A Hazel Creek Christmas | Skip Brooks Projects

Christmas on Hazel Creek

1897

Early on the mornin’ of the 16th, with farewell hugs and kisses and a belly full of Almarine’s home cookin’, I pointed the horse north out of Bryson City and headed up the Deep Creek Road, headin’ for the crest of the Smokies. I’d decided to retrace the trail I’d followed back from Hall Field in 1864 to see what changes had come to this side of the mountains.

There were farms all along Deep Creek now. Neat rail fences along the road, fat cows in the fields. Not many log cabins left. All the farmhouses were made out of plank boards painted white with red window shutters and lace curtains.

I rode into Bryson Place at noon and shared my food with some of the local farm hands. They was curious and asked me, “where to, stranger? Hazel Creek, eh? Wild country, that.”

“How far to Anders Bald?” I asked. “Herder’s cabin still there?”

“Naw,” one replied, “blown down in the blizzard of ‘92.”

I mounted up and rode off.

The Carolina mountains were enjoyin’ one of those warm spells we get sometimes in the Winter, with days of hot sunshine and nights cold enough to freeze your behind off. The ride up Forney Ridge was so nice, I was surprised how quickly I came upon Anders Bald. I dug in for the night backed up against a thick tangle of laurel high on the bald overlookin’ the mountains and the river. Usually, I don’t enjoy sleepin’ out in the cold but whether it was the warmth of the fire or the bright clear night, I found the cold air perked me up.

Long about the time the stew got hot and the smell of coffee drifted out over the bald, came a long “Hello” from the trail above me. As was the custom, I “Hello-ed“ back and soon there came into camp the oddest feller I’d seen in many a year.

He was covered in red and green woolens from his shoulders to his knees. On his head, he sported a big, furry rabbit skin hat and on his feet he wore tall lumberman’s pole climber boots. He was ridin’ a big, dapple gray horse and leadin’ a mule and the mule was loaded down with all manner of what appeared to be surveyin’ equipment, sticks and rolled up papers.

I didn’t know if he was man, beast or devil. But when you’re alone on top of the Smoky Mountains in the dead of winter with food and drink and a warm fire, and some poor wayfarin’ stranger shows up, even if he’s old Lucifer himself it’s considered neighborly to share what you got. So I did. He climbed down from the horse, all huffin’ and puffin’ and blowin’ on his fingers. He hunkered down close to the fire and stuck out an icy cold hand.

“Nichols is my name, Sir. Edgar Nichols. I’m the number one timber cruiser for Mr. W.M. Ritter who owns the Ritter Lumber Company of West Virginia.”

I shook his hand and offered him a place by the fire. “Set down here, Edgar. O.K. I call you Edgar? Let me fix you a plate of stew. Here. Take you a slug of this coffee. It’ll warm your innards.”

Edgar rolled the hot coffee around in his mouth. “My thanks, Mr.....”

“Hall. Jacob Hall. Most everybody calls me Fonzy.”

“Glad I saw your fire, Fonzy. I’m about worn out.”

Now here was a decent lookin’ feller, this Edgar Nichols. Near to sixty, I reckoned, and after he’d pulled his rabbit skin hat off, I saw his hair was silver as was his beard. Just under six feet tall, lean like me, and real quick when he moved. His eyes and mouth looked like they’d laughed a lot. Maybe it was the cold, or from squintin’ at the sun. Whatever was the cause, the result was a friendly face.

Seems Edgar’d been cruisin' the Smoky Mountains to see if there might be profit in these forests for Mr. W.M. Ritter of the Ritter Lumber Company of West Virginia.

“We bring industry to the wilderness, Sir. More than that though, Ritter Lumber also brings prosperity and civilization to these remote parts of God’s creation.”

While I fixed a plate of stew for him, Edgar went on and on about how “there isn’t any place I’ve ever been that has the richness and beauty of the Great Smoky Mountains. I’ve been traveling the crest from way east of the Cherokee lands. I’ve been up and down as many of the coves and valleys as I can find and I just can’t believe what I’ve seen. “

He spooned a helpin' of stew past his lips. “Up high, the Black Spruce and Balsams are just spectacular. In the valleys, the Oaks and Maples and Hickories and Sweet Gums are everywhere. And the Poplars, with their soft green colored woods, all the Hemlocks and Chestnuts and Birch trees...” He went on and on.

“There’s an overabundance of specialty trees, too. Folks in the cities are paying top dollar for prime veneers. Walnut and Cherry trees and Pecans. Lord have mercy Mr. Hall, we’re sitting on top of the last great chunk of virgin forest in the whole of the eastern half of these United States of America.”

Like I didn’t already know. Like it hadn’t taken me all my life to find a place away from the rest of the world, the cities, the politicians, the do-gooders, the almighty W.M. Ritters with all their silly rules and fool civilizations.

“That’s all well and good, Edgar, but a man don’t have to be no Yankee timber cruiser to know the value of livin’ in these Great Smoky Mountains. Value sometimes means more than the jingle of gold eagles in a man’s pocket.

“Livin' in a place where a man can be free to raise his young’uns to hunt and fish and grow his food on his own land like his Papa did and his kinfolks before him, that’s valuable. It’s important to have the will to live the life you choose as far away from the civilization that you, Mr. Edgar Nichols, are proposin’ to bring to my world.”

Edgar bristled and sat up straight. “True enough, Fonzy. True enough. But how many babies die needlessly from sickness? And how many folks are crippled before their time from stupid things like fallin' off a horse or cutting themselves chopping wood and can’t get to a doctor?”

He put his empty plate down and punched his finger in the air. “How many are sick all the time from not eating proper food? And how many women die giving birth?” Edgar filled his plate again. “My civilization will put an end to all that.”

“The hell you say.” I threw the words into the cold night. “It’s our business to live and die as we please.”

And he shot back. “It’s your business to keep your families from dying on you. The Lord requires a man to work for the good of everybody and that’s that!”

I looked Edgar straight in the eye. “What unit did you ride with in the Great War?”

He looked at me coldly and raised a bushy silver eyebrow. “I served proudly with the 17th Indiana Mounted Infantry that fought bravely under General John T. Wilder most famously at Alexander’s Bridge on the Chickamauga.”

I crawled to my knees and leaned close to the fire. “I knew it all along!” The cold night closed in around the campfire and all was still.

“I rode with the 7th North Carolina Cavalry at Reed’s Bridge and I was among them what whipped your Yankee ass at Alexander’s Bridge under the great General Nathan Bedford Forrest what sent your Indiana Mounted Infantry packin', Spencer Repeaters and all.”

Then commenced one of those moments when time stops and you ain’t really sure how that feller you just insulted is gonna' react. Edgar put a long hard Yankee stare on me and with the power of my camp, my stew, my coffee and my mountains at my back, I laid my best Rebel gaze on him.

Edgar cleared his throat and sneered. “Well, now.”

I spit into the fire. “Don’t this beat all.”

Edgar chuckled. “Nothing but two saddle sore old Cavalry troopers...”

“...what don’t know the war’s over,” I snorted.

And before we knew it we was howlin’ and hootin’ and assurin’ each other if we’d had our way the damn thing would have been over long before Chickamauga, anyway.

“At least we’re not shooting at one another,” he said.

Then I produced a bottle of whiskey Lucius had tucked away in my bedroll and under a bright, star filled December sky, high atop the Great Smoky Mountains, we toasted all the fallen heroes on both sides of the war who could not be with us to share that moment. It was a memorable night. Truly memorable.

Early next mornin' as Edgar and I crossed Siler’s Meadows to begin the long descent down Hazel Creek, we heard the sad, lonesome howl of what must have been the last wolf to walk these hills. Edgar give out with a little shiver and it made me laugh.

“Maybe that wolf ain’t none too happy about your presence in these mountains, Mr. Timber Cruiser. It was hard enough for that wolf to give up his place in this land to us mountain folks twenty or thirty years ago.”

I looked across at Edgar and beyond to the far horizon. “Think how tough it’ll be for us mountain folks to give up our place to your civilization, Edgar. Progress comes hard whether you’re man or wolf or Yankee timber cruiser.”

I kicked the horse along. “Besides, you ain’t met up with any of our panthers, yet. They can get real testy about change.”

We rode into the yard of my home in time for supper late that night. It was December 17th, last year. 1897.

Edgar stayed with us to celebrate the Lord’s birthday on Hazel Creek. He said it made him more aware of the simple things about Christmas. I don’t know how he was able to fashion the trinkets he gave to all the young’uns, but somehow he did it.

There was a fancy corn shuck doll with a bright red ribbon for Mary, a sparklin' gold pin for Josie, and Spurgeon got a toy soldier Edgar whittled. The soldier was all painted up fancy like a Yankee Cavalry Officer. Edgar’s revenge for havin' to put up with so much of this old Rebel’s abuse.

For Cory, he made up a song about a boy and girl who lived way up on the mountain top and all day she ran around the cabin singing “Cory-o, Cory-ay, Cory gave and Cory took away” until we was sick to death of it.

It snowed Christmas Eve and we awoke to the sight of Bone Valley covered with a foot of snow. We gazed into a clear blue sky while beneath it, the soft white snow hung like blankets on the trees along Hazel Creek. The water was teeth rattlin’ cold and not a track of an animal had as yet come along to spoil such a wondrous sight.

Edgar and Lesa Jane and I walked out on the front porch of the house just after dawn. Edgar just stared and stared. “The morning looks like glass, Fonz. I’m almost afraid to breathe for fear it’ll shatter the day.”

We bundled the children up and pulled them on the sled to the little church in Bone Valley, expectin' to hear the Reverend Josh Clay spout some fire and brimstone to warm us. Instead, the preacher took note of the presence of Edgar in our church.

“On this very special day, let us all give thanks that we’re livin' in the bosom of God’s Great Smoky Mountains.”

Preacher Clay smiled out on the little congregation. “We’re doubly blessed to welcome Mr. Edgar Nichols this day. Him what fought Fonzy Hall in the Great War we now embrace as a fellow traveler through life.”

He raised his hands to the gathering. “God bless us all and Merry Christmas.”

From 'Hazel Creek; A Memoir - The First Book in The Mountain Trilogy / 99 Years in The Great Smokies

Christmas on Hazel Creek

1897

​

There were farms all along Deep Creek now. Neat rail fences along the road, fat cows in the fields. Not many log cabins left. All the farmhouses were made out of plank boards painted white with red window shutters and lace curtains.