatal. Abraham Lincoln's mother died from it. No one knew the exact cause, but it was noticed that it affected those who drunk milk from cows that were grazed in certain shady, north-facing mountain coves. Eventually, it was discovered that the "disease" was a direct effect of a toxin called tremetol that is present in the white snakeroot plant, which, once ingested by the cow, was transferred through its milk to those who drunk it.
As if to make up for the lack of flowers, partridge berries are ripening, and brightening the trailsides:
Cinnamon-barked Clethra, a large shrub or small tree, sprouts up through the doghobble and ferns with its shreddy, exfoliating bright red bark. The pictures don't do it justice:
Overhead, Fraser magnolias are crowned with umbrellas of two-foot-long leaves:
After awhile, I stopped at about the fifth creek crossing of the trail. I was far enough back. At three miles in, if you meet anyone, they are probably there for the same reasons you are. It was time to Go To Water.
I rigged the rod and headed upstream.
To be continued.....
I am not a Cherokee, but over a half century of life lived outdoors in these same mountains they inhabited has given me similar thoughts about the land surrounding me. They were here for at least a thousand years. They know the place like no other folks have before or since. They noticed minute details of this ecosystem and the physical and spiritual aspects of living in harmony with these ancient mountains. They were right. The older I get, the more I believe that.
It's been awhile. Several weeks. I have not been back in the woods, nor waded into cold mountain water since mid-August. That won't do. Sunday morning. Many folks head to church. I am much the same, except I head back into the mountains.
I wanted to go out and fish awhile today. I didn't really even care whether I caught a fish or not. I just wanted to be there. Away from here. Away from people, problems, bills, and life. I want to be there. Back in that place where time melts and nothing exists but you, the flowing water, the fish, and the breathing woods around you. Hollers so dark that a few katydids sing even at mid-day. No other people, no problems, no worries. Just the water and the fish. And me. With me being the smallest part of the equation. My body and soul were hurting. I needed to Go To Water.
I didn't even have to think about the place. A nearby valley in the Smokies draws me like the needle of a compass. It's where my ancestors eked out a living from the mountain soil and water for a hundred years before the park service ran them out in the 1930s. Their bones still nourish the thin mountain soil here. It's the place I first learned to fly fish, from those who were Going To Water long before I was born; even if they didn't completely understand what drew them to the cold, dark currents that spill and drip from the ridges, brooding cliffs, and dark hollers. Or maybe they completely did, and just kept a tight lip about it, because thoughts like that didn't mesh with the fundamentalist culture of the influential folks in mid-1900s southern Appalachia. It's the place where I learned about how I fit into these mountains. It's my home water. When I am in this valley, I feel like I do nowhere else on this planet. It is a place of renewal. A place of purification. The influx of tourists the last few years can't change that. The place still speaks to those who belong here and open their spirit to hear its voice. Everything else is just superficial chatter.
Successful fishing and spiritual cleansing rely on proper nutrition. I recommend two gas station sausage biscuits. Just be careful where you eat them, the Tall One likes them too:
It has been unseasonably hot and dry for the last month. When I pulled up at the trailhead, the main creek was low and gin-clear. And crowded. Sundays here used to be peaceful. Now they are riots of folks in Subarus, Priuses, and various SUVs, came to See The Elk. They line the fields like a drive-in movie. They come and stay, but they don't see. They never really feel the primordial energy here. They are drawn here without understanding why. They can't let go of their artificial lives and join the world that they so desperately want and need to. Their priorities are skewed. They are static. I wanted to avoid static.
So, I hiked about three miles up one of my favorite small tributary streams. Past the trailside creek waders, the photographers, the Tenkara hippies who feel the primordial energy but don't understand it. If you weren't born here, with your ancestors' bones building the soil you walk upon, you never will, unless you are very lucky.
It is good to belong to a place and understand it. and to understand how you fit into it.
On the hike in, the creek beckoned, but I resisted the urge. I wanted solitude.
This late in the season, not much is blooming along the trail. Some blue wood asters:
And white snakeroot:
The white snakeroot holds a mysterious and fascinating story. Long ago, in late summer, a disease called milk-sick would strike mountain settlers. It was characterized by fevers, trembling, severe intestinal pain, vomiting, and partial or complete loss of muscular coordination. It was often fatal. Abraham Lincoln's mother died from it. No one knew the exact cause, but it was noticed that it affected those who drunk milk from cows that were grazed in certain shady, north-facing mountain coves. Eventually, it was discovered that the "disease" was a direct effect of a toxin called tremetol that is present in the white snakeroot plant, which, once ingested by the cow, was transferred through its milk to those who drunk it.
As if to make up for the lack of flowers, partridge berries are ripening, and brightening the trailsides:
Cinnamon-barked Clethra, a large shrub or small tree, sprouts up through the doghobble and ferns with its shreddy, exfoliating bright red bark. The pictures don't do it justice:
Overhead, Fraser magnolias are crowned with umbrellas of two-foot-long leaves:
After awhile, I stopped at about the fifth creek crossing of the trail. I was far enough back. At three miles in, if you meet anyone, they are probably there for the same reasons you are. It was time to Go To Water.
I rigged the rod and headed upstream.
To be continued.....