Other Voices, Other Towns: The Traveler's Story. Caleb Pirtle III
a team of horses hauled out the timber along an old, dirt skid road. Then came the railroad, and it pushed the loggers higher and into rugged, treacherous terrain where even angels, provided they had good sense, feared to tread. The track finally ended within half a mile from the crest of Clingman’s Dome, playing out at 6,606 feet. The axe and crosscut saw, lethal weapons in lethal hands, left stumps and splintered scars across three hundred and thirty-nine thousand acres.
The Tennessee highlands were almost naked before anyone cried out in 1923 to save them. The government sought to buy the land, but lumber and paper companies did not want to lose their holdings. Those who lived within the hollows did not want to walk away from their homes, such as they were.
The Great Depression changed their minds. They saw the opportunity to pocket quick cash for their farms, and most had never even gotten a glimpse of opportunity before. Didn’t know what it looked like. Only knew it was there staring them in the face.
Some sold. Some went to court, lost, and had to take their money anyway. And a few – because of hardships and old age – were granted a reprieve and given lifetime leases on their homesteads even though the acreage lay deep within a new national park.
One was Lem Ownby.
The old-timers were handed a strict set of regulations. You can’t hunt, they were told. You can’t cut any green trees. And the law says you have to pay a dollar per acre per year. Violate the contract, and you forfeit your land.
A bear raided Uncle Jim Carr’s springhouse. Uncle Jim Carr shot the bear. Uncle Jim Carr was kicked out of the Smokies. Another old-timer cut down a tree in his yard. It had two forks, one dead and one green. He, too, was ushered out of the mountains like a common criminal. Age crept up on the rest.
Lem Ownby lost his neighbors.
He lost most of his land.
Finally he lost his sight. He missed most the voice of man.
Lem Ownby, leaning heavily on his cane, stepped off the front porch and shuffled back toward his fifty beehives. They swarmed his face and covered his hands. It was as though they did not exist at all. Lem Ownby did not rob the hives of their honey. The bees merely left it behind for him to find. He had taken care of them for years, and now they took care of him.
His was a tranquil place, at peace with itself, with the calm wind swinging through the trees and the white water creek singing to the rocks as it rushed out of the mountains.
“Have you ever thought about leaving this valley?” I asked.
“Sometimes.”
Lem Ownby stopped for a moment and leaned against a hive. He shrugged and grinned. “One of these days,” the old man said softly, “I’m gonna go up to where the mountains are higher and prettier, and you don’t get bee stung.”
For him it would be a long wait, a lonesome wait.
Five years later, he lay down one night, closed his eyes, and by morning, the mountains had changed their shape. Higher, perhaps. Maybe even prettier. The constant hum of the bees faded into silence.
Lem Ownby had left home and gone home.
Forever and ever.
Amen.
Lem Ownby, blind and alone, sits beside his mountain cabin in the Great Smoky Mountains.
(Photo: J Gerald Crawford)
High Country Secrets
Somewhere on the outskirts of
Johnson City, Tennessee
Pop: 61,990
The Scene: Only the strong and hardy found a wilderness refuge back among the ridges of the Great Smoky Mountains. Settlers had sought a new way of life. What they found was solitude in a place – old timers swore – where you had to climb up one steep slope and plant your garden seeds by blasting them with a shotgun across the valley and into the side of another mountain
The Sights: The Great Smokies are still a haven for those who want to get out and become acquainted with the length and breadth of a sprawling landscape. Within the National Park are more than a thousand developed campsites at six key areas. They provide tent and trailer parking spaces, water, picnic tables, fireplaces, and comfort stations. If, however, you are looking for a rugged way to commune with the highlands, you can choose between a number of primitive campsites. Of course, if you are really serious about leaving any traces of civilization far behind, try backpacking.
The Story: The summer Tennessee sun had baked the ground beneath Bob Duke’s feet as he ambled out of the Great Smoky Mountains, following a dirt road that led him out of the high country and on toward Johnson City.
The dust on his face had turned to grime, and sweat cloaked his forehead. His throat was dry, his spittle tasted like dust, and the cardboard suitcase in his right hand felt as heavy as it had been all week. But then, it was always heavy when Bob Duke hadn’t sold much, and the last seven days had been a total waste. He was a drummer. He was a peddler. Nobody was buying.
Nobody in Lick Skillet or Loafer’s Glory had any money to speak of, and Bob Duke was beginning to feel like the frazzled end of a misspent life. Maybe, he thought, all of the extra dimes and dollars had run downhill to Johnson City. That’s what Bob Duke was hoping anyway. But then, hope was about all a traveling salesman had when he found himself walking from place to place in the 1920s, trying to keep a full suitcase of wares, notions, and doodads from dragging the ground.
His legs were tired, his shoulders were slumping, and the white in his shirt had turned a pale shade of yellow. Bob Duke set the suitcase on the ground beside him and looked out across the timbered mountain ridge, turning a hazy shade of blue in the far distance. He had no idea where he was. He had no idea how much farther he had to walk before finding the city limits of Johnson City. He had no idea what time it was.
He had traded his gold watch for a meal earlier in the week. The steak was tough, but it didn’t matter. The gold watch wasn’t gold anyway. Bob Duke certainly couldn’t tell the time by looking at the sun, which dangled from a high sky like a worn gold dollar above his head.
In a pasture just beyond the fence line, he saw a farmer milking a lone dairy cow in the splintered shade of an oak tree. Duke walked to the edge of the barrow ditch and yelled, “Excuse me, sir.”
The farmer barely turned his head. “You talking to me?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“What do you want, then?”
“Am I on the right road to Johnson City?”
“You’ll get there if you keep following your feet.”
“How far is it?”
“About thirty minutes if you don’t wear out.” A faint grin creased the farmer’s face. “About half a day if you do,” he said. “And if you get lost, you won’t make it all.”
“Any chance of getting lost?”
“That old road knows where it’s going.” The farmer shrugged. “It’s been there before.”
Bob Duke wiped the grime away from his sunburnt eyes and asked, “Could you tell me what time it is?”
“Two-fifteen.” The farmer had not hesitated.
Duke shrugged his weary shoulders and turned back toward the dirt road. The sun had not moved at all by the time he walked into the downtown streets of Johnson City. He glanced up