at
he never in his life had had a difficulty with a catamount, and never
had seen one in these mountains.

Our lunch was eaten in haste. Big Tom refused the chicken he had
provided for us, and strengthened himself with slices of raw salt pork,
which he cut from a hunk with his clasp-knife. We caught and saddled our
horses, who were reluctant to leave the rich feed, enveloped ourselves
in waterproofs, and got into the stony path for the descent just as the
torrent came down. It did rain. It lightened, the thunder crashed, the
wind howled and twisted the treetops. It was as if we were pursued by
the avenging spirits of the mountains for our intrusion. Such a tempest
on this height had its terrors even for our hardy guide. He preferred to
be lower down while it was going on. The crash and reverberation of the
thunder did not trouble us so much as the swish of the wet branches in
our faces and the horrible road, with its mud, tripping roots, loose
stones, and slippery rocks. Progress was slow. The horses were in
momentary danger of breaking their legs. In the first hour there was not
much descent. In the clouds we were passing over Clingman, Gibbs, and
Holdback. The rain had ceased, but the mist still shut off all view, if
any had been attainable, and bushes and paths were deluged. The descent
was more uncomfortable than the ascent, and we were compelled a good
deal of the way to lead the jaded horses down the slippery rocks.

From the peak to the Widow Patten's, where we proposed to pass the
night, is twelve miles, a distance we rode or scrambled down, every step
of the road bad, in five and a half hours. Halfway down we came out upon
a cleared place, a farm, with fruit-trees and a house in ruins. Here had
been a summer hotel much resorted to before the war, but now abandoned.
Above it we turned aside for the view from Elizabeth rock, named from
the daughter of the proprietor of the hotel, who often sat here, said
Big Tom, before she went out of this world. It is a bold rocky ledge,
and the view from it, looking south, is unquestionably the finest, the
most pleasing and picture-like, we found in these mountains. In the
foreground is the deep gorge of a branch of the Swannanoa, and opposite
is the great wall of the Blue Ridge (the Blue Ridge is the most
capricious and inexplicable system) making off to the Blacks. The depth
of the gorge, the sweep of the sky line, and the reposeful aspect of the
scene to the sunny south ma