We hastened down under the threatening sky to the saddles and the luncheon.Just off from the summit, amid the rocks, is a complete arbor, or tunnel, of rhododendrons.This cavernous place a Western writer has made the scene of a desperate encounter between Big Tom and a catamount, or American panther, which had been caught in a trap and dragged it there, pursued by Wilson.It is an exceedingly graphic narrative, and is enlivened by the statement that Big Tom had the night before drunk up all the whisky of the party which had spent the night on the summit.Now Big Tom assured us that the whisky part of the story was an invention; he was not (which is true) in the habit of using it; if he ever did take any, it might be a drop on Mitchell; in fact, when he inquired if we had a flask, he remarked that a taste of it would do him good then and there.We regretted the lack of it in our baggage.But what inclined Big Tom to discredit the Western writer's story altogether was the fact that he never in his life had had a difficulty with a catamount, and never had seen one in these mountains.
Our lunch was eaten in haste.Big Tom refused the chicken he had provided for us, and strengthened himself with slices of raw salt pork, which he cut from a hunk with his clasp-knife.We caught and saddled our horses, who were reluctant to leave the rich feed, enveloped ourselves in waterproofs, and got into the stony path for the descent just as the torrent came down.It did rain.It lightened, the thunder crashed, the wind howled and twisted the treetops.It was as if we were pursued by the avenging spirits of the mountains for our intrusion.Such a tempest on this height had its terrors even for our hardy guide.He preferred to be lower down while it was going on.The crash and reverberation of the thunder did not trouble us so much as the swish of the wet branches in our faces and the horrible road, with its mud, tripping roots, loose stones, and slippery rocks.Progress was slow.The horses were in momentary danger of breaking their legs.In the first hour there was not much descent.In the clouds we were passing over Clingman, Gibbs, and Holdback.The rain had ceased, but the mist still shut off all view, if any had been attainable, and bushes and paths were deluged.The descent was more uncomfortable than the ascent, and we were compelled a good deal of the way to lead the jaded horses down the slippery rocks.
>From the peak to the Widow Patten's, where we proposed to pass the night, is twelve miles, a distance we rode or scrambled down, every step of the road bad, in five and a half hours.Halfway down we came out upon a cleared place, a farm, with fruit-trees and a house in ruins.Here had been a summer hotel much resorted to before the war, but now abandoned.Above it we turned aside for the view from Elizabeth rock, named from the daughter of the proprietor of the hotel, who often sat here, said Big Tom, before she went out of this world.It is a bold rocky ledge, and the view from it, looking south, is unquestionably the finest, the most pleasing and picture-like, we found in these mountains.In the foreground is the deep gorge of a branch of the Swannanoa, and opposite is the great wall of the Blue Ridge (the Blue Ridge is the most capricious and inexplicable system) ****** off to the Blacks.The depth of the gorge, the sweep of the sky line, and the reposeful aspect of the scene to the sunny south made this view both grand and charming.
Nature does not always put the needed dash of poetry into her extensive prospects.
Leaving this clearing and the now neglected spring, where fashion used to slake its thirst, we zigzagged down the mountain-side through a forest of trees growing at every step larger and nobler, and at length struck a small stream, the North Fork of the Swannanoa, which led us to the first settlement.Just at night,--it was nearly seven o'clock,--we entered one of the most stately forests I have ever seen, and rode for some distance in an alley of rhododendrons that arched overhead and made a bower.It was like an aisle in a temple;high overhead was the somber, leafy roof, supported by gigantic columns.Few widows have such an avenue of approach to their domain as the Widow Patten has.
Cheering as this outcome was from the day's struggle and storm, the Professor seemed sunk in a profound sadness.The auguries which the Friend drew from these signs of civilization of a charming inn and a royal supper did not lighten the melancholy of his mind."Alas," he said,"Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, And make me travel forth without my cloak, To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
'T is not enough that through the cloud thou break, To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, For no man well of such a salve can speak That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace:
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief:
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss.""Loss of what?" cried the Friend, as he whipped up his halting steed.
"Loss of self-respect.I feel humiliated that I consented to climb this mountain.""Nonsense! You'll live to thank me for it, as the best thing you ever did.It's over and done now, and you've got it to tell your friends.""That's just the trouble.They'll ask me if I went up Mitchell, and I shall have to say I did.My character for consistency is gone.
