Uncivilization

The following essay is the introduction article from a column I wrote in my college newspaper titled Uncivilization. I will post some of my favorites from this collection and then revive the column for Carolina Wild.

Uncivilization

I wish I could have seen the mist settle in the laurels of the Blue Ridge Mountains before the settlers came. For those who were there to bear witness, the sight must have been glorious, mysterious, amazing, ancient and epic all rolled into one emotion I like to call uncivilization. Now you can shell a flea easier than you can direct a gaze that fails to fall upon a sign of humans.

I was raised below the Stone face of Tryon Peak, an ancient Appalachian knob that over looks the old Cherokee hunting paths in Polk County. As a boy I tramped along on ginseng hunts with my grandfather. We would wade through the hollows and clamor across the rocks and ridges in search of the healing plant. If we were lucky we'd stumble upon an arrowhead. Once I found one, lying uncovered in the woods. I wondered if the arrow found its target. Did it strike a rabbit, a deer, a man? Or did it hum through the forest falling harmlessly to the ground where it lay for two hundred years?

Our fingers worked gently to free the ginseng roots. The mossy scent of the freshly broken soil filled our heads, and the last hint of sunlight glinting off the flakes of mica reminded our stomachs that Granny's biscuits were already rising.

My father was a wood carver, a craftsman, a true mountain man in every sense. He was tough enough to split firewood without gloves because he liked digging out splinters, and he was gentle enough to carry a daddy longlegs outside instead of squashing it. Dad could find an old piece of wood that looked like nothing at all, carve out a cardinal, paint it, put it in a tree; and you would surely glance at it now and then to see had it flown away.

Dad loved the laurel thickets. I cannot begin to imagine how many times the two of us have hopped rocks up a white water stream and crawled through the tangled branches in search of the perfect walking stick. It's still out there. I'm glad we never found it - he knows where it is now.

Waterfalls draw me into the woods. The Native Americans believe that the running water is alive, has a spirit. So maybe it is the shot of Cherokee blood pumping proudly through my veins that gives me the electrified rush of life I catch when stand atop a thundering cascade. Uncivilization.

Uncivilization is what I call the indescribable sense of elation that comes from watching the sun fade behind the mountains in a slow-motion splash of color, unique everyday. Uncivilization can come in the form of a legend passed down by elders, or it may be inhaled with the smoky odor of a wood stove on a crisp winter night. Uncivilization is what I long for when I see a field of red mud where a forest used to be, or condos spoiling a natural view.

Uncivilization cannot be pinned down to a single emotion. Like the shadow of a dry leaf blowing across the road in the glow of headlights, it is a shape- shifter. The old timers understand; and everyone else who has cast a trout line in a cold river, stood in awe of the October leaves or seen a fawn drink from a creek in the snow; they have had at least a twinge of comprehension.

I hope I can capture the essence of Uncivilization with words and pictures, and share with you what the Carolinas have given me. So as the mist settles in the laurels like a ghost, I'll be watching... and writing