Sorties from Sautee - from slaves to graves

Sautee-Nacoochee, Georgia.

If it sounds like another language, it is. It’s Cherokee. Appallingly, the poor Indians were driven from these beautiful Appalachian mountains in the 1830s. The Trail of Tears, forced removal, death march.

They are remembered here through their ancient burial mound which a rich white settler topped with a fine little ornamental pavilion. It is the Cherokee landmark which recalls their loss of land.

Bruce’s ancestors were already well and truly settled in the area with farms and churches - and slaves when the Cherokees had to leave. The Williams clan had been among the first white settlers in the 1820s. And here they are still, albeit not farming for survival but mainly returning from city careers to over-summer in the mountain cool in the old family homes. Some work at local enterprises, some have art ventures. They are all kin one way or another and the term cousin is loosely used.

Bruce’s aunt Libby, an emeritus professor of history, is the softly-spoken doyenne of this generation, custodian of the family stories and watchful steward of the her beautiful land. This farm was left to Libby together with her late sister, Marian, Bruce’s mother. Another family farm was left to the eldest child, Aunt Deda, an extraordinary pioneer

woman scientist, now deceased. But it is Aunt Libby who is the family elder and the anchor who brings the descendants together.

These many years, Libby alone has cared for this acreage with its iconic barn and pastures, stream and brambles, trees and vistas. Every spring she plants fresh flowers and vegetables and makes the most of each and every crop, just as her parents, grandparents and great

grandparents did. She is 88 and reminds us often that she is one of the few who still remembers the great Depression and lives by its rules of prudence.

Everyone adores Aunt Libby and looks forward to coming to join her on this lush place beside the grand, forested slopes of Lynch Mountain. Bruce spent parts of his childhood here and has loved it dearly. Coming here seems to nourish his

soul. Mine, too, in the 20 years we have been married and I have been coming with him to this place. It is a very special place indeed.

We are here for the grand punctuation mark of our road trip. Three whole weeks in one place; unpacking, reorganising, sending parcels home, catching up with email and books and the relatives.

We go on familiar walks with Aunt Libby along the dirt roads which wind around the mountain or through the neighbouring farmlands. Libby tells us stories of childhood swimming in the ice cold mountain waters of Sautee Creek, gossip about those relatives on the hill and the distinguished Shakespearean scholar the family produced.

She tells of Bruce's grandfather’s labours and achievements and hardships as a Methodist preacher. She tells of the family produce stand her grandmother once kept down near the highway and of the fierce bulls which caused such injury and even death to farming forebears. She tells the family stories so that they may be imprinted and carried forth.

I have my own room on the farm in

which I get to sleep in the ancestral marital bed which, by today’s standards, is absurdly small for two people. It is high and short, just right for me. I sleep here with the windows open to the cool night air of the mountains and the strident lullaby of the crickets, cicadas, and katydids. The ancestors look sternly down upon me from sepia photographs on the wall.

Bruce is close by in the next room.

Aunt Libby sleeps upstairs with her cat who will not come down and loathes any other human being other than her beloved Libby.

Soon after we arrive here, the relatives descend for a get-together. Bruce’s sister, Ginger, flies up from Florida. Cousin Nancy comes in from Colorado. Cousin Tim comes from Atlanta and Cousin Elaine from North Carolina. Bruce and I shop and cook and we all gather around

the table for family feasts and later sit around the big, cool living room by the breeze of the fan, chewing the fat as relatives have done here for aeons.

Cousin Elaine has decided she will throw a birthday party for herself while she is here. However, she has commitments in Carolina so she leaves arrangements to the cousins. Much debate and confusion. When the time comes, her new partner

leaves us with boxes of party decorations and whisks her away so we can create a spectacle of birthday surprise. Discovering the contents of the boxes and working out what to do with them provides an hilarious afternoon’s amusement which results in a house bedecked inside and outside with wild overkill of birthday kitsch. Bottles are opened. People arrive. Gifts are unwrapped. Bruce is a force of

power in the kitchen. Food is devoured. Laughter and noise. Then a quick clean-up and quiet conversations into a tired night.

Aunt Libby organises an outing for the family.

She's heard tell of the appearance of a fairyland village with amazing tree-houses in the area.

It turns out to be the extraordinary creation of a retired couple, she an artist and art teacher and he a former banker. It was his dream to build a village. In 2011 he began and now there are the most astounding towering tree-houses connected by overpasses. One even has a little bathroom and a screened porched looking out into the mountain forest. Bears out there, says cousin Tim. Turns out he’s right. Bears have quite liked this little village.

There is a little chapel and a decent sized meeting and dining house.

And, mysteriously, there is a pavilion with a bizarre art installation: pierced skulls aloft and beams covered with door knockers and keys.

The owner and builder says he buys keys by the pound weight from eBay and hammers them into wood as a stress relief. Don't we all.

In dramatic contrast, there’s also a shelter containing two extremely vivid art cows. They were painted all over by artist friends during an arts bee. They feature local views. It is altogether a massive, complex and extravagant project. Profoundly idiosyncratic. Entirely surprising.

All this, tucked on a wooded hillside in Georgia.

You never know what people are doing, do you.

When the rellies have gone in their various directions, we resume a quiet life with Aunt Libby. Well, not too quiet. We go on expeditions.

Anna Ruby Falls is great attraction in this neck of the woods. It’s a beautiful double waterfall; crystal pure waters from the heights of the Appalachians coursing down two

adjacent rock faces and rushing off down the slopes in a sweet, rocky river. The trail up to the falls is beautifully kept and, while it is a long and winding incline, it is not the hardest climb in the world and one is constantly distracted by the sheer, ferny and mossy beauty of it all.

There are great daddy-longlegs spiders (Opiliones), vivid fungi, rock formations, fallen trees, pools and rapids, wildflowers, and information points explaining the history and ecology of the falls. At the summit of the trail, we stand on the observation deck in reverie. There is something infinitely interesting about waterfalls. One can gaze at them for ages endlessly discovering different rivulets and plateaux.

The added joy for the three of us is that we are retired people and not watching the clock. We can enjoy at leisure. And thus we amble back down the trail looking at the minutiae of nature.

In and around the pond at the bottom, we see young trout and a glory of vivid blue butterflies. More pleasurable wonderment.

There’s an excellent gift shop, too. Guess who loves gift shops and avails herself.

Brasstown Bald is the highest point in Georgia.

The family tradition in visiting Brasstown Bald is to pack a picnic.

I pack a spread of grainy bread, heritage tomatoes, kosher pickles, chili cheese, plain cheddar, buffalo mozzarella, bologna, and mayonnaise.

It’s a fair drive to the mountain and a vertiginous windy road up to the carpark. Picnic tables are set at a far-distant end where a break in the

tall vegetation gives way to a spectacular vista of mountain ranges rolling back and back into the infinite blue yonder. With this sublime view, we place cloths on the table, share out our goodies, and proceed to devour every skerrick. It is a simple little feast of exquisite, nay, perfect deliciousness. There must be something about the uber al fresco nature of the picnic that enhances the pleasure of eating. Never mind the odd yellow-jacket wasp swatted away.

Now the summit of Brasstown Bald is a serious climb from the carpark. It is 6/10 mile of steep, winding path. Most people pay $2 and take a shuttle bus to the summit. Not us. Oh no. We like our exercise. After about 100 yards of heavy climbing, I drop gratefully onto a well-placed

bench and wonder what on earth I am doing. My heart is pounding. I’m puffing hard in the thin mountain air. And we have barely begun the climb.

But there goes Aunt Libby, slowly and steadily up and up. She’s eighty-bloody-eight and she’s ahead of me. Libby sees Brasstown Bald as a challenge. She has been climbing it on and off all her life. She is an active, healthy, fit woman and she is not averse to proving it. I drag myself after her. The undergrowth is dense and tangled. Rhododendrons are dominant but there are slim pines and a diversity of interesting

trees which, thanks to the harsh conditions on the mountain, have trunks which are gnarled and contorted - giving an eerie exoticism to the eye-level tree-scape. There are some grand, sleek rocks, too. Those on the edge of the path are much-needed seats for the weary climber. Me. Even Aunt Libby is in need of rest spots now. Bruce waits patiently for us. He would really like to give the mountain a strenuous go.

There is no one climbing behind us and we are nearly at the top when we first encounter anyone - and they are coming down. Not far to go, says one woman encouragingly. She lies. Eventually, however, we are at the top. It is cool and clear. We are puffed and proud. We have climbed Brasstown Bald.

It is the most beautiful clear and sunny day and the view from the summit is breathtaking. There’s a huge lookout area so one can survey the 360 degrees of Appalachians and see into Tennessee and both Carolinas. Oh, and

Atlanta is way over there. Most interestingly for us is that we can see the familiar mountains around the farm: Yonah, Lynch, Sal and Grime’s Nose.

We sit and watch the little video documentary on the seasons on Brasstown Bald, a sweet effort with a commentary of almost lurid purple prose and we explore the competent little museum of mountain ecology and Cherokee tradition. I sit in one of

the white rocking chairs the US Park Service kindly provides for the awe-smitten mountain gazer, and I gaze, smitten with awe. Lakes and rivers and little settlements. A plume of smoke. A vivid green valley. And layers of mountains, some pointy, most rounded. These are not young mountains like the Rockies. These are ancient.

The descent is quite hairy. It is steep. One must watch one’s step and be glad of good knees. But it is dark and cool in the tunnel of mountain undergrowth. Brasstown Bald has its own microclimate. It is not like the rest of Georgia. It is similar to that of Massachusetts. There’s a gift shop at the base of the climb. Guess again who goes shopping.

Another little outing is to the Methodist cemetery where the family ancestors, including Bruce’s mother and father, are buried. It is a fiercely hot day. Aunt Libby is wearing her raffia hat. She leads us to the pleasant corner of the hillside cemetery where the dynasties lie side by side. First it is the immediate clan - the Williams. There are lots of them, neatly set around a large communal Williams headstone. Oh, there’re Bruce’s grandfather, great grandfather, great-great grandfather, and great-great-great grandfather. But there are others who married out and linked up with different names in the Nacoochee Valley. There are all the names I hear from Aunt Libby as she tells the family stories. Sosebee, Lumsden, Bristol, and Stovall.

Aunt Libby has stories here, too. Sad tales of children dying from a typhoid epidemic in 1893 and the aunt who came to nurse them also dying. She is buried amid them and her child, born in the year the others died, grew up and married but chose, when the time came, to be buried right there beside her mother. It is a large graveyard. The graves go back to the 1830s. At the far end where the forest begins, there is another communal stone, huge and imposing. It recognises the demarkation in death between the white settlers and their black slaves. In the shadow of the towering oak trees lie the slave graves. Looking through the trees, one sees almost a lattice work of iron crosses stretching away amid the bracken.

Pause for thought.

The history here is indeed full of tears.

The slave history now is studied and recognised. It is commemorated by the presence of a slave house in the grounds of the Community Arts Centre. We go for a ceremony at the slave house, as it happens. New signs of cultural explanation have been erected and are being unveiled. Speeches are given and we are all asked to step up to the slave house and place our hands on its walls and to pray. These are a very religious people. I rather like the

spirit of this gesture. There is love and sorrow. The slave house was moved from the land of one of the Williams farms. Cousin, of course. Aunt Libby points to an old photo in the slave house of her great grandfather standing in the pasture beside the farmhouse. On this wall he stood and told the slaves they had been freed, she says.

There is a family scandal about slaves. One ancestor was provided with 40 slaves by the his wealthy brother who wanted to get them out of Charleston before the Civil War finished. The Charleston brother charged his Sautee brother for the slaves although this brother was not wealthy. Then the war freed the slaves and currency was devalued but the Charleston brother would not forgive the debt. A deal’s a deal, he said. It nigh destroyed the brother and put the family in penury. To the family's credit, the years rolled by and hard feelings were forgotten. They laugh about it now. Blood is thicker than water in these parts.