The Escape

Clyde had to hightail it from the railroad camps as quickly as he could. The trouble he caused at Camp Number 3 quickly caught up with him. Clyde decided that the safest thing he could do was head back home to North Cove. Clyde had to head down Pepper Creek in the dark of night and quickly if he could not be detected. He couldn’t walk directly on the Yellow Mountain road for fear of being seen, so he took a less conventional path through the creek itself, wading in its chilly waters and snapping twigs and dodging branches until the land flattened out and he knew that he was close to home.

It hadn’t occurred to Clyde until he got closer to the old Honeycutt place that even there, he wouldn’t be safe because the railroad construction was starting to encompass it. It seemed his whole life had been enveloped by the railroad at this point and that he would have no other option but to climb over Linville Mountain and hide in the gorge. He could take a path at the southern end of Linville Mountain into the gorge, which passed an old lead deposit that some of Clyde’s friends would sometimes sneak off to. Clyde had to set off quickly. He stopped to grab some pork that had been curing behind the house. It wasn’t enough to last a while, but it was something. He grabbed an old blanket his mother spun years ago and turned it into a bedroll with his belt. He found a box of shells for his rifle, and with everything slung, he headed east toward the gorge.

The climb up the western rim of Linville Mountain was long but more manageable than what Clyde knew he had to do going down. Clyde couldn’t risk taking the river route into the Gorge for fear of being seen. He knew he had to make the long, steep, treacherous descent from the top of the rim down to the bottom. Clyde’s best hope with the supplies he had was to find an outcrop or a cave that could provide shelter. As Clyde made his way to the top of the rim, he peered out over the unrelenting canyon below his feet. Opposite Clyde was the sheer cliff of Shortoff Mountain. Clyde peered down at the river below him. It seemed miles away. Clyde could hear the wind whisper through the gorge. The jagged rock formations known as the Chimneys were off in the distance, and he wasn’t quite in the right spot to see Table Rock, but he knew this important landmark was nearby.

The gorge was not a place of comfort. It was a place of testing one’s endurance and patience. Clyde carefully began the descent down to the bottom of the river. He lost his footing and tumbled several yards until a laurel shrub caught him. His knapsack nearly rolled all the way down to the river. Clyde collected himself and continued down. He knew to step like a billy goat - sideways and stepping foot over foot. The sun was beating down on his forehead. He glanced out and saw a peregrine falcon catching a tailwind and gliding through the Gorge. A little late in the year for nesting, but a majestic site nevertheless.

Clyde gained his footing and found a stream to follow. The soft trickle soon transformed into a steady stream of water. Clyde followed the water as it got wider and wider. He had to bushwhack his way through dense underbrush. He was growing tired. He stopped to get some rest. He noticed that there was a spot dug out of the ground. When Clyde went to investigate, he picked up a grayish mineral that softly rubbed off on his hands. Lead. Clyde had heard about the Gorge's lead mines and how those in his family would come down and grab some lead to make some extra cash during the war. Clyde looked down at his feet and saw something shiny that definitely was not lead. Clyde picked it up. It looked like a pocket watch. Clyde didn’t bother to open it up because he no longer had any use knowing what time it was, but perhaps in the coming days, he could barter it for something he really needed.

Clyde's best friend from the railroad work cams, Johnny Mazone, a gruff Italian immigrant, was undoubtedly on the prowl for Clyde’s blood. Clyde had turned his back on Mazone by telling the Sheriff’s posse about how Mazone was the ringleader and Mazone’s likely whereabouts. Clyde knew that Mazone could be hiding anywhere in or near the camps. Mazone, being superstitious, wouldn’t hide anywhere where there were mysterious legends or rock outcroppings named after the devil. Mazone was crafty but did not know how to survive in the wilderness. Clyde settled on the Gorge because he knew it from past bear-hunting expeditions with his father. He also knew that large parts of the Gorge remained a mystery to most county folks and that there were all kinds of rocks and crevasses to hide in. Clyde was sure that he could disappear right next to where he grew up. Many folks around wouldn’t touch the gorge because it was too uninviting. It was a place of disposition and dispirit. No logger had attempted to take the vast timber of the gorge because its walls were too narrow. Few homesteaders built homes in the gorge.

The Cherokee considered the great peaks of the gorge sacred, but there were hardly any Cherokee left to pay homage to their sacred space. That just left a vast emptiness devoid of civilization. Despite its emptiness, it had a ravaging beauty that left Clyde hardly wondering why the native people before him had considered this land sacred. The peaks and valleys seemed to mold together in a realm that was surely painted by a divine paintbrush. It was truly a work of art.

Clyde had grown up hearing of the superstitions associated with the gorge, which were numerous; tales of sorcery and witchcraft. Tales of white men having their scalps taken by Indians. Also plenty of tales of hunters getting lost and their carcasses turning up come springtime. The gorge was a place where man held no dominion over beast or plant. One was at Mother Nature and God’s mercy when one descended to the bottom of the gorge and reached the River. Clyde figured that these wise tales would serve him well as they deterred most self-respecting humans from having anything to do with this vast, rugged landscape.

Clyde resisted the heat going into the gorge. He knew it would be treacherous, and his footing had to be watched at all times. Men could only travel into certain parts of the gorge on foot. There was no way that even a horse or a mule could do it. If any of Clyde’s belongings fell off his back and went tumbling, chances were it would never be seen again.

As Clyde was making his way over a fallen tree branch, he heard a harsh rattling sound. His foot then jerked straight up, as if by instinct, right above a mama timber rattler, warning Clyde not to come any closer. She reared her head and peered at Clyde’s eyes with her sharp, narrow pupils. She then slithered off defiantly, having had her afternoon sunning disrupted. Clyde knew there were probably more where that one came from, so he moved even slower down the trail.

Clyde peered off into the distance at cliffs opposite of him. He was quickly reminded that as brutal as this journey was, this was the easier and quicker way to get into the gorge. The cliff faces seemed to fall forever. Clyde could hear water below him. A light breeze made its way through the gorge and cooled Clyde off. Then Clyde heard thunder. He looked up to see menacing clouds overhead. He then saw a flash of lightning over top of the cliffs opposite him.

Clyde could see the storm pouring from the cloudburst as it crept toward him, but there was nothing he could do about it. Clyde did not look forward to climbing down the steep embankment when it was wet. Clyde desperately scrambled for shelter but the best he could do at the moment was find a rock that jutted high above him with an abutment just big enough to cover his head. When the rain came, it pounded on him sideways. Clyde buried his belongings into a nook in the side of the rock, but they were becoming a muddy heap. Clyde tried to stay warm and dry the best he could.

Clyde peered down into the gorge. He couldn’t imagine too many folks wanting to live down there. He knew that he would be safe from any railroad business down there because even as ambitious as the South and Western Railroad project was, no railroad company would take on the unrelenting cliffs of Linville Gorge. He then only had to be haunted by the thought of his past catching up with him.