Caney Fork
“Green is the prime color of the world, and that from which its loveliness arises.” Pedro Calderon de la Barca
My first recollections of nature's beauty are as a toddler riding through the edenic valley called Caney Fork. Time is measured here with distinct seasons. Springtime is the unfolding of an emerald carpet splashed with a kaleidoscope of wildflowers. Deer graze beside the road in ethereal morning mist. Wild gobblers strut around hens oblivious to occasional passersby. The Great Smoky Mountains tower over this vale like sentries protecting its serenity. Autumn is a majestic ignition of dazzling color. The vibrant spectacle on the crests and slopes draws multitudes of onlookers. Winters are Narnian, like an artist’s rendering of C.S. Lewis’ magical landscape under the cold influence of the White Witch. A bright and mild summer climate encourages a seasonal population bulge as Floridians flock north to escape stifling heat.
A paved and winding rode rises from where the Caney Fork Creek feeds the Tuckasegee River. It ascends fifteen miles into the mountains where it becomes dirt, passable by four-wheeled drive vehicle for a while, but soon shifts to terrain suitable to ATV or foot traffic only. The trail climbs parallel to a feeder stream filled with native brook trout. These little fish are as colorful as a new Easter dress with their sleek green bodies, orange bellies, and purple spots.
About two-thirds of the way up the valley is Brasstown Road, a gravel lane really, only a little wider than some trails I have hiked in the Northwest. It climbs and curves up the mountain to the homestead of my grandparents Alvin and Essie Moore. It’s only three miles, but on the drive up you could encounter foxes, rabbits, squirrels, deer, turkey, pheasants, bears, snakes and more. I didn’t realize it then, but I was ‘hunting’ every time we went to the farm, craning my little neck to scout for furry, woodland critters out the side window of my backseat blind.
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