This is an account of my experiences during the search for my family roots. I had recently read a book written by my great uncle and namesake, Casper Waldo, titled: Hoot Owls, Honeysuckle and Hallelujah. My great seven times grandfather, Harmon had settled in North Carolina in 1751 and i had determined to find the homesite, drink from the spring and see what species of fish lived in the creek mentioned in his book. Little did i realize how many emotions and realizations would occur during these next days. Who we are is not solely determined by our own experiences and parents, i am now convinced there are deep set traits that we carry from the lives of our ancestors. Traits that helped them survive and prosper through the difficult times of our countries past. The book has been a fascinating read and if one has read or seen Cold Mountain they would get a pretty good glimpse of a portion of that time my family experienced in North Carolina. What follows are the words that set me on this search...
The following is an excerpt from Casper Waldo's Chapter:
Harmon and Jane Choose Their Homestead.
1751 ... he sent them into the Deep River Valley where Harmon's two cousins were headed, but a short trip convinced them that even though the land was rich, it was cut up into parcels too small to suit their plan. The next trip took them through the Yadkin Valley, but the Moravians had taken up most of the large holdings in that area. The third trip out was to the south, crossing the Deep River; and, catching the headwaters of Richland Creek, they followed it down a few miles into a gently rolling country; then, going up a smaller creek two miles, they came upon a big spring pouring out a copious stream of cold water on the side of a beautiful hill covered in oak and dogwood. The spring was surrounded by willows, wild azaleas and honeysuckle. The sweet odor of the colorful blossoms attracted their attention a hundred feet away. They drank and drank, then stretched out on the wild daisies and tall grass in the shade of the willows. They felt a strong urge to explore the surroundings area. They rode their horses a full mile in all directions, following the little stream still further as it wound its way up through woods of white oak, hickory, yellow pine and dogwood. The land was gently rolling and fairly good soil. A sizable branch entered the creek upstream, and that had to be explored, for it had considerable meadowland and swampy areas along its channel. They returned again to the spring after several hours of wandering over the woodlands. Again they refreshed themselves with a long drink of the cold, sparkling water gushing forth from the hillside, and stretched out on the grass under the willows. The sweet fragrance of the honeysuckles and wild azaleas, and the perfect shade of the weeping willows, made the spot seem to them so friendly and satisfying that time had slipped away, and almost before they knew it the sun was setting and the long shadows of the tall trees were beginning to produce an afterglow the like of which they had never observed before. It was so entrancing to watch the change from day to nightfall that Jane thought it would be a "tragic mistake to leave before morning." By now the spring branch came alive with the croaking of the night frogs; occasionally, a big bullfrog in the creek below bellowed loud above the rest: "Butter-um, butter-um!" And to their amazement, the fireflies-"Lightning bugs," we called them - began speckling the darkness as far as they could see. Then soon the whippoorwills - six or eight in all directions - began there generous introductions, keeping up the chorus long into the night. They were intrigued with these sites and sounds. The air was so balmy and soft that they lay entranced, without covering, as the harvest moon came up out of the trees. In the night hoot owls serenaded the newcomers - a weird call they had never heard before; and as daylight began to break into dawn, the bobwhites began to repeat their names over and over, as if to impress the newcomers with their cordiality as well as their importance in the community. As the sun came up, the cooing doves started their romantic strains in the treetops, and then a mockingbird seemed to take command of all the rest.
from "Hoot Owls, Honeysuckle and Hallelujah" Pages 30 & 31.
Preparations.
I had to find the homesite, i was mesmerized by the account and felt sure i could walk upon their ground and touch the spring. I studied my NC gazetteer and downloaded hi-res pdf quad contour maps of the region and spliced their four corners together and enlarged the assembled section. The area was filled with my family name; Cox Mountain, Old Cox Highway, Cox Brothers Road and two Cox Mill sites.
My great uncle had often written of Purgatory Mountain which lay just to the west, and is now the North Carolina Zoological Park. Richland Creek, contours, roads and crossing all were clearly visible. Surely i could find it with ease. I choose to go alone, my senses free from the chatter of Pierre, Ranger and the Auctioneer. I had just attended the 2007 North American Native Fish Association gathering held in Greensboro, North Carolina and had tried to synchronize plans with my fish buddies. However time had been pressed and my options few and now new voices called to me alone. I had been preparing several months for this trip from my home in Tennessee; studying maps, rereading excerpts and speaking with close and distant relatives. On a blue skied Monday morning my search finally began.
One of the few remaining relic houses in Randolph County.
South and Crossing the Deep River.
After an arduous three month, trail cutting, wagon trek from Philadelphia my ancestors had rested and reprovisioned at the New Garden Quaker Settlement, which is now known as Guilford College, the site where the native fish gathering was to be originally held. I headed south following the route my Quaker forefathers had taken into a region now known as Randolph County. They had crossed the Deep River at Buffalo Ford and on into the rolling hill country northeast of what is now Asheboro. Following the same route i crossed into the lower reaches of the Richland Creek watershed and began to work myself upstream in search of Panther Creek. This was the creek upon which my ancestors had settled and raised four generations. Traveling through farmland i trusted memories to lead me beyond the words provided by Casper's book. Turning down a ravine i followed a gravel road which lead to a low, overgrown bridge. A twisted, bullet holed and rusting sign read "Panther Creek". I turned back and then south at the next crossing and headed down a long gravel lane. At the end of this lane stood Panther Creek Congregation, a wood planked and whitewashed church.
The architecture was reminiscent of times past, a simple country church topped with a shingled bell tower and cross. On the church grounds was a neatly tended cemetery. Though the grass was trimmed and fresh flowers adorned a few graves some headstones jutted from the ground at odd angles and sadly a few lay broken upon the ground. I walked out among the graves and soon found the shared headstone of Yancey and Nancy Cox, the father and mother of my father's father. Nearby was Yancey's father's grave, who was the second Harmon, and then i found Harmon's father, Abel, who therefore is my great-great-great grandfather. Abel was born in 1803, and his father's father was the first Harmon who arrived here in 1751. A lot of distant past gathered and hard to comprehend in one space of time.
My older Quaker ancestors left no gravestones as they considered it inappropriate to do so. I touched the hand hewn stones and realized that i was standing upon the same ground my ancestors had stood upon. I thought of Yancey as he was often spoke of in Casper's book.
The following is an excerpt from Casper Waldo's Chapter:
The Big Coon Fight.
Probably no living mortal could be more serious than Yancey when he was serious - and that was most of the time; but when he reverted, probably no mortal excelled him in the pursuit of a good time. Nothing seemed to change the picture from the serious like hunting and fishing. He threw everything he had into it, just like fighting fire. And don't get the idea that he ever sat for five minutes with a fishing pole in his hands. No, Siree! That method was too slow for his style. He never "induced" either fish or wild game; he "forced" them! He insisted on a seine when he went fishing; and of all times, he liked it best when a thunderstorm was on and muddy water was coming up fast. Seining in Panther Creek was ideal; it was not too wide for a twenty-foot seine to reach from bank to bank. Two good, strong men held the seine poles down and against either bank, at the lower end of the "hole," while three or four of us would jump in a hundred feet up and come down, each with a hoe, simply tearing up the creek bed. Just as we reached the lower end of the hole, the seine was raised, and sometimes two dozen fish were caught with one haul... every kind of fish, and sometimes an eel.When he did catch an eel, boy, oh, boy, what a time we had getting him in the sack! Everybody would be trying to cinch him; sometimes even three or four of us thought we had him. And if there is anything slicker than an eel, its two of 'em! Once I saw Yancey struggling with one, using every sleight-of-hand trick he knew, down in the belly of the seine, then up in midair, and back again - finally biting it with his teeth as he scrambled out on to the bank!
from "Hoot Owls, Honeysuckle and Hallelujah" Pages 169 & 170.
Contemplating while reclining against Yancey's gravestone i remembered a passage from the book that his son wrote. Instead of first looking for the homesite as planned i decided to find the baptismal site mentioned on Richland Creek. I retraced my drive back to Richland Creek just a few miles away. Previously while studying the North Carolina gazetteer i had found the mill site mentioned in the account. A nearby road crossing and short walk lead me to the water's edge. I felt is if i had stepped back in time and standing alone on the bank i felt an urge to hear my own voice. I opened the book and read aloud the passage of the day of baptism. Out across the quiet flowing pool my voice resonated in the natural amplitheater the terrain and water provided. I looked out across the mirrored water and saw the memory of family, friends and believers gathered on the sloping hill side. The new in the lord, their gowns white and fresh, walked to the water's edge and waited for the preacher's call to come down into the water. Each in turn were briefly immersed and their sins were washed away, beginning life anew and with a new found commitment.
The following is an excerpt from Casper Waldo's Chapter:
The Annual Campmeetings.
Nobody had ever seen anything like it before. It was the turning point in the moral and spiritual life of the entire community. After all the camp meetings were over in the community, a great "baptizing" was arranged by all the churches. It was held at Kemp's Mill on Richland Creek, about three miles from our house. The place was ideal; it was at the ford of the creek, with a broad sandy bottom, where the water flow slows down after making a huge bend in the channel. The bend of the creek made a large pool as big as a city block and provided an ideal setting for such an occasion, where the spectators might sit on the circular banks and see and hear perfectly. The crowd was immense, and the banks for two hundred yards were full of people; hundreds came early, for it was the crowning ceremony for all the neighborhood churches taking part in the six-weeks religious effort. Those taking part in the ceremony gathered first at the mill house, where they changed clothing, put on their robes of pure white - like choir robes - and then all slowly marched down to the ford of the creek. At the creek edge, on the white sand, a host of friends of those to be baptized had gathered. Mely, my sister, was there with our reed organ to play for the hymns. Old John Cagle, our faithful choir leader for thirty years, led the singing of three hymns - one of which was, "Shall We Gather at the River"; another was, "Day is dying in the West"; and the other was, "Nearer My God to Thee." The music carried over the water with the most remarkable acoustics; one could even hear a whisper a block away. After the hymns, one of the ministers said a short prayer. Then our minister, who was a big man, assisted by two other ministers, started moving slowly out into the water where it was about waste deep, followed by a line of those who were to be baptized. The sandy bottom was smooth, and no one stumbled or made a false move. When our minister reached the right spot, he firmly held the folded hands of the person first to be baptized with his left hand; and, placing his right hand back of the shoulders, said loudly and distinctly, calling the participant by his full name, "I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost," gently lowering the person backward and down under the water, then back up again. One of the assisting ministers then helped the person baptized to start moving back slowly toward the organ on the beach, while the other minister assisted the next person into place. There were sixty-seven in all, and it took about twenty minutes, for it was done slowly and with great dignity. Nobody made a misstep or a fumble in any way. And not another voice was heard, nor a whisper, as the crowd sat spellbound through the entire ceremony.
from "Hoot Owls, Honeysuckle and Hallelujah" pages 133 & 134.
Baptized.
I decided to follow the creek upstream past a series of beautiful water carved boulder falls. I waded knee deep through several pools being careful in sandals, slick upon the polished rocks. Flashes of color dashed before me racing to and fro. I peered down into the clear water and stretched out my arms wide, palms downward and watched the swirling fish condense into a vibrant ball reflecting all the colors of known light. The clean gravel chub nest, mounded high to just inches below the surface and spread wide beyond my outstretched fingertips, wider than any i have encountered or even envisioned in my dreams. The pulsing mass of shiners and dace seemed to call to me gently following the rhythm of my own breath with each pulse and wave of light. I looked upstream and beyond to the gaping walls of the grist mill dam where the water has since cut through the stone returning the course of the stream to its natural flow. The creek now sweeps wide and shallow flowing over the chub mound, past my feet and on to the baptismal pool beyond. These fish know me.
I climbed among the mill stones and felt the mass of water they once retained. Water used to turn the great gears that ground the grain for those that gathered. Mill sites were social centers and flush with activity during the harvest season. Many lives had passed over this ground. I climbed down from the uppermost walls and worked my way along a fading road that had once carried wagons of grain and people. Nearly overgrown i was able to struggle back out onto the roadside where a sheriff was waiting by my van. Someone had called and he had been sent to check on me. Perhaps if that individual had inquired directly a piece of history could have been shared. The sheriff, contented with my story, left and i walked to the pool's edge and stepped in.
One of the few remaining relic houses in Randolph County.
South and Crossing the Deep River.
After an arduous three month, trail cutting, wagon trek from Philadelphia my ancestors had rested and reprovisioned at the New Garden Quaker Settlement, which is now known as Guilford College, the site where the native fish gathering was to be originally held. I headed south following the route my Quaker forefathers had taken into a region now known as Randolph County. They had crossed the Deep River at Buffalo Ford and on into the rolling hill country northeast of what is now Asheboro. Following the same route i crossed into the lower reaches of the Richland Creek watershed and began to work myself upstream in search of Panther Creek. This was the creek upon which my ancestors had settled and raised four generations. Traveling through farmland i trusted memories to lead me beyond the words provided by Casper's book. Turning down a ravine i followed a gravel road which lead to a low, overgrown bridge. A twisted, bullet holed and rusting sign read "Panther Creek". I turned back and then south at the next crossing and headed down a long gravel lane. At the end of this lane stood Panther Creek Congregation, a wood planked and whitewashed church.
The architecture was reminiscent of times past, a simple country church topped with a shingled bell tower and cross. On the church grounds was a neatly tended cemetery. Though the grass was trimmed and fresh flowers adorned a few graves some headstones jutted from the ground at odd angles and sadly a few lay broken upon the ground. I walked out among the graves and soon found the shared headstone of Yancey and Nancy Cox, the father and mother of my father's father. Nearby was Yancey's father's grave, who was the second Harmon, and then i found Harmon's father, Abel, who therefore is my great-great-great grandfather. Abel was born in 1803, and his father's father was the first Harmon who arrived here in 1751. A lot of distant past gathered and hard to comprehend in one space of time.
My older Quaker ancestors left no gravestones as they considered it inappropriate to do so. I touched the hand hewn stones and realized that i was standing upon the same ground my ancestors had stood upon. I thought of Yancey as he was often spoke of in Casper's book.
The following is an excerpt from Casper Waldo's Chapter:
The Big Coon Fight.
Probably no living mortal could be more serious than Yancey when he was serious - and that was most of the time; but when he reverted, probably no mortal excelled him in the pursuit of a good time. Nothing seemed to change the picture from the serious like hunting and fishing. He threw everything he had into it, just like fighting fire. And don't get the idea that he ever sat for five minutes with a fishing pole in his hands. No, Siree! That method was too slow for his style. He never "induced" either fish or wild game; he "forced" them! He insisted on a seine when he went fishing; and of all times, he liked it best when a thunderstorm was on and muddy water was coming up fast. Seining in Panther Creek was ideal; it was not too wide for a twenty-foot seine to reach from bank to bank. Two good, strong men held the seine poles down and against either bank, at the lower end of the "hole," while three or four of us would jump in a hundred feet up and come down, each with a hoe, simply tearing up the creek bed. Just as we reached the lower end of the hole, the seine was raised, and sometimes two dozen fish were caught with one haul... every kind of fish, and sometimes an eel.When he did catch an eel, boy, oh, boy, what a time we had getting him in the sack! Everybody would be trying to cinch him; sometimes even three or four of us thought we had him. And if there is anything slicker than an eel, its two of 'em! Once I saw Yancey struggling with one, using every sleight-of-hand trick he knew, down in the belly of the seine, then up in midair, and back again - finally biting it with his teeth as he scrambled out on to the bank!
from "Hoot Owls, Honeysuckle and Hallelujah" Pages 169 & 170.
Contemplating while reclining against Yancey's gravestone i remembered a passage from the book that his son wrote. Instead of first looking for the homesite as planned i decided to find the baptismal site mentioned on Richland Creek. I retraced my drive back to Richland Creek just a few miles away. Previously while studying the North Carolina gazetteer i had found the mill site mentioned in the account. A nearby road crossing and short walk lead me to the water's edge. I felt is if i had stepped back in time and standing alone on the bank i felt an urge to hear my own voice. I opened the book and read aloud the passage of the day of baptism. Out across the quiet flowing pool my voice resonated in the natural amplitheater the terrain and water provided. I looked out across the mirrored water and saw the memory of family, friends and believers gathered on the sloping hill side. The new in the lord, their gowns white and fresh, walked to the water's edge and waited for the preacher's call to come down into the water. Each in turn were briefly immersed and their sins were washed away, beginning life anew and with a new found commitment.
The following is an excerpt from Casper Waldo's Chapter:
The Annual Campmeetings.
Nobody had ever seen anything like it before. It was the turning point in the moral and spiritual life of the entire community. After all the camp meetings were over in the community, a great "baptizing" was arranged by all the churches. It was held at Kemp's Mill on Richland Creek, about three miles from our house. The place was ideal; it was at the ford of the creek, with a broad sandy bottom, where the water flow slows down after making a huge bend in the channel. The bend of the creek made a large pool as big as a city block and provided an ideal setting for such an occasion, where the spectators might sit on the circular banks and see and hear perfectly. The crowd was immense, and the banks for two hundred yards were full of people; hundreds came early, for it was the crowning ceremony for all the neighborhood churches taking part in the six-weeks religious effort. Those taking part in the ceremony gathered first at the mill house, where they changed clothing, put on their robes of pure white - like choir robes - and then all slowly marched down to the ford of the creek. At the creek edge, on the white sand, a host of friends of those to be baptized had gathered. Mely, my sister, was there with our reed organ to play for the hymns. Old John Cagle, our faithful choir leader for thirty years, led the singing of three hymns - one of which was, "Shall We Gather at the River"; another was, "Day is dying in the West"; and the other was, "Nearer My God to Thee." The music carried over the water with the most remarkable acoustics; one could even hear a whisper a block away. After the hymns, one of the ministers said a short prayer. Then our minister, who was a big man, assisted by two other ministers, started moving slowly out into the water where it was about waste deep, followed by a line of those who were to be baptized. The sandy bottom was smooth, and no one stumbled or made a false move. When our minister reached the right spot, he firmly held the folded hands of the person first to be baptized with his left hand; and, placing his right hand back of the shoulders, said loudly and distinctly, calling the participant by his full name, "I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost," gently lowering the person backward and down under the water, then back up again. One of the assisting ministers then helped the person baptized to start moving back slowly toward the organ on the beach, while the other minister assisted the next person into place. There were sixty-seven in all, and it took about twenty minutes, for it was done slowly and with great dignity. Nobody made a misstep or a fumble in any way. And not another voice was heard, nor a whisper, as the crowd sat spellbound through the entire ceremony.
from "Hoot Owls, Honeysuckle and Hallelujah" pages 133 & 134.
Baptized.
I decided to follow the creek upstream past a series of beautiful water carved boulder falls. I waded knee deep through several pools being careful in sandals, slick upon the polished rocks. Flashes of color dashed before me racing to and fro. I peered down into the clear water and stretched out my arms wide, palms downward and watched the swirling fish condense into a vibrant ball reflecting all the colors of known light. The clean gravel chub nest, mounded high to just inches below the surface and spread wide beyond my outstretched fingertips, wider than any i have encountered or even envisioned in my dreams. The pulsing mass of shiners and dace seemed to call to me gently following the rhythm of my own breath with each pulse and wave of light. I looked upstream and beyond to the gaping walls of the grist mill dam where the water has since cut through the stone returning the course of the stream to its natural flow. The creek now sweeps wide and shallow flowing over the chub mound, past my feet and on to the baptismal pool beyond. These fish know me.
I climbed among the mill stones and felt the mass of water they once retained. Water used to turn the great gears that ground the grain for those that gathered. Mill sites were social centers and flush with activity during the harvest season. Many lives had passed over this ground. I climbed down from the uppermost walls and worked my way along a fading road that had once carried wagons of grain and people. Nearly overgrown i was able to struggle back out onto the roadside where a sheriff was waiting by my van. Someone had called and he had been sent to check on me. Perhaps if that individual had inquired directly a piece of history could have been shared. The sheriff, contented with my story, left and i walked to the pool's edge and stepped in.
I pulled my mask over and down and drifted through the baptismal waters of my ancestors. Speckled topminnows cruised just below the surface at the water's edge and redhorse gathered below the falls in the sand filtered run. A gar cut across my line of slight headed to the far bank. I allowed the flow to take me downstream to the far end where it ran under a bridge of stone and steel. The water raced through a stand of river grass and i let it carry me through the narrow channel it created. Another run of cobble greeted me and i rose out of the water and walked along the edge to position myself down at the outflow of this cobbled run. Satinfin shiners danced in the light and brassy colored duskies massed along the vegetated banks. I felt born again and was content.
I returned to the church and set out to find the old homesite. A chimney marking the house was all that was said to remain in 1966 and i had determined to find it. The site was said to be located 100 yards above a spring and i summized that if i followed Panther Creek and found the spring run i could follow it uphill to the springhead. From that point about one hundred yards up the hill i should find the homesite. It seemed practical enough. All this was generally within a square mile and i felt surely i could find it. There was to be no such quick luck. The woods behind the church quickly descended into a recent clear cutting. Through this tangle and beyond i made my way down but not quite to the still distant creek. It was impassable with briars, brambles and swampy water. Discouraged, i hiked back up the hill and beared to the east and down into yet another clearcut. A trickle of water flowed through the woody debris and i followed it upward wondering if there would lay the spring head. At the base of a large stump, once a mighty oak, the trickle dissappeared into bulldozer ruts. I was disoriented, frustrated in the exposed ground and the sun's heat. The swamp and clearcutting began to madden me. I had lost my sense of the past from only hours before, now man's destruction was all i was seeing, hearing and feeling on the parched, drained dirt. No no No! Maybe the chimney had been bulldozed over? I climbed mounds of broken limbs and looked out for any trace of brick or stone. The ground was dry and little vegetation had regrown to protect the earth. In heat, fatique and dispair i gave up and found a place to rest for the night. Tho the physical rest was well received by my body, my mind was filled with distant memories, dreams and voices throughout the night.
In All Readiness.
The next morning i headed into town to acquire the appropiate gear. My legs had been shredded the previous day from all the briars and broken limbs of the clear cut and i had picked countless ticks off of me, and chiggers were buried into my ankles. I decided to outfit myself according to the principles of P Kuluski. I stopped by my favorite store, a really big Big Lots, and purchased the needed gear. After pulling long pants over my torn shorts i loaded my pack with bug spray, my camera, water and an MRE. Across my back i strapped a machete and attached clippers, a knife, a multitool and compass to and from my chest belt. After a few more quick errands i was now ready to return southward.
No Trespassing.
I decided to approach the assumed location of the homesite from the southern flank of Panther Creek. I parked alongside a worn paved road near a gated and overgrown logging rut. On the rusted gate read "No Trespassing". I had come so far to find a past and i was not ready to give up, not yet at least. Deciding to offer my story humbly if confronted i hitched up my pack and gear and crossed the old fence line heading into the woods beyond. These were old woods, open woods with large diameter hardwoods. They were calming and reassuring to my soul as opposed to the horrible snagged clear cuts of the previous day. That day had worn me to dispair and fatique but today i returned with a fresh sense of desire and adventure. Easing through the open woods i came across a depression, probably a root cellar, with the stacked and stepped stones still aligned at the sloping edges. No bricks were visible and i was sure this was not the site being so near the road. After a brief look around i continued downward toward the creek. I now know that this was my father's father's homesite of his first family.
The old growth abruptly turned into an impassable thicket of pine. A narrow game trail lead to the right or left, and i chose right as it seemed to descend in the general direction i assumed was correct. This trail widened and joined another leading to a series of small openings. More "No Trespassing" signs, a twisted run of barbed wire and on past two camouflaged tree stands for deer hunting. Unnerved but committed to find my roots i continued on downward. Beavers had been busy and dammed the flow creating a back water pond populated by a lone stand of dark broken, black limbed sentinels mirrored in the reflecting water. This was why i could not cross from the northerly direction. A crackling rush of water cut from the far wooded edge and rippled back to the stream bed and from there flowed past the bank where my feet rested. I followed it downstream crossing sap oozing, beaver gnawed pine stumps and their downed trees. The water flowed clean from the settling pond and i could see clearly shimmering dace racing up the stream as if to greet me. The creek bent back away from the beaver pond and deep into a forested cove. Surely i must be close, my senses alerted, i felt a beckoning, urging me deeper into the cove. I advanced slowly ducking and trimming my way through a dense growth of vines, fallen limbs and low branches. Gaining higher ground i came upon a low broad shallow filled with green ferns. The ground was lush and rich and i stepped across a rippling crevise buried beneath the earthen moss. I followed it upward and the sound of water running, crisp and bright greeted my ears. The water surged forth from a quartz stoned break in the wooded hillside. Cool to my brow and sweet to my lips, surely this must be the spring spoken of and drank from.
Distant Thunder.
I ascended up from the springhead, following along a rutted trail lined by stones and outcroppings of bleached white quartz. I could see this was a well worn road carved deep into the earth and surely the homesite lay not far beyond. The old road turned up the ravine, faded and then disappeared into an overgrown thicket that likely was the result of a clear cutting several years prior. I began to trim, cut and hack myself into the density but was overcome after 30 minutes and only 20 or 30 yards of upward movement was gained, and any sign of the road was now gone. It was impassable and i was concerned about getting disoriented and even delirious in such a situation. Even the sky had darkened uncannily, too early yet for the evening to be. Distant thunder rolled and rain soon began to fall in big splats. I tightened my gear and reconsidered my options. I felt sure the homesite had to be less than a hundred yards up the hillside but another approach was needed. Retracing my steps and reorienting my direction with the compass i descended into a shallow wash just as the rain cut loose falling in waves upon the me and the surrounding woods. Moving ever quicker i cut back up and crossed a powerline and at a low knoll a hooded stand for hunting deer was perched amongst the low pines along the power line's edge. I climbed up the ladder, drenching wet, but was relieved from the pelting rain. I relaxed, wiped the rain from my face and watched the plants drink from the moisture provided. Not much had fallen this year and it was welcomed with an open thirst by all that was green. I finished the long stale MRE as waves of golden light filtered back through the passing thunderstorm, the plants waving in shimmering rays of light and a gentle breeze. Though refreshed the day's heat quickly returned filling the air with a sweltering humidity along the open powerline. I climbed down from the stand as the thundershower moved on.
In All Readiness.
The next morning i headed into town to acquire the appropiate gear. My legs had been shredded the previous day from all the briars and broken limbs of the clear cut and i had picked countless ticks off of me, and chiggers were buried into my ankles. I decided to outfit myself according to the principles of P Kuluski. I stopped by my favorite store, a really big Big Lots, and purchased the needed gear. After pulling long pants over my torn shorts i loaded my pack with bug spray, my camera, water and an MRE. Across my back i strapped a machete and attached clippers, a knife, a multitool and compass to and from my chest belt. After a few more quick errands i was now ready to return southward.
No Trespassing.
I decided to approach the assumed location of the homesite from the southern flank of Panther Creek. I parked alongside a worn paved road near a gated and overgrown logging rut. On the rusted gate read "No Trespassing". I had come so far to find a past and i was not ready to give up, not yet at least. Deciding to offer my story humbly if confronted i hitched up my pack and gear and crossed the old fence line heading into the woods beyond. These were old woods, open woods with large diameter hardwoods. They were calming and reassuring to my soul as opposed to the horrible snagged clear cuts of the previous day. That day had worn me to dispair and fatique but today i returned with a fresh sense of desire and adventure. Easing through the open woods i came across a depression, probably a root cellar, with the stacked and stepped stones still aligned at the sloping edges. No bricks were visible and i was sure this was not the site being so near the road. After a brief look around i continued downward toward the creek. I now know that this was my father's father's homesite of his first family.
The old growth abruptly turned into an impassable thicket of pine. A narrow game trail lead to the right or left, and i chose right as it seemed to descend in the general direction i assumed was correct. This trail widened and joined another leading to a series of small openings. More "No Trespassing" signs, a twisted run of barbed wire and on past two camouflaged tree stands for deer hunting. Unnerved but committed to find my roots i continued on downward. Beavers had been busy and dammed the flow creating a back water pond populated by a lone stand of dark broken, black limbed sentinels mirrored in the reflecting water. This was why i could not cross from the northerly direction. A crackling rush of water cut from the far wooded edge and rippled back to the stream bed and from there flowed past the bank where my feet rested. I followed it downstream crossing sap oozing, beaver gnawed pine stumps and their downed trees. The water flowed clean from the settling pond and i could see clearly shimmering dace racing up the stream as if to greet me. The creek bent back away from the beaver pond and deep into a forested cove. Surely i must be close, my senses alerted, i felt a beckoning, urging me deeper into the cove. I advanced slowly ducking and trimming my way through a dense growth of vines, fallen limbs and low branches. Gaining higher ground i came upon a low broad shallow filled with green ferns. The ground was lush and rich and i stepped across a rippling crevise buried beneath the earthen moss. I followed it upward and the sound of water running, crisp and bright greeted my ears. The water surged forth from a quartz stoned break in the wooded hillside. Cool to my brow and sweet to my lips, surely this must be the spring spoken of and drank from.
Distant Thunder.
I ascended up from the springhead, following along a rutted trail lined by stones and outcroppings of bleached white quartz. I could see this was a well worn road carved deep into the earth and surely the homesite lay not far beyond. The old road turned up the ravine, faded and then disappeared into an overgrown thicket that likely was the result of a clear cutting several years prior. I began to trim, cut and hack myself into the density but was overcome after 30 minutes and only 20 or 30 yards of upward movement was gained, and any sign of the road was now gone. It was impassable and i was concerned about getting disoriented and even delirious in such a situation. Even the sky had darkened uncannily, too early yet for the evening to be. Distant thunder rolled and rain soon began to fall in big splats. I tightened my gear and reconsidered my options. I felt sure the homesite had to be less than a hundred yards up the hillside but another approach was needed. Retracing my steps and reorienting my direction with the compass i descended into a shallow wash just as the rain cut loose falling in waves upon the me and the surrounding woods. Moving ever quicker i cut back up and crossed a powerline and at a low knoll a hooded stand for hunting deer was perched amongst the low pines along the power line's edge. I climbed up the ladder, drenching wet, but was relieved from the pelting rain. I relaxed, wiped the rain from my face and watched the plants drink from the moisture provided. Not much had fallen this year and it was welcomed with an open thirst by all that was green. I finished the long stale MRE as waves of golden light filtered back through the passing thunderstorm, the plants waving in shimmering rays of light and a gentle breeze. Though refreshed the day's heat quickly returned filling the air with a sweltering humidity along the open powerline. I climbed down from the stand as the thundershower moved on.
A Whisper.
Standing in the sweltering open air i decided to cut back northward into the woods hoping to circumvent any more thickets. Crossing through a dense and tangled stand of pine a refreshing coolness greeted me, the smell of honeysuckle and rich earth flooded over my senses. A carpet of moss and pine needles lay before me covering the ground. There was life here, resting deep in the mosses and moisture laying upon the quartz, stones and bones of the earth. I was swept over by the sense that time was here, and now and in the ever past. Though I could see not further than three or four paces i knew i was upon land that held memories to my soul. I twisted, turned and scrapped through the tangled vines, briars and scrub pines searching for the pile of stone and brick that would mark the site of my ancestor's home. For 30 minutes i struggled through the near impassable but was teased on with the sense of here, now. Droplets continued to fall from the thick, low canopy above drenching me. I was sure i was upon it. An oddly tilted stone, a low spot, a brick, a piece of rusting iron poked from the ground, providing a glimpse, a clue here, over there. No, walk back up the hill, push to the north. Stop. Turn. I kneeled down and picked up an antler from the mossy ground, surely it had fallen during last year's winter after the season's rut. The four points had aged into a fine patena of greened bone. From my knees i looked beyond and could see the other antler jutting upward from the ground not six feet away. No squirrels or rodent had gnawed the bone and it surely lay as it had fallen months before.
I stood quietly and heard a whisper, perhaps a faint rustle of wind. Turning i pushed into and through a tangled shadow. Breaking into the fading light i stood before the mortared bricks towering high above the twisted scrub pines. Out into the early evening's blue sky, the day's last rays of light shone brightly upon its uppermost bricks. I figured it to be well over three heights of me, at least twenty feet from its crumbling peak down to the rubble below. I stretched out my arms and the opening was wider than my reach. Broken bricks, stones and rubble lay mounded about the base. A cracked scar filled with the vines of honeysuckle crawled up the backside letting light filter down through the hollows.
I stepped to the otherside and stumbled back, for there, upon the fallen rubble, a man sat. A large man, he was old and weathered and dressed with a dark and frayed coat. Memories flooded over me, distant, as i grasped for the present, yet he was calm and sat in seemingly contentment. The only motion, in his hand twisted a thorned vine covered with black berries. He looked up to me as if he had been waiting for sometime and spoke, "Son, what are you looking for?" Stunned, i closed my eyes and opened them to hear myself say "The past, i am looking for the past". He twisted the branch and slowly pulled a berry from it. I watched as he rolled the berry gently between his thumb and forefinger. He closed his eyes, bought the berry close to his lips and i heard him whisper clearly, "Look to the year's that lay before you". A quietness settled over me and i was jarred by a rustle from behind and turned to see a buck with velvet shedding from his horns peering at me through the brush. He flicked his tail and jerked his head at our presense. I turned slowly back to the old man to see his response and all that rested upon the rubble was the broken hearthstone or perhaps the mantle of old. The buck snorted, i turned again and the deer was gone with a quick blur of white and brown. I stood frozen in disbelief and then slowly turned my eyes back. The only sound, the only heard over the quiet fall of the remaining drops of rain, was a distant chirping and a faint rustling breeze overhead. I walked to the broken hearth stone and put my hand on it. Cool to my touch, the warmth had long faded. I picked up a brick, one of its edged sides blackened and glazed from the countless fires that had warmed four generations and cooked their meals. I turned the brick in my hand and felt the maker's print, a thumb pushed deep into the edge and above it a leaf's mark forever pressed into the long fired red clay.
Quiet again, I heard an owl call from the distance hollow. The light was dimming and i could not see clearly, the shadows were long and darkness was gathering around me. The walk leading in had been well over a mile as the crow flies, but several miles of disorienting twists and turns had confused me. There was no clear path back in the fading light. I made my way out of the thicket and turned away from the setting sun and walked briskly along the powerline following it upward and then cut to the southeast crossing a low ridge and down into a darkening ravine. Coming out of the ravine's shadows at last light an open forest lead me on and out to old North Carolina Highway 13 just a couple hundred yards up from where i had first crossed the posted fence line. Relieved i started walking downhill toward my van and was just a hundred yards short of reaching it when an odd dance of light shone wildly across the tree tops. I heard the sound of rumbling machinery and turned to see a lurching vehicle cresting the hill from behind me. It was an old pickup truck, odd with one headlight shining crazily askew. Slowly it approached and finally drove up alongside me, easing to a stop just as i neared my van. I heard a weathered voice, an indecipherable muttering from within. I approached the cracked and oddly tilted side window and peered into the darkness. A grizzled old man's face, stained with streaks from the corners of his mouth, looked out from the dashlite shadows and i thought he asked me if i needed anything. I told him that i was very glad to have made it out of the woods before dark. He replied, "Those woods are storied, most folks leave when they can". I asked him what that meant and he nodded his head, reached down and grinded the truck back into gear.
This has been written in gratitude and in the character of my namesake, Casper Waldo Cox. His account of my ancestors put me on this path without whom i would have never had these experiences. Some of it is true. For facts one should consult Walter Boyd who i am ever greatfully in debt to. Also to Erma Davis with whom i share the same grandparents, Yancey and Nancy. Erma provided a wonderful meal after a day of dispair, and opened her family album to unseen tintypes and sepia photos of my father's father and his kin. Also a thankyou to Marie Cox for sketching a map and finally to Jerry Macon for leading me on and to the past.
After returning home i was provided with this photo and i believe it to be the man sitting on the hearthstone.
Quiet again, I heard an owl call from the distance hollow. The light was dimming and i could not see clearly, the shadows were long and darkness was gathering around me. The walk leading in had been well over a mile as the crow flies, but several miles of disorienting twists and turns had confused me. There was no clear path back in the fading light. I made my way out of the thicket and turned away from the setting sun and walked briskly along the powerline following it upward and then cut to the southeast crossing a low ridge and down into a darkening ravine. Coming out of the ravine's shadows at last light an open forest lead me on and out to old North Carolina Highway 13 just a couple hundred yards up from where i had first crossed the posted fence line. Relieved i started walking downhill toward my van and was just a hundred yards short of reaching it when an odd dance of light shone wildly across the tree tops. I heard the sound of rumbling machinery and turned to see a lurching vehicle cresting the hill from behind me. It was an old pickup truck, odd with one headlight shining crazily askew. Slowly it approached and finally drove up alongside me, easing to a stop just as i neared my van. I heard a weathered voice, an indecipherable muttering from within. I approached the cracked and oddly tilted side window and peered into the darkness. A grizzled old man's face, stained with streaks from the corners of his mouth, looked out from the dashlite shadows and i thought he asked me if i needed anything. I told him that i was very glad to have made it out of the woods before dark. He replied, "Those woods are storied, most folks leave when they can". I asked him what that meant and he nodded his head, reached down and grinded the truck back into gear.
This has been written in gratitude and in the character of my namesake, Casper Waldo Cox. His account of my ancestors put me on this path without whom i would have never had these experiences. Some of it is true. For facts one should consult Walter Boyd who i am ever greatfully in debt to. Also to Erma Davis with whom i share the same grandparents, Yancey and Nancy. Erma provided a wonderful meal after a day of dispair, and opened her family album to unseen tintypes and sepia photos of my father's father and his kin. Also a thankyou to Marie Cox for sketching a map and finally to Jerry Macon for leading me on and to the past.
After returning home i was provided with this photo and i believe it to be the man sitting on the hearthstone.
