laurel bushes and
these were ten or twelve feet in height, but blown over one way by the
wind. Much of the trail was along rocky edges, sometimes but six inches
or so wide, but almost straight down on both sides for hundreds of feet.
One night, delayed by lack of water, we did not camp till dark, and,
finding a smooth spot, lay down with a small log on each side to hold us
from rolling out of bed. When daylight came we found that, had we rolled
over the logs, my partner would have dropped 500 feet into Tennessee and
I would have dropped as far into North Carolina, unless some friendly
tree top had caught us. Sometimes the mountain forked, and these ridges,
concealed by the balsams, would not be seen. Then there were round
knobs--and who can tell where the highest ridge lies on a round mountain
or a ball? My woolen shirt was torn off to the shoulders, and my
partner, who had started out with corduroys, stayed in the brush until I
got him a pair of overalls from camp."

Even to the west of Clingman a stranger is likely to find some
desperately rough travel if he should stray from the trail that follows
the divide. It is easy going for anyone in fair weather, but when cloud
settles on the mountain, as it often does without warning, it may be so
thick that one cannot see a tree ten feet away. Under such circumstances
I have myself floundered from daylight till dark through heart-breaking
laurel thickets, and without a bite to eat, not knowing whither I was
going except that it was toward the Little Tennessee River.

In 1906 I spent the summer in a herders' hut on top of the divide, just
west of the Locust Ridge (miscalled Chestnut Ridge on the map), about
six miles east of Thunderhead. This time I had a partner, and we had a
glorious three months of it, nearly a mile above sea-level, and only
half a day's climb from the nearest settlement. One day I was alone,
Andy having gone down to Medlin for the mail. It had rained a good
deal--in fact, there was a shower nearly every day throughout the
summer, the only semblance of a dry season in the Smokies being the
autumn and early winter. The nights were cold enough for fires and
blankets, even in our well-chinked cabin.

Well, I had finished my lonesome dinner, and was washing up, when I saw
a man approaching. This was an event, for we seldom saw other men than
our two selves. He was a lame man, wearing an iron extension on one
foot, and he hobbled with a cane. He looked played