Don McGowan photo
The allure of mountain rivers
The life’s blood of the high country, rivers wander across the mountain landscape like laughter lines etched on an old man’s face. Theirs is a storied past, for major waterways form sparkling threads woven through the entire fabric of human history in the southern Appalachians. For the Cherokee, rivers were the center of life not only in an economic sense but culturally and spiritually as well.
“Going to the water” was an integral part of the Cherokee lifestyle, with daily cleansing being a ritual for children in their first two years of life and for those of all ages on a regular basis. Similarly, the myths and tribal lore of the Cherokee, not to mention their history, revolve around rivers.
Streams provided sustenance in the form of fish, mussels, and eels; an ideal place to hunt game; and fertile bottomlands for corn and other crops. Their banks were logical gathering places for prehistoric Americans. The Cherokees built their towns along major mountain rivers and later European settlers adopted a similar practice.
{module Share this!|none}Rivers also provided passageways to distant, alluring places, and one of the grand mysteries of Appalachian streams is the fashion in which so many of them—notably the Little Tennessee, Pigeon, French Broad, and Nolichucky—seem to run the wrong way. That is to say, they course downstream towards and through mountains of higher elevation than the ones in which they originate. Whatever their direction though, rivers provided a means of passage for war, trade, expansion, and discovery.
Although there was some travel along the lower reaches of Appalachia’s larger streams in canoes, homemade flat-bottomed boats, and even small barges, rapids resulting from rivers’ courses through rugged terrain generally discouraged navigation. Rivers did, however, float untold millions of board feet of timber to downstream mills during the logging boom in the period from about 1890-1930. For the most part, though, it was hunting and trading paths, marked by the Cherokee in their distinctive manner long before Europeans resorted to blazes, which defined river-based travel. This foot traffic, in turn, led to the selection of primary routes for early roads and railways.
In the highlands of the Appalachians there is no clear dividing line or definition between what constitutes a creek and the size necessary to attain river status. Some, such as the lower reaches of the Little Tennessee (now flooded by reservoirs), the Nolichucky, and the French Broad, were powerful, expansive flows. Others, such as the Oconaluftee and Nantahala, were boisterous upstarts, relatively small in width but fast of flow with rapids and runs as their hallmarks. All had charm and their own distinguishing characteristics, and all have tales to tell of the humans who lived along their banks. The beginnings of such stories lie in the actual names of the rivers.
The enchantment of stream etymology
Rich in vowels, mountain streams bearing Native American names roll musically off the tongue like rivulets running over rocks. Compare, for example, the linguistic beauty of Nantahala, Watauga, Hiwassee, Tallulah, Tuckasegee, Ocoee, Nolichucky, Little Tennessee, and Oconaluftee with the comparative blandness of Pigeon, French Broad, or Linville. Anyone with an ounce of soul, a scintilla of spirit, has to prefer the Cherokee names given to streams.
Also, if a moment of personal intrusion is permissible, how sad it is that modern anglers, kayakers, and businesses are inclined to use trite and tasteless shortening of the originals such as Tuck and Luftee. Who can deny the loss of wonder in those truncated, emasculated words? Where’s the romance or appreciation for linguistic loveliness in such terseness?
The appeal of names derived from the Cherokee language involves more than the magic of their sounds. In many cases their etymology and origin are as enjoyable as they are expressive. Probably the best-known is Nantahala, which means “mid-day sun.” As anyone familiar with the stream’s flow through a deep gorge shouldered by steep mountains will know, even in the height of summer heavenly rays penetrate its mists and mountains for only a few hours, providing but a fleeting kiss of warmth before disappearing behind dark ridgelines.
Of all mountain rivers, the Tuckasegee means the most to this writer. Growing up within a few hundred yards of its banks, and with the home of my paternal grandparents resting right alongside its flow just outside of Bryson City, it was the playground of my marvelously misspent youth. Whether sitting on its shady shoreline in summer waiting for a bobber to bounce; setting traps for muskrats and ‘coons in spots at river’s edge in winter; skipping rocks at Devil’s Dip; wading its shoals, pole in hand, in search of catfish; or running riot with other boys on one of its islands, the Tuckasegee provided me countless moments of joy. It lent itself to a relaxed, easygoing lifestyle that is the special preserve of youth.
In that context the Cherokee etymology for this stream, which flowed endlessly through my boyhood dreams, is singularly apt. Tuckasegee means “crawling terrapin” or “moves slow, like a turtle.” By the standards of mountain rivers that description is an apt one, and merely pausing to ponder along the river brings to mind a ponderous mud turtle easing off a rock or slider turtles slipping from logs into the safety of water when they first sense danger.
The word Oconaluftee derives from a Cherokee expression meaning “by the river,” and the stream was (and remains) an integral part of tribal culture and folkways. There were major settlements in the bottomlands known as Birdtown, which 18th century naturalist William Bartram described in his Travels, near the river’s confluence with the Tuckasegee; in the Big Cove region on Raven Fork, the largest feeder of the Oconaluftee; in what became known as Enloe/Floyd Bottoms where today the Cherokee school complex is situated on one side of the river and the North Carolina gateway to the Smokies, complete with its visitor center, museum, and pioneer village, on the other; and of course today’s town of Cherokee. The Oconaluftee and its feeders were always places of abode, along with areas to fish and hunt in the more rugged headwaters, for the Cherokee. Even today, the adventurous soul who penetrates the remote fastness of “The Gorges” on Raven Fork or the region known as Three Forks can’t help but sense a linkage with the peoples for whom this was the original highland homeland.
Other place names have their own charm. Watauga means “beautiful water,” and the river definitely meets that standard. Ocoee comes from “wild apricot,” the term which both Indians and European settlers used to describe the fruit of the lovely passion flower (also known as maypops). Nolichucky means “spruce tree place,” and there was a Cherokee settlement near the present-day Tennessee town of Jonesborough which also had that name. Hiwassee was the word for “meadow,” and there were two Cherokee towns bearing the name of the river where they were located. The origin of Tallulah is shrouded in the mists of time but quite possibly comes from “talulu,” the word for the croaking of a frog. In short, to gaze at a gazetteer while delving into the origin of place names for mountain rivers is to be transported into realms of wonder.
The Renaissance of mountain rivers
Historically clear and clean, the pristine nature of mountain rivers changed dramatically for the worse over the course of two generations spanning the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Most of the damage was associated, in one fashion or another, with logging and use of a goodly portion of that timber in production of paper. Cut and slash logging, splash dams, denuding of vast areas of forest, raging fires in the detritus left behind after the timber was harvested led to erosion, the warming of coldwater streams, fish-destroying siltation, and general devastation. To be sure, a growing human presence and far too little attention to environmental damage from factories, human waste, and other sources also figured prominently in the ongoing degradation of the region’s streams.
Perhaps the sorriest and saddest of all the stream sagas was what happened on the Tuckasegee and Pigeon rivers. The paper plants operated by Mead in Sylva and Champion Fiber in Canton belched acid-laced pollutants in quantities which overwhelmed these modest-sized streams. As a result, once clear, lovely rivers ran blacker than a hundred midnights. Worse still, their Stygian darkness carried deadly toxins. So bad were matters that one small town on the Pigeon River came to be locally known as “Widowville,” and studies left no doubt about the presence of polychlorinated biphenyl—a toxic fluid used in transformers, capacitors, and electric motors—and the disappearance of fish species requiring clean water to exist, leading to general stream deterioration. Exacerbating matters in these rivers, and others, was the release of raw or partially treated sewage from everything from privies to public “treatment” plants.
Growing public awareness of pollution, together with tightened federal standards, eventually led to major clean-ups. As early as the mid-1950s, Wilma Dykeman had brought attention to one afflicted river in her landmark book, The French Broad. That publication, along with growing general awareness of the manner in which humans were fouling their own nest, led to widespread changes. Creation of a federal entity, the Environmental Protection Agency, hastened needed changes. On the Tuckasegee the Mead plant ceased operation and was replaced by the far cleaner, more efficient Jackson Paper.
Today the Tuckasegee, while still prone to siltation after heavy rains, flows far cleaner than once was the case. The Tuckasegee Watershed Association (there are similar groups for the Little Tennessee, French Broad, and other regional rivers) offers protective oversight, removal of a dam at Dillsboro means a greater length of free-flowing stream, and fish such as smallmouth bass, redeyes, muskies, and brown trout have returned to cleaner, healthier waters.
The saga of the polluted Pigeon is even more striking, inasmuch as it involved major political fights, and bitter controversy that divided citizens in the town of Canton into adversarial factions. Eventually though, paper-making giant Champion International pulled in its horns, and locals exhibited mountain gumption at its finest in saving jobs and salvaging the natural world with the advent of employee managed Blue Ridge Paper Company now known as Evergreen Packaging.
Today both the Tuckasegee and pigeon offer striking examples of nature’s ability, given half a chance, to heal. Thousands of rafters and kayakers run their courses each year, local guides earn a livelihood from visiting fishermen, their waters have changed from coal black to clear blue, and the Pigeon has become a world-class smallmouth bass destination.
Elsewhere, raw sewage is no longer a factor, and rivers throughout the mountains have become cleaner, although steep slope building and associated problems with erosion and persistent local resistance to environmental regulations mean ample room for improvement still remains. Closely paralleling this welcome change has been growing recognition of the economic value of eco-tourism, and today recreational use of the rivers figures significantly in the livelihoods of many local residents. The Nantahala and Ocoee offer world-class kayaking as well as being renowned whitewater rafting destinations, The Tuckasegee and Nantahala were part of the venue for the national competitive fly-fishing championship a year ago, and in the warmer months watercraft adorn mountain rivers like a massive, brilliantly colored hatch of giant-sized insects. Reborn from an environmental perspective, these rivers have also been reinvented in terms of what they mean to mankind.
Tidbits from the past
As we have seen, the region’s history has, from the earliest nomadic presence on through Native American settlements, the arrival of the first European inhabitants, and on down to the present, been inextricably linked to its rivers. In large measure it is a tale of countless generations of hardy folks, first Indians and then those of European origin, living in harmony with mountain waters. They found not only physical but spiritual sustenance from their waters, and in light of that the fact that land in proximity to rivers has always been cherished is readily understandable. Talk with mountain folks who are tied closely to the land about what features of the Appalachians move them most deeply and invariably, once they pause to ponder a bit, their response will focus on two features of the landscape—high mountains and rivers in the valleys below.
Thus it is and always has been, and maybe a suitable way to conclude comes from offering a sampling of the manner in which rivers loom large in the history of the high country and its people. Individually these tidbits of trivia do little other than capture our attention. Collectively they serve as exemplars of the manner in which rivers are the soul of the southern Appalachians and its many ranges—the Black Mountains and the Blue Ridge, the Unicois and the Unakas, the Smokies and the Nantahalas.