“Felix, qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas” — Fortunate is he who understands the cause of things.
“He just wasn’t good at anything. He was part of that great undifferentiated mass of second rate humanity who weren’t going anywhere in life. Charitably described as a comfortable mediocrity; a decent enough man. A harmless eccentric, who was unfortunately inept.” - S.C. Gwynne - written of Stonewall Jackson
When there are four or five days in a row, where there is no blue sky to gaze into, or as many nights without starlight, things have a tendency to slip into a little more squirrelly area in the old cerebellum.
It’s the more obtuse part of the mind that augurs in, early and often. I’ve never really reasoned it out to any sort of definite conclusion. It just get’s kinda weird, somewhat quicker than usual, when bad weather shows up.
This sort of weirdness reminds me of almost all of the nuclear submariners that I have worked with over the years. Almost to a man, these underwater veterans routinely exhibited bizarre behavior, almost on a daily basis. No bad weather was needed. Fill’em with aiming fluid, and just jump out of the way, before the beast is unleashed.
After extensive psycho analysis, in my not so humble opinion, I have deduced that these bizarre cases of temporary insanity, can definitely be attributed to these sub-jockeys having spent 30 to 60 days at a time, with no available sunlight. Riding under the sea in a submersible tube, without being able to see anything above them other than a sinking steel hull overhead, surely took a very serious and strange toll on these crazed veteran’s psyche.
No sunlight or heavenly stars to ponder for days on end, and I find other issues to ponder. Especially when it’s pouring down rain or when the days are brutally dark and cold.
One continuing theme pondered in these dark days is; could I survive this bad stretch of inclement weather if I happened to be suddenly transported back in time to the days of the stone age man? Skin clad, maybe barefoot, trying to make fire and carrying a flint tipped weapon for protection from some stone age man eating predator.
I don’t know why I ponder survival so much when the blue sky disappears. Maybe you could blame it on the Boy Scouts, or my Old Man who complained of never having any money and our entertainment involved lengthy hikes, or rugged camping trips that revolved around learning the art of building large campfires.
Maybe you could blame it on Outdoor Life, Field and Stream and Sports Afield of old. Legacy hunting and fishing magazines, whose editors from another era, filled each addition with wild tales of terror and heroics that resulted from near death experiences in the shrinking wilderness.
I’m not talking the pioneer era here. Not the intrepid wave of the crowded east coast poor who trudged west at 5 to10 miles per day in search of free land.
In Rinker Bucks’ best seller, A New American Journey, which details the history of the greatest human migration in American history as well has his own covered wagon crossing of the Oregon trail behind three Missouri mules in modern times, Buck additionally provides the reader with the derivation of the word pioneer.
“The derivation of the word is significant, a linguistic trace to America’s influences from Europe changing over time. The word began appearing in the sixteenth century, originating from a medieval Latin root, pedonem, meaning “one who goes on foot,” or foot soldier, which slightly changed meaning in the European Romance languages to peon, a person of humble social status who was an infantry soldier, day laborer, an agricultural worker. In French, the word evolved into pannier and then pioneer, gradually acquiring new connotations and “one who clears land” and “one who goes first.”
“The Europeans spent most of the Seventeenth and Eighteenth centuries in nonstop wars (The Thirty Years War, The Eighty Years War), and the word pioneer naturally acquired a military connotation. During the pan-European Seven Years War between 1756 and 1763, and later the Napoleonic Wars of the early Nineteenth century, the pioneer units were small, highly mobile groups of sappers, and engineers who occupied challenged ground first, to build roads, trenches and fortification, preparing the way for occupation by a larger army. On the American frontier, the term pioneer gradually assumed a civil meaning for those who first explored new lands for farming development.”
But, my pondering survival goes back further to an era before Europeans stole lands up in these parts. Pondering if I had the grit, skills, determination, drive and luck to make it through lengthy stretches of serious bad weather to establish a relative ripe old age, complete with all of my teeth.
Growing up in rural Hixson included Old Edgar who lived nearby us. My more brave buddies in the North Chattanooga Squirrel Killing and Expeditionary Society occasionally visited with Edgar in what they described as a hole in the ground, covered with sheets of tin and rock, somewhere over off of Grubb Road and Highway 153.
Edgar shopped weekly in nearby neighborhood garbage cans early every garbage day. His shopping bags were two or three burlap sacks. Those were the days before plastic shopping bags were all the rage. He was inevitably followed by a loud, snarling pack of neighborhood yard dogs announcing his weekly visit. In those days Hixson’s suburban dogs ran free as goofy looking packs and they had apparently never smelled, or witnessed, anything quite as wild as Old Edgar.
Then there was a guy, whose name I have now forgotten, who locals up on Daisy Dallas Road said lived under an old sawmill slab pile. This was his home, ever since his parents had been tragically killed in some accident. Neighbors said that they had never known this man to have ever bathed and was immediately evident when he shuffled by. A local church was known to deliver boxes of food to his location on routine occasions.
I never heard what became of the two men who survived such a rough life. Maybe they have somehow had more influence on my pondering survival than I probably have realized.
I bring this all up because of a WOMR rendering in the Chattanoogan, circa 2022.
Recently I received an email from Jen at the Chattanoogan. Jen, in case you weren’t aware, appears to be the brains and brawn for everything posted on that world wide available website. Jen had received a request for help from a gentleman down in South Carolina asking for assistance in finding information about a long lost relative, known to some of his family as, the Hermit of the Horseshoe. His search for his historical relative led him to a 2022 WOMR article in the Chattanoogan.
Back in the 2022 article I mentioned that I had failed to find the book that I had read years earlier which detailed specifics of a mysterious hermit on Signal Mountain. And, I referenced that failure in investigative journalism in the article. But, since 2022, I had fortunately stumbled upon this particular book written in 1960 while being adrift in a local library. The book is titled, Signal Mountain and Waldens Ridge, written by Carter Patten. The book is a fascinating historical account of the mountain and the final chapter is about the large tract of Patten Horseshoe property on the Sequatchie County end of the mountain.
I contacted the family historian in South Carolina, and told him that I now knew where the book was located, who published it and the name of his relative, the Hermit of the Horseshoe. He confirmed the name of his relative detailed in the Patten book.
The South Carolinian told me of his younger days on his Grandfathers’ farm on East Valley Road and how family lore about his relative had been passed down, that family of the hermit used to climb the mountain and leave food and clothes in boxes on old mountain logging roads where they thought their reclusive family member might find the survival supplies. He further explained that the family eventually persuaded their lonely relative to come down out of the mountains. And, how the lonely old man spent his final years reunited with his extended Sequatchie Valley family.
It was intriguing to me how the family historian in South Carolina had located the 2022 WOMR story. He said that after extensive searches, that led to not finding anything in print about his mysterious relative, he decided to search the world wide web by just entering Hermit of the Horseshoe on his search engine, and that’s how the connection was finally solidified. (thanks, Jen)
Carter Patten writes that his family purchased the 20,000 acre Horseshoe property, on the backside of the mountain, in1941, for the incredibly risky sum of $2.00 an acre, plus seven years of back taxes, as well as additionally fighting four lawsuits over property boundary disputes. The Hermit apparently came with the deal. Patten said his caretakers never actually saw the Hermit until 1959. The Hermits’ picture appears in his book. You may recognize the name of you live in the valley. The book is a really fine read.
This all somehow makes me ponder survival in the wilderness much more. Could I have survived being a hermit? Could you imagine buying 20,000 acres on Signal Mountain at $2.00 an acre?
Do I still have enough grit to survive four or five days of rain, or no starlight, compliments of a hurricane? I guess so. It’s still something to ponder though.
I’m just tickled to have helped connect a homesick South Carolinian searcher with some semblance of a history about a long lost relative.
Ponder that!
Glad I could help.
Fortunate is he who understands the cause of things.
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