Pepper Box Canyon

Some of the most memorable adventures from my teenage years come from time spent on weekend afternoons in the Pepper Box Canyon.

The canyon was just a few miles from my home and began where the mouth of Clifty Creek entered the Emory River.  Back in those days, this point was a good three miles out of town by way of an old two-lane gravel road.  To get there, we had to cross the river on the old U.S. Highway 27 bridge and start the walk up Riggs Chapel Road along the river to the canyon.  Often times, just four or five guys would go, but other times we encountered some of the boys who lived over on River Street.  On those days there would be a good group of 8 - 10 kids headed to the Pepper Box.  We were all too young to drive, so it was either walk or ride a bike.  Today, when I look at that area on Google Earth satellite imagery, I am amazed at the places and distances we walked on an afternoon and still managed to be home for church on Sunday evening.

We visited the canyon in all seasons of the year because the weather made for different types of adventures.  I don’t know the history of the canyon, but it was obvious that it had been inhabited by folks at some point in the past.  There were ruins from old houses scattered here and there on the canyon floor.  The canyon was about a quarter mile wide at some points and followed the creek a mile of so until it ended.  The canyon was bounded on either side by steep cliffs that rose as high as 100 – 150 feet.  As the Creek flowed down the canyon, it presented challenges in crossing as you worked your way back into the depths of the canyon.  So we often ended up with wet feet or wet clothing.

At the base of the cliff on one side of the canyon were the remains of what we heard were old salt peter mining operations.  Some of this was done during the civil war and perhaps other efforts were made during early mining of coal in the area.  At any rate, the dug out “cave-like” overhangs with adjacent mounds of earth were fun to explore and climb on.

At some points along the canyon, the walls had breaks in them that allowed us to scramble up to a mid-level ledge that ran a good distance along the canyon wall.  If you really worked hard you could actually climb to the very top of the canyon and perch high on a ledge.  From here you could sit and enjoy the breeze and have a good view of the main part of the canyon floor.  I can remember sitting here in the quiet of a spring day, looking out above the tree canopy, looking at the birds, the sky, listening to the creek below and thinking about far away places.  It was a great place for a teenage boy to dream.

I remember one of our trips on a cold winter afternoon with sub freezing temperatures.  Clifty Creek was running full and a frothy coating of ice covered most of the bank and stream bed.  The usual foot log we crossed at the first major crossing was ice covered and impassable.  Hoping rocks was the best bet, but that was not without risk.  The thing I remember most was my dog, Nancy, who had come along with us that day.  Nancy was an overweight “mutt” with short-legs who would normally have just jumped into or waded the creek, but not today.  All of us guys made it across the creek and called for Nancy to come on across.  She just about went crazy trying to figure out how to cross without getting wet.  Her animal instincts told her not to trust the icy froth that looked solid, but was crusty and broke through easily.  She ran up and down the creek looking for a crossing, but she finally gave up and headed back toward town.  When we got home later that afternoon, Nancy was already there; probably warmer and wiser that we had been that day.

How fortunate I was to have grown up in a small town that had such free amusement nearby.  The canyon not only amused us, but we learned a lot from those outings.  We learned that being on your own is sometimes risky, but fun.  We nearly always had a great time and enjoyed telling our families about the adventures.  On some occasions, our family members went with us.  I especially remember going on a warm summer day to swim and  play in the creek.  Another fall afternoon we walked the Pepper Box to pick ripe muscadine grapes for a friend’s Mom.  She made the best muscadine jelly you ever tasted.  Once in the fall of the year I caught a large Bass fish in one of the pot holes in the creek.  The creek flow diminished in the fall during the September & October dry season and left pot holes where fish would become trapped.  That was the biggest fish I ever caught in my life.

We not only had fun, but we learned that if you got into trouble you had to solve your own problem.  We learned that team work is a good way to cross a foot log, climb a steep cliff, and that trusting your buddies is important.  We learned that silence in winter is beautiful, that spring must have fifteen shades of green and that dogs are devoted friends.

Not all the kids in Harriman made it to the Pepper Box Canyon and they are poorer for it.  Some didn’t get to go because their parents felt it was too risky a place to let kids go.  I was fortunate to have a Grandmother and Mother who gave me just enough freedom to take some risk and occasionally “get into trouble and solve my own problem.”

Life is full of risky things.  Being aware of risk and learning to take a calculated risk is an important thing to learn in your formative years.  The paradox of this is that in order to learn how to handle risk, you must first take some risk.  It is interesting to me that although I was given virtually unlimited freedom as a pre-teen and teenager, I became a fairly conservative “risk-taker” as an adult.  I think those early lessons on taking risk helped me develop a “can do” attitude.  I learned that you can attempt most anything you want to try, but do it with forethought and caution.  And if you should fail, so what, failure is not the end of the world, but a lesson learned.

Apparently my Grandmother and Mother thought the risks associated with trips to the canyon were small and they trusted me to be a responsible risk-taker.  I’m grateful for their trust and for those opportunities to experience Pepper Box Canyon.  Because of their trust and those canyon experiences,  I learned a lot about nature, about people and about life. 

Those youthful experiences made an indelible imprint on my mind and they will always be a part of me.  Today, some 60 years later, I can travel to Pepper Box Canyon any time I wish and I don’t even have to leave my recliner.

Sharing Boyhood Memories......Walden's Ridge

Walden's Ridge

I was born and raised at the foot of Walden’s Ridge in the small town of Harriman.  The East Tennessee Land Company’s original incorporation document states, “It was ordained by nature that a town should be,” and so it was that in 1890 the town was founded.  The town was built in a wonderful natural topographic niche, carved into the landscape by a large crescent in the Emory River and bounded by Walden’s Ridge rising several hundred feet on the city’s northern border.  Walden’s Ridge extends some seventy-nine miles as it forms the southern and eastern edges of the Cumberland Plateau in its drop to meet the greater Tennessee River Valley.

From the time I was about twelve years old, Walden’s Ridge took on a special appeal for me and my buddies.  It became a mountain we could conquer on an easy Saturday or Sunday hike.  In the years of my youth, the mountain was basically undeveloped and uninhabited and even today only three homes, cell phone towers and a water tank sit atop the ridge.  From my home in the middle of town it was only a short hike to the top, but the ridge provided a feeling of remoteness, isolation and independence.  It provided just enough challenge and danger to fulfill the adventuresome spirit of young boys.   Sitting atop the ridge, a twelve year old boy’s imagination could take flight and you could well have been in some remote and unexplored forest of the early American frontier. 

You could reach the crest of the ridge by an old road that passed the city’s concrete water reservoir or you could hike straight up the mountain over the rocks, boulders, scrubby vegetation and trees.  From the top you had excellent views of all of downtown Harriman and views beyond toward Kingston and Oak Ridge.  As you walked a short distance west along the ridge, the elevation dropped quickly to a natural gap formed by the Emory River.  From Walden Ridge’s western edge, the view of the river was especially enjoyable and you could hear the sounds of cars far below as they climbed through the gap on the Oakdale Highway, U.S. Highway 27.  You could also see the Louisville & Nashville railroad tracks as they followed the river north and the trestle as it carried the rails across the river toward the west.

One of our favorite destinations on this end of the ridge was an outcropping of massive boulders called “Balance Rock.”  One massive boulder appeared to be “balanced” on other smaller rocks and in the imagination of young minds, it might be possible to dislodge this boulder and send it rolling down the mountain to the river.  I think there were times when we used large pieces of downed trees and limbs to try and pry the rock off its base.  What a catastrophe it would have been if we’d succeeded.  The rock is still unmoved and sets there today.   I’ve passed a considerable amount of time sitting atop “Balance Rock” watching the river, the railroad, and enjoying the sounds rolling up from the gap below.

My buddies and I were born during the years of WW II and remember the Korean conflict as well.  The Saturday movies were often accompanied by newsreel shorts of American soldiers in distant lands.  Combat themed movies were common in the 1950s and American soldiers such as Audie Murphy were portrayed as hero figures.  We also knew men in the community who were veterans from WW II.  They sometimes shared stories of their travel and adventures as combat veterans.  Thus, it was natural for us to play war games and “do combat” as we climbed the slopes of Walden’s Ridge.  Some of us would be the “enemy” and others would be the “American” good guys.  The object would be to scatter into the rocks and woods, take positions and then try to capture the other side.  We didn’t have paintball guns or other toy weapons, but used sticks and made vocal sound effects for the gun shots and lobbed a pine cone or stick as a hand grenade.  All this sounds primitive in light of today’s high tech toys, but it worked for us.  As we got older, we began carrying BB and pellet guns with us and used them for plinking at cans and bottles found along the way.  In later teen years we had 22 caliber single shot rifles that were used for target practice.  I never recall having any problems and no one ever “got shot.”

Hiking east along Walden’s Ridge provided other adventures.  There were a few long abandoned mines that had collapsed and caved in.  And we were always finding interesting metal objects, cables and other remnants of logging operations from years past. There were small springs at various points down to one side or other of the ridge.  These provided a cool drink of fresh water on a hot summer day.  I can never remember carrying a canteen back then and bottled water was not yet common place. 

Another favorite destination was to hike the approximate three miles to the state fire tower.  The tower was only manned during the fall “fire season” and access to the stairs was generally blocked by a locked wooden door and fencing.  Once or twice I made the climb to the top when a fire warden was present and looked out from the small lookout box with windows that housed the map and Osborne azimuth for spotting “smokes,” as the fire warden called them.  At other times when the tower was unmanned, boys are prone to taking risk and someone would climb around the gate and make their way to the stairs and climb to the base of the lookout box.  The trap door giving access to the box was always padlocked, but the view from the top of the stairs was still better than one from the ground.

Sometimes on the hike back toward town we’d split up with one or two boys going ahead and setting up an ambush for those who followed.  What made the whole thing fun for those who came second was to be alert and try to identify where the ambush might take place and try to avoid it.  Better yet, you could drop off the side of the crest, skirt around and surprise those who were hidden and awaiting your arrival on the trail.   Sometimes we’d jog or run the entire three miles back to town to see how fast we could make it or simply to meet a time deadline if we’d spent too much time playing and exploring along the ridge top.

One of my buddies who I’ve known all my life remained in Harriman, worked at nearby Oak Ridge and built his home on the crest of Walden’s Ridge. His is one of the three homes that exist there today and he has a splendid view of Harriman and the entire area.  Whenever I return to Harriman I make it a point to drive up to his home for a visit with him and his wife.  In all honesty, I’d have to admit that the visit also gives me a chance to revive old memories of youthful days spent on Walden’s Ridge.  Today, even with three houses and cell towers, you still get a sense of remoteness and isolation when you're atop Walden's Ridge.

 

The challenge, danger and mystery experienced by a teenage boy on Walden's Ridge are long gone.  But I have to admit, every time I drive the paved road to the top, the urge to hike out to Balance Rock or to hike along the ridge trail still pricks at my seventy something bones.  Those boyhood days spent on Walden's Ridge will always remain some of my fondest memories.

Sharing Boyhood Memories...My Hometown

My Hometown

 Many fond memories are stored in my mind from my growing up years during the late  40's, 50's and early 60's in the small town of Harriman, Tennessee.  With hindsight, I attribute a lot of those memories to my hometown's geographic location, its unique origins, its well designed grid of city blocks and it homogeneous social structure.  When I read the City of Ember a while back, the compactness and tight knit city of Ember reminded me much of the secure and somewhat limited boundaries I experienced in my hometown in those formative years.

Harriman was built on the banks of the Emory River, a free flowing river coming out of the Cumberland Mountains.  The River formed a natural boundary to the west and south and was passable by an old two lane bridge to the south and a railroad trestle to the west.  Walden’s Ridge bordered the city to the northwest and ran in an east to west direction toward the river.  It was said that Henry Ford considered Harriman as the sight for building his Model-T Fords, but for some reason he didn’t.  Henry Ford didn’t come, but Meade Paper Company and a couple of hosiery mills were mainstays for our labor force. The temperance activists who founded Harriman established it on the social doctrine of temperance.  No alcoholic beverages were legally sold there during my growing up years and the city didn’t actually permit legal liquor sales until around 1992, almost one hundred years after its founding.  Although no legal whiskey was sold, I do remember a few bootleggers who operated in town and I even delivered the newspaper to one of them for a number of years.

My family lived two and a half city blocks from Roane Street, the main route through town.  It was then and still is U.S. Highway 27, the major North-South Highway in the days before I-75 was built.  You could always stand on Roane Street and see lots of cars from Ohio, Michigan and Canada as they headed south on vacation.  Roane Street had virtually all the businesses located on or near it.  A bakery, grocery stores, hardware stores, dress shops, the Five & Dime Variety stores, the post office, car dealers, city hall, police & fire departments, water, gas and electric utility company, the Southern Bell phone company, the public library, banks, a pool hall, drug stores, furniture stores, jewelry stores, two hotels, two or three restaurants, a lumber company, a shoe shop, our hospital and the most popular places on Saturdays, three movie theaters, the Webo, Princess and Roxie.  Roane Street was even the location of Norris Creamery that produced bottled milk and dairy products for the general area.  It is hard to believe, but all of these centers of business and social activities were within easy walking distance, located along a five block area of downtown.

All of the city schools were located at the east end of town, about a mile from my house.  I walked to elementary, junior high and high school.  A city park was about one block from our house.  The park had swings, a slide, clay tennis courts, horseshoe pits and eventually a swimming pool.  We also had a little league baseball field and a larger ball field for older boys.  Both fields were located at the west side of town down in the flats, near the river.  There were also a couple of junk yards in the same vicinity.  Our church was only one block from our house.  I often walked to church from home or to youth choir after school.

In the 1950’s a kid just about had free run in town.  Most parents felt free to let kids walk or ride bikes to school and just about any location.  I can’t remember a time when I was not able to go anywhere in town.  My grandmother’s rules were simple.  She'd always ask, "Where are you going?  When will you be home?"  Although I didn’t have a watch you could always know the general time by listening for the twelve o’clock noon "whistles."  Every day at exactly high noon the fire department in the middle of town would crank the big siren and the paper mill down by the river also sounded a big steam whistle.  You could hear either from anyplace in town.  I’m told that I was born at high noon.  The doctor told my mom that I exited the womb exactly as the twelve o’clock whistle sounded.

There were few locations that were technically “off limits.”  One was crossing the railroad trestle over the river.  Some years before I began roaming on my own, six boys had hiked to Pepper Box Canyon to spend the day.  Pepper Box canyon was across the river and about a three mile hike north where Clifty Creek entered the river.  As the boys returned home, they decided to take a short-cut to cross the river back to Harriman.  They used the railroad trestle rather than the regular bridge.  One of the boys was killed on the trestle when he got caught by a freight train mid-way across and was knocked into the river as the train  passed over the trestle.  The other five boys made it to safety and survived.  After that, every parent in town had the trestle identified as a definite “off limits” place.  My friends and I never got on top of the trestle.  Another “off limits” area was an old warehouse located down by the river in an old industrial site close to the Mead Paper Mill.  I will have to admit that as a teenager we did violate that particular limit.  The old warehouse was used to store huge bundles of cardboard that was recycled at the paper mill.  It was a great place to hide, climb and chase each other.  There is no doubt we were trespassing and that it was probably dangerous, but it was a neat place to play.

One of my favorite places to explore was the ridge to the north of town called Walden’s Ridge.  You could easily walk to the area where houses stopped and the mountain began.  There were trails and old dirt roads that climbed the mountain.  There were places that had names like “Balance Rock” where several big rocks seemed to balance on each other.  It made a great place to climb or just sit and look off down toward the river.  Another interesting place was some old ruins of a long abandoned structure atop the ridge.  If you wanted to hike about three miles along the ridge top you could reach the fire tower and climb it for a good view of the valley.  On the way to the tower was a good spring and if you knew where to look you could find some caved-in abandoned coal mines from past efforts to extract coal.  My friends and I have spent many hours climbing, shooting rifles, exploring, playing fox and hound, and testing our strength against the mountain.

The Emory River begins on the slopes of Frozen Head and Bird Mountains north of Harriman, then is joined by the Obed River as it makes its way to join the Tennessee  River.  Although the Emory's flow is somewhat diminished by the back waters of TVA's Watts Bar Dam, the Emory is still a sizable free flowing, deep, green river as it forms the bow around Harriman.  The river was always an attractive feature for us kids.  On hot summer days some of the boys would go swimming “jay bird” just below the bridge.  The thing I remember being the most fun was to go to the railroad trestle and climb out on the wooden supporting structure that spanned out into the water.  At certain times of the year you could see shad swarming in the water.  We’d try to spear them, catch them with hooks or just watch in amazement at the hundreds of fish swimming around the pilings.   Simply climbing on the wooden crossbeams was a challenging and fun adventure.  I can remember one winter the river froze over with ice several inches thick.  Walking on the frozen river was a special event and happened only once that I can remember.

During those growing up years I didn’t realize what a wonderful place our small town really was.  It provided so many growth opportunities to challenge growing minds and bodies within a fairly small geographic space.  The trust of parents and the security of the community social structure afforded kids unusual freedom to test their limits and attempt new things.  I believe it was a unique time and will most likely not be captured again.  I regret that my own children did not have such a "small town" opportunity and for sure my grandchildren will never get to experience it.  

 But instead of regrets, I just have to keep reminding myself that life is a journey, not a destination.  We never fully arrive at a point where we can stay for a long time.  We just keep traveling on and the scenery changes.  It is impossible to recapture a place or an event to share with those who come after us.  The best we can do is to remember the journey and share our memories.

Thoughts on Freedom & Risk

Well, it’s been in the news again ….. more shootings of innocent people in the good old United States of America.  Even if you’re just a casual news observer, during the last twelve months, you’ve heard news clips of people saying things like, “We need tougher gun laws to get rid of those guns.” Or “Guns don’t kill people, people kill people don’t they?”  Or, “It’s just one of those crazy demon possessed persons.” And you always hear someone say, “Where was God in all this….doesn’t God care?”

To me, the bottom line is pretty simple; we live in a world that is full of risk.  Anywhere in the world life carries risk, but in America the risk factors are sometimes magnified because Americans believe in freedom for everyone.   So, ramble with me for a few pages and let’s think about “Freedom” and the “Risk” that comes with freedom.

 In America we believe in and for the most part we have

    Freedom of religion,

    Freedom to speak our own opinion in most settings,

    Freedom to keep and bear arms, for hunting, for protection, for hobbies,

    Freedom to feel secure in your own home, free from unreasonable search & seizure

    Freedom to travel almost anywhere we choose,

    And the list goes on.

So how is it if we believe in freedom for everyone, how do we stop a few CRAZY people from using their FREEDOM to harm other people?  Well, that’s a good question and as you know, we’ve been dealing with this quandary for a long time. Some of our best political, theological, and intellectual minds have been working to solve this problem.  Apparently there is not an easy answer or we’d have found it; perhaps there is no answer. 

So now this line of thought prompts me to ask, “Is it possible that FREEDOM and RISK are inseparable and exist in a state of tension that can tilt in either direction; order or chaos, safety or danger, tranquility or tragedy?”

History gives testimony that the founders of this nation took great personal risk to establish the freedoms that most of us take for granted today.  Many of the original immigrants, who first grubbed out a living on the eastern shores, left their European homelands because they were at risk for their lives, wanted to escape oppression, own property, or simply gain more control over their lifestyle.  Others came for exploration and discovery; some were seeking riches.  Of all the types of people who came, risk seems to have always shared a role in the lives of those seeking more freedom and personal autonomy.  It seems that almost every freedom carries the risk that someone may use their freedom to harm others.  History is dotted with accounts of CRAZY or unscrupulous individuals who have twisted freedom to do bad things to their fellowman.  Two of our freedoms that have been abused come quickly to mind. 

Freedom of religion has allowed a significant number of crazy men to “lead” others to their death or to endure an abusive lifestyle.  Look at recent history, remember Jim Jones, (Jonestown Guyana), David Karesh (Branch Davidians), Stewart Traill (The Church of Bible Understanding), Charles Manson, Joseph Di Mambro (The Order of the Solar Temple aka Ordre du Temple Solaire), Marshall Heff Applewhit (Heaven’s Gate), and Warren Jeffs (polygamist leader).  What stands out about these individuals is that they were all pathologically narcissistic personalities who operated under their right to freedom of religion and used it to abuse others physically, emotionally, or financially.

Freedom to Own Guns has allowed a significant number of crazy men to shoot and kill innocent men, women and children.  The mass murder at a movie theater in Colorado, another at a Sikh temple in Wisconsin , another at a manufacturer in Minneapolis — and then the unthinkable nightmare at a Connecticut elementary school on a December day—are some of the more recent acts of gun violence over the last three decades. Since 1982, there have been at least sixty-two mass shootings across the country, with the killings unfolding in thirty states from Massachusetts to Hawaii. Twenty-five of these mass shootings have occurred since 2006, and seven  7) of them took place in 2012.  Forty-nine of the sixty-two shooters obtained their weapons legally, twelve did not, and one is unknown.  Twelve of the shootings involved schools and twenty were workplace shootings; the other thirty cases took place in locations including shopping malls, restaurants, and religious and government buildings.  Even though most of these shooters were probably mentally ill, they were able to own or possess an assortment of weapons because in America we believe in the “right to bear arms.”

One could cite examples of how most “Freedoms’ have been used to abuse the rights and freedoms of others.  So in my mind, it seems that to have “freedom for all” brings with it, “risk for all.”  Choice always brings consequences.  If we choose to have a “freedom” we get the personal liberty that goes with it, but with it we also choose “risk.”  As of this writing, I don’t think anyone has found a “fix” that would eliminate the “risk” or consequences of our choices.

There is no doubt that society has taken actions to make life less risky and perhaps could take additional steps that would increase our security in some settings or minimize our vulnerability to those who would abuse freedom.  But, we know from experience that such actions will in turn “take away” some of everyone’s freedom as well.  I doubt there is an earthly solution to our “freedom and risk” problem.  In the political arena of life “freedom and risk” are like conjoined twins with vital organs linking them together.  To do something to one, impacts the other as well. Because of this relationship, most folks are unwilling to make the personal sacrifice or hard choices that would change the “freedom and risk” dynamic.

Did you know there is a freedom greater than those afforded by our Constitution?  It is the freedom that comes in committing your life to follow Christ Jesus.  Followers of Christ can enjoy a freedom that can liberate them from fear, doubt, and uncertainty.  For those who are disciples in the Christian faith, the Bible tells them to “Trust in the Lord with all our heart.  Don’t depend on your own understanding.  In all of your ways, acknowledge Christ and He will direct your life journey.”  We also know that even when life is difficult and we “walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we ought not to fear evil: for God is with us; he will comfort us.” “If the Son therefore makes you free, ye shall be free indeed.”

Although the constitutional structure of our Republic affords Americans many lifestyle freedoms, spiritual freedom is found only in the heart and mind of each person.  The devil is constantly seeking to bring fear, doubt and bondage to each individual, but God is constantly seeking to bring freedom and peace to every heart that will accept him.

Are the freedoms of our Republic worth the risk?  I think so, but I’m not putting all my hopes on political freedoms alone.  I am also counting on the freedom that comes from a heart commitment to Jesus Christ.  When political freedoms show their faults and imperfections I can find peace of mind, comfort and hope in my spiritual freedom.

 

Still on the trail and still rambling.