Bob white quail
Charles Frazier’s novel Cold Mountain came to me first as a purchase on the recommendation of my uncle J.T. and then again, as a gift from my cousin Linda, who knew I would enjoy a book of local historical fiction. I kept one, and gave the other to my brother.
I remember when Uncle J.T. told me about Frazier’s book. J.T. had found himself in a conversation about Cold Mountain. “I said, Yeah, I know where Cold Mountain is. I was raised in the shadow of it at Toxaway.” Well, as often happens, there IS more than one Cold Mountain, just like there is more than one Toxaway. Frazier’s Cold Mountain is over in Haywood County and can be seen from the Blue Ridge Parkway. And J.T.’s Cold Mountain is indeed at Toxaway.
Frazier has received considerable acclaim for Cold Mountain, and I am not saying it is undeserved. But one thing ruined Cold Mountain for me. At various places in the narrative Frazier has the unmistakable call of the little bob white quail ringing out AT NIGHT! Did not anyone in the whole process from manuscript to press know the difference between a bob white and a whippoorwill? Makes you want to whack your forehead in exasperation.
J.T. and Linda have both gone on to their reward now, but of course they knew, as I do, that no self respecting quail is going to be out after dark. That mistake just didn’t matter that much to J.T. and Linda, since it was such a good story otherwise.
Now, I have recently finished reading Wayne Caldwell’s two books Cataloochee and Requiem By Fire. I notice on the internet that Mr. Caldwell’s writings are considered to be somewhat akin, or shall we say, somewhat equivalent to Frazier’s. Of that I am no judge. I enjoyed Caldwell’s writings lots more than Frazier’s, but I noticed Caldwell has his plants a little out of order; for instance rhubarb in February. But as Linda and J.T. forgave Frazier about the whippoorwill, I am forgiving Caldwell also.
I have seen Frazier’s Cold Mountain from a distance, and of course my Uncle J.T.’s Cold Mountain is practically over the hill from here. And, I have actually been to Cataloochee, twice. Cataloochee intrigues me. It is not the animals, the elk, the bear, the turkeys or the deer. It is not even the old buildings, lovely as they are. It is the imprint of the past that remains on the land.
It has been nearly a hundred years since the National Park took over the valleys of Cataloochee. But an observant eye can still discern the old fields that today are grown over in pines and poplars. Nor is it hard to hunt out ruins of old stonework, and other evidence of human habitation. The hiking trails so popular now were not made by deer and bison, but by people, whose bones now mingle with the dust beneath the grave markers in the churchyard and cemeteries.
It was the intent of the founders of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park that the corridors of Cataloochee would revert to wilderness, and to that end nearly every house, barn, shed, and chicken coop was destroyed. Nevertheless, so thin is the veil between those days and these that even today one can almost hear the ringing of axe and anvil along Cataloochee Creek. The unfortunate residents of Cataloochee were long ago dispersed. But there’s something, what is it, that remains?
Mr. Caldwell answers that question in Cataloochee and Requiem By Fire. And for a short read, check out my article in Yahoo Voices entitled “Cataloochee — An American Treasure.”
The photo of the quail is courtesy of Wikimedia Commons and is just one more great shot by Brian Stansberry.
toxawaytellit 