Short Mountain

There’s a landmark here called Short Mountain. It dominates the landscape all the way to Nashville, an isolated remnant of the Cumberland Plateau. You can’t miss it, especially at night as several cell towers flash along its summit.

Been hiking there for years. At the very top there’s a series of rock bluffs and large boulders. It’s a dramatic setting but s short and easy hike along a well worn trail. The rock is sandstone with breaks of deposits of ocean-rounded stones you’ll find some days at the shore. How many millions of years since they tossed in the surf?

Around one turn there’s a long rock shelter still a popular campsite. I’ve found arrowheads there over the years, and there’s an emblem pecked into the wall identifying two men who mined millstones from the bluff in 1806. How they got them off the mountain is a mystery to me.

A few years ago, on one of our hikes there, we came across what appeared to be an ancient pictograph of the form of a man scratched into the rocks. It was worn away, the entire summit is a kind of sandstone, and covered with a pale green mold. Still it looked to me like it could be centuries old. Some fool has scratched over it with a newer, cruder stick figure, defacing what could have been the genuine article. Lost.

At any rate, we all took the grandkids on the hike through the bluffs, taking pictures in the very settings where I took pictures of my kids 20-25 years ago. The same rocks were there, nothing had changed. To their tiny eyes it must have seemed we were hiking among mountains as they scrambled to climb to the top of the same rocks which once challenged their father and uncles, when they were that small.

Over the years there’s been talk of making the place a state park. It should be, or at least a natural area for everyone to enjoy. There’s no trespassing signs along the road, but we were assured by a group of horseback riders riding the trail it was OK to hike as long as we didn’t get over on the property of the Bible camp which claims one side of the mountain. Still, it's a pocket of Tennessee's native beauty which should be open and inviting to all.

Tranquility Base

We first moved here around this time, might have been this very week, more than 30 years ago. Many of the things which so amazed us then are now routine parts of our lives: the nightly drone of the cicadas and katydid; the graceful flight of the hawks and buzzards as they ride the thermal waves ever higher; the coolness of the shade as respite from the sun; the seemingly endless shades with which green can define the forest, and the chill of the night by where the frost line stops as it works its way up the slope.

We know the calls of the tanager and bluebird now, the lonesome call of the whippoorwill on a moonlit night, the bark of the fox, and have never forgotten the shrill cry of a bobcat our first night in the house.

The hills are all familiar to me now, I’ve hiked every one, explored the valleys, recognize where the fog gathers as the creek runs through the lowest points. I know the trees, the succession of plants, the flowers of spring, then summer and fall. The neighbors are familiar whether friend or foe, and I know just as well the bends and dips of the road, where it rises and where it falls away.

I’ve learned the history of the place, can recall the names of many who lived here in their own time, trace the lines of the plow, tell the story of the battle, and where to find traces of the Indians who once roamed the land without ever claiming to own it.

For all I’ve seen, and learned, and everywhere I’ve been I’ve just never gotten over the marvel of the place, our own little tranquility base in the Tennessee hills.

And I greet each day, and enter each night, with thanks in my heart to the One for leading us here.

Taking Liberties...

Here in the country, the rising price of land is a frequent topic of conversation. Even hillside acres which barely brought $250 30 years ago can average between $1500 to $2000 today. Then, as now, they really aren’t good for much more than running goats. I do have to note, though, at these prices there’s a lot more land for sale here than there are buyers. Last time I looked there was something like 600 parcels for sale in the county. For lake view lots, barely large enough for a decent sized home and yard, the asking price can easily be in the $100,000 range.

Nice price, if you can get it. But there’s often a chasm between what a seller believes his land is worth and what a buyer is willing to pay.

When it comes it neighbors there’s rarely such disagreement: the most valuable piece of land always seems to what’s just on the other side of the fence. I’ve seen come near blows about it, go to court about it, even read of murders over fenceline disputes.

The deed for part of our place is one of those old landmark deeds. One border runs to the bottom of the hollow, thence east to a corner where it starts back up the hill. The lowest point in that hollow is a branch which runs its length. The previous owner of our property told me since that branch is the lowest point there, it defines the border. Folks used to run their fences on alternate sides of the branch so everyone's livestock would have access to the water. I’ve accepted his word and that border for 30 years without incident.

Well my neighbor recently sold the place to a son-in law who right away hired a crew to go out and fence “what’s his.” By his interpretation the border is our side of the branch, giving him full access to it and us none. I pointed out the explanation given me and my longstanding interpretation of it, and the fact that it is the lowest point in the hollow. Nevertheless he put up his fence as he pleased, without regard for being neighborly.

Another neighbor has a road easement over a farm I watch. That road leads right to the entrance gate to his place. Presentation matters to him. A couple of years ago he started having his farm hands maintain the grass right on the other side of the fence. Then for a few feet out, then yards, each time wanting to “keep up” more of what wasn’t his. When they started clearing the trees on this side, I talked to him about it. Asked that nothing be done without contacting the owners. He agreed... probably for about as long as I was talking.

Hadn’t been to that end of the property in a while but now the trees are gone, new ditches are dug and there’s a grand entrance to his place on this side of the fence, And seeing what liberties he’s enjoying, the neighbor at the other ned of the property I watch ook down the fence defining the border and “cleaned up” the fencerow..

And I’m to explain how things got that way to the absentee owners, for only they have legal recourse I have no use for those who removed the fence, but I like the other guilty neighbor in a lot of ways, he’s an old man living alone and I don’t want to upset him, but...

When will human nature change and people not covet what isn’t theirs? When that day comes there will be less cause for wars and feuds, I bet.

Unusual appearances

So far this spring has been distinguished by two appearances I’ve not seen before. Wonder if it's cyclical or somehow a product of last summer’s drought.

First, there is an abundance of crane flies this year, not like anything I’ve seen before. Walk through a field or the woods and the rise from the ground in all directions, hovering everything in their awkward slow motion flight

Then there is the profusion of yellow locust blossoms.

In the 30 years I’ve watched the spring here I’v never seen anything like it. They are hanging heavy with drooping flowers, thick as leaves. You can catch the fragrance on the breeze. Look out the valley and they have taken over with the same occasional brilliance.... just as the dogwoods have faded from view.

Tremors

Woke last night like someone was shaking me awake, only it was the bed doing the shaking. My wife was sound asleep and I lay there a few confused seconds trying to figure out how she was rattling the bed. Then it subsided and right off I noticed the roosters crowing in the dark. After a while slipped back into sleep.

Turned on the TV this morning and they said there had been a 5.3 earthquake centered in Illinois, I, about 200 miles north from here. So, my first tremors.

Around 10:15 this morning felt an aftershock, my log cabin office vibrated with a dizzying effect for a few seconds. It rated around 4.5, depending on the source.

We’re about 200 miles southeast of Reelfoot Lake, epicenter of the New Madrid earthquakes of 1811-12, strongest to ever hit the United States.

A few years ago a guy from Texas came wandering through here, retracing his roots. His family had been Tennessee pioneers, settled in Liberty for a while before they pushed further West. Had a diary from that period. They wrote about strange days when the trees swayed back and forth on the hillsides like thy were riding an ocean wave.

Must have been quite unsettling to see, and feel, but not know.

Dogwoods and Redbuds

There’s two times of year when I’d urge all with any level of passion for the outdoors to take in the woods, and its short-lived seasonal glories. The fall, when the forest is consumed with color, and right now for the brief reign of the dogwoods and redbuds. If you can’t walk a forest trail, then drive any of our country roads for the tonic of an Appalachian spring.

We’ve just emerged from the yearly early April chill known as as “dogwood” winter. It seems to herald the coming show, while there’s still a green blush to the dogwood blossoms. Maybe that chill infuses the flowers with the brilliant white which charms so distinctively under clear blue skies.

On the hillsides, along the bottoms, wherever there’s an edge to the forest, dabs of bold white counter the soft lavender of the redbuds and green hues of the awakening season. It’s the redbud's final show, too, before heart shaped leaves rule limbs now decked in delicate flowers. Under foot, the warming earth invites trilliums and wake robins, phacelia, violets, and stands of mayapple back from winter’s retreat.

A few years ago, there real fears a blight would banish the dogwoods from our spring. And dogwood anthracnose took its toll, bringing down many trees. The dogwood still reigns, but with less hold than seasons past. But the worst may be over, or at least that’s my hope.

Over the weekend I wandered off a trail into a pocket of deep woods where a dense stand of loblolly pines had been planted years ago. Another scourge of recent years, the pine beetle, left the forest floor criss-crossed with fallen trunks, moss covered and decaying.

But in their wake, young dogwoods had taken root, a stand stretching for a hundred yards or so, determined and promising even in the shower of ice pellets that fell as I passed in winter's finale.

A Long Way Here

We’re into he early throes of spring now, grass and weeds starting to surge from rent rains, leaves taking shape on the branches of all the trees and shrubs.

One of the harbingers of real spring in the woods here is the blossoming of the shad bush or serviceberry. It’s what I call an occasional tree, pretty infrequent here. In fact there’s less than a dozen or so in our entire 40 acres. So few, I set out last week to mark them so I could track them throughout the year. Tied a strip of orange on a branch then moved on search for another break of fleecy white in the woods.

Two falls ago, after all the leaves had fallen from the trees and a spot of bold pink suddenly appeared in the upper branches of one tree across the hollow. With my binoculars, I could make out a balloon tangled there. Over the next few months it gradually lost its shape as the helium leached away. One day, it was no longer visible and quickly forgotten.

As I searched for shadbushes last week I stumbled on a baggie holding a folded over wet piece of paper right below where that balloon had hung. I could make out a name, a place—Etta, MS- and a request “If you find this please call..”. So I did.

A woman answered, I asked for the name and she told me it was her six year old son who was not at home. When I explained the call she reasoned he must have released the balloon at school, either in nursery school or kindergarten. It traveled 350 miles here, but we’re not sure how long it took.

Whenever I stalk a shadbush I'll remember the reach of things scattered in the wind.